The reply was no, and, even though Omar said nothing, Abu Taher heard it clearly. He continued:
‘Often, at the beginning of an affair, the sensitive questions are avoided. There is a fear of destroying this fragile edifice which has just been erected with a thousand precautions, but as far as I am concerned what sets you apart from this woman is both serious and fundamental. You do not look at life the same way.’
‘She is a woman and, what is more, a widow. She is trying to fend for herself without depending on a master, and I can only admire her courage. And how can one reproach her for taking the gold which her verses are worth?’
‘I understand,’ said the qadi, satisfied at having finally dragged his friend into that discussion. ‘But you must admit, at least, that this woman would be unable to envisage any life other than that of the court.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You must also admit that, for you, court life is odious and unbearable and that you will not stay a moment longer than necessary.’
An embarrassed silence followed. Abu Taher finished by stating resolutely:
‘I have told you that you should listen to a true friend. Henceforth I will not bring up the matter unless you raise it first yourself.’
CHAPTER 10
By the time they reached Samarkand, they were exhausted by the cold, the jolting of their mounts and the disquiet which had arisen amongst them. Omar retired to his pavilion straight away without taking the time to dine. During the trip he had composed three quatrains which he started to recite aloud, ten times, twenty times, replacing a word and modifying a turn of phrase before consigning them to the secrecy of his manuscript.
Jahan, who unexpectedly arrived earlier than usual, had slipped in through the half-open door and noiselessly taken off her woollen shawl. She was walking on tip-toe behind Omar. He was still distracted when she suddenly threw her bare arms around his neck, pressed his face to hers and let her perfumed hair fall into his eyes.
Omar should have been overjoyed. Could a lover hope for more tender aggression? Once the moment of surprise had passed should he not in turn have folded his arms around his beloved, held her and impressed on her body all the pain of absence and all the warmth of reunion? However, Omar was upset by this intrusion. His book still lay open in front of him and he wanted to get it out of sight. His first impulse was to free himself, and even though he repented immediately and his hesitancy had only lasted a second, Jahan, who had felt this wavering and aloofness, very quickly understood the reason. She looked at the book with distrust, as if it were a rival.
‘Excuse me! I was so impatient to see you again that I did not think my arrival could unsettle you.’
A heavy silence lay between them. Khayyam hastened to break it.
‘It’s the book, isn’t it? It is true that I had not thought of showing it to you. I have always hidden it when you were here, but the person who gave it to me made me promise to keep it a secret.’
He held it out to her. She leafed through it for a few moments, pretending to be completely indifferent to the sight of a few pages of writing scattered amongst dozens of blank pages. She handed it back to him with a decided pout.
‘Why are you showing it to me? I did not ask you for anything. Anyway, I have never learned to read. I have acquired everything I know from listening to others.’
Omar was not surprised. It was not rare at that time for the best poets to be illiterate, just like almost all women of course.
‘What is so secret in this book. Does it contain alchemy formulas?’
‘They are poems which I write down sometimes.’
‘Forbidden and heretical poems, subversive poems?’
She looked at him suspiciously, but he defended himself laughingly:
‘No, what are you trying to make out? Do I have the soul of a plotter? They are only rubaiyaat about wine, beauty, life and its vanity.’
‘You! You write rubaiyaat?’
She let out a cry of incredulity which was almost scorn. Rubaiyaat were something of a minor literary genre, they were trite and even coarse and suited only for poets from the popular districts. It could be taken as an amusement, a peccadillo or even a flirtation for an intellectual like Omar Khayyam to allow himself to compose a rubai from time to time, but what astonished and worried a poetess devoted to the norms of eloquence was that he should take such care to consign his verses, and with such extreme gravity, to a book shrouded in mystery. Omar seemed ashamed but Jahan was intrigued:
‘Could you read some of the verses to me?’
Omar did not want to commit himself further.
‘I will be able to read them all to you one day, when I judge them to be ready.’
She did not press the point and stopped asking him further questions, but she commented, without stressing the irony:
‘When you finish this book, do not offer it to Nasr Khan. He does not think much of the authors of rubaiyaat. He will not ask you to join him on his throne any more.’
‘I have no intention of offering this book to anyone at all. I do not wish to gain anything by it. I do not have the ambitions of a court poet.’
She had hurt him and he had wounded her. In the silence which enfolded them, they wondered if they had overstepped the mark and if there was still time to stop and save what could still be saved. At that moment, it was not Jahan whom Khayyam resented, but the qadi. He regretted having allowed him to speak and wondered if his words had not damaged irreparably the way he saw his lover. Until then, they had been living a carefree life with neither of them wishing to bring up any potentially divisive subjects. Omar could not decide whether the qadi had opened his eyes to the truth, or just clouded his happiness?
‘You have changed, Omar. I cannot say how, but there is in the way you are looking at me and talking to me something which I cannot quite put my finger on. It is as if you suspect me of some misdeed, as if you resent me for some reason. I do not understand you, but suddenly I am greatly saddened.’
He tried to draw her toward him, but she stepped aside brusquely:
‘You cannot reassure me like that! Our bodies can only draw out our words, they cannot take their place or belie them. Tell me what the matter is!’
‘Jahan! Let us speak no more of it until tomorrow.’
‘I shall no longer be here tomorrow. The Khan is leaving Samarkand early in the morning.’
‘Where is he going?’
‘To Kish, Bukhara, Termez, I don’t know. The whole court will follow him, along with me.’
‘Could you not stay in Samarkand with your cousin?’
‘If it were only a question of finding excuses! I have my place at court. I had to fight like ten men to gain it and I will not give it up today for a frolic in the belvedere of Abu Taher’s garden.’
Without really thinking it over, Khayyam said, ‘It is not a question of a frolic. Would you not share my life?’
‘Share your life? There is nothing to share!’
She had said it without spite. It was simply a statement, and not lacking in tenderness. However, when she saw how crestfallen Omar was, she begged him to forgive her and sobbed.
‘I knew that I was going to cry this evening, but I did not know I would cry such bitter tears. I knew that we were going to be parted for a long time, perhaps forever, but I did not know we would use such words and glances. I do not want to carry from the most beautiful love affair I have had the memory of those eyes of a stranger. Look at me, Omar. Look at me for the last time! Remember, I am your lover. You loved me and I loved you. Can you still recognize me?’