Kader Abdolah - The King

‘What projects? Why do we know nothing of these projects?” asked the shah with suspicion.

‘You will be told everything, of course, when we’re further along. Now we’re preoccupied with the struggle against your rebellious brothers. We had not expected that their resistance would cost the army so much time and trouble. But once this is behind us our hands will be free to pursue other projects. It all boils down to this: we think we ought to promote the development of our own products and make them great, just as the powerful nations do.’

‘What products?’

‘Carpets, for example. There are none better anywhere in all the world. Our saffron, caviar, pistachios, tea leaves, tobacco, dates and much, much more are of exceptional quality. If we could produce them on a large scale we would help thousands of people earn a living. Now we are negotiating joint venture agreements with entrepreneurs from European countries. Our mines are rich in gold, silver, copper and precious stones.’ The vizier paused a moment to catch his breath.

‘I have good news for the shah. Even before your father’s death we were involved in talks with the French to bring our army up to modern standards. They have reviewed our proposal in Paris and their reaction is positive. The future looks bright. A war now would be disastrous. If the talks begin to bear fruit I will submit the draft of our agreements to the shah for your consideration.’

‘The French have never been trustworthy,’ replied the shah. ‘They deceived my father so many times. They sign an agreement with us, and as soon as they patch up their friendship with the Russians they renege on their promises.’

‘What the shah says is true. But France is our closest ally. That country is the enemy of both Russia and England. The French want access to India just like everyone else, and the shortest route is through our country. We have to steer our own political course if we are to remain on good terms with everyone. France is the best option. We will not purchase weapons from them. Instead they will build factories for us so we can make our own weapons and ammunition. They have a very versatile industrial sector. They produce furniture and porcelain, leather and silk. They make the best precision timepieces in the world. And the French have come up with a machine that sews clothing in a most amazing way, and at high speed. They also have a kind of spinning machine that can spin as much as a hundred women working together, and in a very short time.

‘We can bring all those machines and expertise to our country. The French are prepared to cooperate with us. If there is a desire to get at the riches of the East by way of Persia, we really ought to profit from it to get our country back on its feet.’

The shah was silent. The cat, who had slipped behind the curtain, decided the discussion had come to an end. The shah motioned to her and she jumped up on his lap.

It was evening. The shah was sitting in his chair, reading a book about Napoleon. He was a great admirer of the general’s strategic genius. His grandfather had met him once and had always spoken of the French emperor with adulation. When the shah’s eyes became tired he clapped his hands and the chamberlain entered the room.

‘Hookah,’ said the shah.

The chamberlain went to fetch the hookah, and the shah sat down in the special place reserved for smoking. The finely decorated hookah was placed on the carpet before him, on a round silver tray next to a small table. On the table was a pair of little golden dishes filled with assorted delicacies. The chamberlain put the teapot in the warm ashes of a brass chafing dish and asked if there was anything else the shah desired.

‘The storyteller!’ answered the shah. He raised the pipe to his mouth. There were many things on his mind and he did not know who to trust, his mother or the vizier. According to her the vizier was opposed to invading Herat because he was in league with the British. The vizier, she insisted, was going to replace all the warlords with officers who followed him implicitly.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ said the shah.

The storyteller was a man well over fifty. He wore a special robe embroidered with gold thread and a traditional headdress that storytellers in tea houses always wear when they tell their stories. The man recounted a tale from the Shahnameh , the great Persian book written by Ferdowsi about the legendary kings of Persia from the country’s golden age.

The shah listened to the tale of King Zal, hoping he could find in it an answer to his questions. The storyteller began.

King Sam hoped for a son who would help him consolidate his kingdom. But fate decided otherwise. He was given a son whose skin was completely grey and whose name was Zal.

The king was thunderstruck by this ‘demon child’ and ordered a servant to kill him. But the servant did not kill him. He secretly took the baby to the mountains and left him there. Then the Simorgh, a mythical bird, appeared. She took Zal to her nest and fed him. Zal grew up and became an extraordinary young man. One night, the king dreamed that his son Zal was still alive and that he was living in the mountains with the birds. Filled with remorse and joy, the king set off for the mountains. He found his son and crowned him.

A few years later, Zal and his army were journeying to Kabulistan to fight against the enemy. There he met Rudabeh, the dazzlingly beautiful daughter of the king of Kabulistan. These two people were made for each other. But because their two countries were embroiled in a history of hostility, their love was forbidden. One night, Rudabeh stood at her window in the castle and let down the long plait of her black hair. Zal climbed up the plait and entered her room. There they spent one of the most beautiful eastern nights together that has ever taken place. Nine months later, the birth of their miracle child was imminent. But the child was too big and the birth was impossible. Rudabeh wrestled with death. Suddenly Zal remembered that the Simorgh bird had given him one of her feathers in case he was ever in need of it. Zal burnt the feather and the Simorgh appeared. The bird told Zal what he must do: ‘Give Rudabeh a great deal of wine. Cut her side open with this knife, take out the child and sew up the wound.’

The miracle child was born and was called Rostam. Later he would be the saviour of Persia’s glory and the guardian of the crown.

The shah had heard enough, but he did not know how this tale could help him make a decision. He tossed a few gold coins to the storyteller. The man picked up the coins, bowed and took his leave. Shah Naser put down the hookah pipe and wandered wearily through the corridors of the palace.

‘Sharmin! Where are you?’ he called.

Every now and then he would pause and open a random door, calling softly, ‘Here, kitty, kitty. Sharmin!’

Finally he saw Sharmin come in through an open window.

‘Where were you? Outside? You’re not allowed to do that. None of your tricks, you hear?’ He lifted her from the floor.

Sharmin always kept the shah company and slept in his bed. Sometimes she stayed away for long periods of time, but she always came back to her master.

He strolled through the corridors of the palace with the cat in his arms. ‘Mother says we should watch out for the vizier. But the vizier only wants what’s best for us, don’t you think? You love him too, don’t you? My mother says he has a secret agenda, that he wants to seize power. Do you believe her?

‘And the vizier only says nasty things about my mother,’ he continued. ‘I can’t trust anyone but you, Sharmin. You are no one’s spy. You are mine alone and you keep my secrets.’