Amin Maalouf - Samarkand

‘He returned only six months later. From an inside pocket he took out a small golden box, inlaid with precious stones, which he held out to me, open.’

‘Look at this manuscript. How much do you think it could be worth?’

‘I leafed through it, then discovered its contents as I trembled with emotion.’

‘The authentic text of Khayyam; those pictures, the embellishment! It is priceless!’

‘More than eleven hundred tomans?’

‘Infinitely more!’

‘I give it to you. Keep it. It was to remind you that Mirza Reza did not come to you to recover his money, but to regain his pride.’

‘That was how,’ Jamaladin continues, ‘the manuscript fell into my possession and that I could not be separated from it. It came with me to the United States, England, France, Germany, Russian and then to Persia. I had it with me when I withdrew into the sanctuary of Shah Abdul-Azim. That is where I lost it.’

‘Do you know where it could be at this moment?’

‘I told you, when I was apprehended only one man dared to stand up to the Shah’s soldiers and that was Mirza Reza. He stood up, shouted, cried and called the soldiers and all present cowards. He was arrested and tortured and spent more than four years in the dungeons. When he was released he came to see me in Constantinople. He was so ill that I made him go the French hospital in town where he stayed until last November. I tried to keep him longer, lest he be detained again on his return, but he refused. He said he wanted to retrieve the Khayyam Manuscript and that nothing else interested him. There are some people who drift from one obsession to the next.’

‘What is your feeling? Does the Manuscript still exist?’

‘Only Mirza Reza can give you that information. He believes he can find that soldier who spirited it away when I was arrested. He hoped to take it back from him. In any case, he was determined to go and see him and spoke of buying it back with God knows what money.’

‘If it is a question of retrieving the Manuscript , money is no problem!’

I had spoken with fervour. Jamaladin stared at me and frowned. He leant toward me as if he were about to listen to my heart.

‘I have the impression that you are no less fixated on this Manuscript than the unfortunate Mirza. In that case, there is only one path for you to follow. Go to Teheran! I cannot guarantee that you will uncover the book there, but, if you know how to look, perhaps you will find other traces of Khayyam.’

My spontaneous response seemed to confirm his diagnosis:

‘If I obtain a visa, I’ll be ready to go tomorrow.’

‘That is not an obstacle. I shall give you a note for the Persian consul in Baku. He will look after all the necessary formalities and even provide you with transport as far as Enzeli.’

My expression must have betrayed some worry. Jamaladin was amused by that.

‘Doubtless you are wondering: How can I give a recommendation from an outlaw to a representative of the Persian government? You should know that I have disciples everywhere, in every town, in all circles, even in the monarch’s close entourage. Four years ago, when I was in London, I and an American friend published a newspaper which was sent off to Persia in discreet little bundles. The Shah was alarmed by that. He summoned the Minister of Post and ordered him to put an end to this newspaper’s circulation, no matter what it took. The minister ordered the customs officers to intercept all the subversive packages at the frontier and send them on to his house.

He drew on his cigar and the smoke was scattered by a burst of laughter.

‘What the Shah did not know,’ Jamaladin continued, ‘was that his Minister of Post was one of my most faithful disciples and that I had entrusted him with distributing the newspaper as best he could.’

Jamaladin was chuckling as three visitors sporting blood-red felt fezzes arrived. He arose, greeted and kissed them and invited them to be seated and exchanged a few words with them in Arabic. I guessed that he was explaining to them who I was, and begging their forgiveness for a few moments more. He came back toward me.

‘If you are determined to set off for Teheran, I will give you some letters of introduction. Come tomorrow, they will be ready. Above all do not be afraid. No one will think of searching an American.’

The next day three brown envelopes were waiting for me. He laid them in my hand, open. The first was for the consul in Baku and the second for Mirza Reza. As he gave me that one, he made a comment:

‘I must warn you that this man is unbalanced and obsessive. Do not spend more time with him than you must. I have much affection for him, he is more sincere, more faithful and doubtless purer than all my disciples, but he is capable of the worst blunders.’

He sighed and dug his hand into the pocket of the wide pantaloons he was wearing under his white tunic.

‘Here are ten gold pounds. Give them to him from me; he no longer has anything and perhaps he is hungry, but he is too proud to beg.’

‘Where will I find him?’

‘I have not the slightest idea. He no longer has a house or a family and he roams from place to place. That is why I am giving you this third letter addressed to another quite different young man. He is the son of the richest trader in Teheran, and although he is only twenty and burns with the same fire as we all do, he is still even-tempered and ready to debate the most revolutionary ideas with the smile of a satisfied child. I sometimes reproach him for not being very oriental. You will see, beneath his Persian clothing there is English cool, French ideas and a more anti-clerical spirit than that of Monsieur Clemenceau. His name is Fazel. It is he who will take you to Mirza Reza. I have charged Fazel with keeping an eye on him, as much as possible. I do not think that he can stop him committing his acts of folly, but he will know where to find him.’

I stood up to leave. He bad me a fond farewell and kept hold of my hand in his own.

‘Rochefort tells me in his letter that you are called Benjamin Omar. In Persia only use the name Benjamin. Never say the word Omar.’

‘But it is Khayyam’s name!’

‘Since the sixteenth century, when Persia converted to Shiism, that name has been banned. It could cause you much trouble. If you try to identify with the Orient, you could find yourself caught up in its quarrels.’

I made an expression of regret and consolation, a sign of impotence. I thanked him for his advice and made to leave, but he caught hold of me:

‘One last thing. Yesterday you met a young person here as she was getting ready to leave. Did you speak to her?’

‘No. I had no occasion to.’

‘She is the Shah’s grand-daughter, Princess Shireen. If, for whatever reason, you find all the doors shut, get a message to her and remind her that you saw her here. One word from her will be enough to overcome many obstacles.’

On board a ship to Trebizond, the Black Sea was calm, too calm. The wind blew only lightly and for hours on end one could contemplate only the same piece of coast, the same rock or the same Anatolian copse. It would have been wrong of me to complain, I needed some peace and quiet given the arduous task that I had to accomplish: to memorise the whole book of Persian-French dialogue written by Monsieur Nicolas, Khayyam’s translator. I had resolved to speak to my hosts in their own language. I was not unaware of the fact that in Persia, as in Turkey, many of the intellectuals, the merchants and the high officials spoke French. Some even knew English. However, if one wanted to move outside the restricted circle of the palaces and the legations, and travel outside the main cities or in their seedier districts, it had to be done in Persian.