Kader Abdolah - The King

He put away his binoculars. As if he himself had summoned the delegation for an audience, the shah went to the hall of mirrors in expectation of the visit. He straightened his tall cylindrical hat in the mirror. Then he went to the window. The vizier was in conversation with the head of the guards, who left to notify the shah.

‘Come in!’ called the shah calmly in response to the knock on the door.

The man saluted and said, ‘The ambassador of the Kingdom of Great Britain, accompanied by a delegation, is waiting at the gate. He asks whether Your Majesty will receive them? The vizier too would like to pay his respects.’

The shah had not yet been put into checkmate. The game was still on.

‘Lead them in.’

Vizier Mostovi Almamalek was the first to enter. He took his place behind the shah and whispered something in his ear.

As the guests entered the hall of mirrors the shah positioned himself beside the chair of the great Persian kings.

‘Salam, O king!’ said Behbahani simply.

‘Salam!’ responded the shah.

The rest of the delegation greeted the shah as well.

The vizier introduced everyone and returned to his place behind the shah. The British stood off to the side. The merchants took off their hats. Their place was behind the ayatollahs.

With a royal gesture the shah pointed to a row of chairs that were lined up beneath the great mirror. But because Ayatollah Behbahani remained standing the others did the same.

The British ambassador took the initiative. He took one step forward and said in English, ‘Your Majesty, I will spare you my poor Persian. England does not wish to become involved in your domestic affairs. We have been drawn in against our will, but we want you to know that England stands behind the shah. A powerful king is of great importance to us. The role of the British embassy in recent events has probably led to many misunderstandings, but I can assure the shah that England has always taken a passive attitude. Today I speak to you as a mediator. Edward Granville Browne will act as interpreter, to avoid any ambiguities.’

Browne bowed to the shah, and the ambassador continued: ‘The attendant delegation has brought with it a document in which Your Majesty is asked to give his blessing to the creation of a parliament. As British ambassador I have been asked to act as witness. This is the extent of England’s involvement in the matter.’

After the ambassador had taken a step back old Ayatollah Behbahani pointed at one of the merchants with his walking stick. The merchant stepped forward, bowed his head and handed the shah an envelope. The shah took out a three-page document and looked up. It was impossible to read his thoughts from his face.

Once again he motioned to his guests to sit down. Ayatollah Behbahani walked slowly to a chair, which broke the ice. No sooner had the ayatollah sat down than his walking stick fell from his hand. Ayatollah Tabatabai picked it up, gave it to Behbahani and sat down next to him. The others followed his example. The shah rang his bell and called out, ‘Tea for our guests!’ But he had forgotten that he had sent the chamberlain home. He said nothing else. Holding the document in his hand he stood there deep in thought.

‘Will you permit me to say a few words?’ asked Edward Granville Browne.

The shah turned to him, fully attentive: ‘You may speak.’

‘I am a traveller. I write, and I admire the history of your country. I have lived among the Persians for many years. There is one truth that has stuck with me, and I would like to pass it on to you, if the shah pleases.’

His exceptionally good Persian impressed the shah. He motioned for Browne to continue.

‘I have observed that the Persians love their kings. The people who are now standing behind sandbags with guns in their hands — they love you.’

A cautious smile spread across the shah’s face. He put his hand in his jacket pocket and was about to toss Browne a couple of gold coins. You could hear the coins jingling. But he kept them to himself. The shah walked to the table, poured himself a glass of water and took a sip. The group followed his every move. The king was buying time in the hope that somehow an opening would occur that would rescue him from this hopeless position. He looked out the window once again, but no, nothing was going to happen. The delegation had given him the document. It was his move.

He walked back to the table, picked up his quill, dipped it in the ink pot, signed the paper and confirmed the contents with his signet ring. The visitors were impressed by the dignity with which the shah bore his fate. The shah rolled the document up and gave it to the vizier. The vizier in turn handed the document to Ayatollah Behbahani. The ayatollah bowed his head, and it looked as if he were about to extend his hand to the shah. The shah ignored him and turned to the vizier: ‘If you would lead the gentlemen out.’

‘Mr Edward Granville Browne,’ the shah called. Browne waited as the others left.

When the delegation had gone the shah said, ‘You said you write. What do you write about?’

‘I search for traces of history in the ancient ruins, but my real love is for ordinary people. I travel a great deal and I write about my experiences. It goes without saying that this meeting with you has been a fascinating occasion on which I will have to devote quite some attention.’

‘You are not interested in politics?’

‘No. I write about daily life, culture, customs and practices.’

‘When you write about us, write the following: The shah said, “I decide!” ’

‘What do you mean, Your Majesty?’

‘You will understand later on,’ answered the shah.

As soon as the delegation left the palace the gentlemen of the bazaar held their hats in the air. This was how they let Jamal Khan, Mirza Reza and the other members of the committee know that the shah had signed the document. No one could believe it. No one wanted to cheer before they had seen the impression of the shah’s signet ring.

Jamal Khan unrolled the document and shouted, ‘Javid Persia! Long live Persia!’

‘Javid! Javid!’ rose from thousands of throats.

Mirza Reza, weak and marked by his long imprisonment, picked up the tricoloured national flag, climbed onto a platform and cried out, ‘The celebration has begun! The shah has agreed to a national parliament!’

‘Majles, majles, majles!’ cried the gathered throng.

Tehran was overflowing with happiness. Musicians played, singers sang, the people in the street embraced each other and the women on the roofs wept for joy. People danced, lifting the merchants on their shoulders and praising their perseverance.

The two ayatollahs walked along a row of cheering people to the house where the ayatollahs of Qom were still claiming sanctuary. ‘ Mobarak, mobarak, majles mobarak ,’ the people shouted. ‘Blessed, blessed, blessed be the parliament.’

Usually the Persians expressed their emotions in words and slogans. It was the first time in history that they had all clapped their hands to show their gratitude. The merchants went to the bazaar to open their shops again after the long strike.

The celebrations continued across the country for a week. ‘The air smells of flowers,’ people said to each other. And they were right. A kind of spring had burst forth. Everybody felt good. Everybody was happy. Everybody laughed.

In the palace you could hear a pin drop, but the centre of Tehran was bubbling with excitement. The members of the resistance committee, the representatives of the bazaar and the authorised agents of the ayatollahs met every day until deep into the night to pave the way for the first session of parliament.