Khayyam tenderly put his arm around her. He sighed.
‘If only we had the time to explain ourselves, I know that this stupid quarrel would be cleared up, but time is rushing us into playing out our future in a few confused minutes.’
He could sense a tear sliding down his face. He wanted to hide this tear, but Jahan clutched him savagely to her, pressing his face against hers.
‘You can hide your writings, but not your tears. I want to see them, touch them and mix them with mine. I want to keep their traces on my cheeks and their salty taste on my tongue.’
It was as if they were trying to tear each other apart, to suffocate or destroy each other. Their hands ran amok and their clothes were scattered about. There is no night of love comparable to that of two bodies set on fire by burning tears. The fire raged and enveloped them. It wound them up, intoxicated them, inflamed them, and fused them together, skin against skin, taking them to the very extremes of pleasure. On the table an hourglass was running out, grain by grain. The fire died down, smouldered and went out. They both wore an exhausted smile, and were breathing slowly. Omar murmured, either to her or to the fate which they had just faced.
‘Our fight is just beginning.’
Jahan clutched him, her eyes closed.
‘Do not let me sleep until dawn.’
The next day there were two new lines in the manuscript. The calligraphy was scratchy, hesitant and tortured.
Next to your beloved, Khayyam, how alone you are!
Now that she is gone, you can take refuge in her.
CHAPTER 11
Kashan — an oasis of low houses on the silk route, at the end of the Salt Desert. Caravans nestled there, catching their breath before passing by Kargas Kuh, the sinister Vulture Mountain which was the retreat of the bandits who were scourge of the districts around Isfahan.
Kashan was built of mud and clay. A visitor could search in vain for a gaily decorated wall or an ornamented façade. However, it is in Kashan that the most famous varnished tiles were made to embellish the green and gold of the thousand mosques, palaces or madrasas from Samarkand to Baghdad. Throughout the whole of the Muslim East, faience was simply called kashi or kashani, rather as porcelain, in both Persian and English, is named after China.
Outside the city, in the shade of the palm trees, there was a caravansary enclosed by rectangular walls with watch towers, an exterior courtyard for animals and goods and an inside courtyard with small rooms all the way around. Omar wanted to rent a room but the hostel-keeper apologized that he had none left for the night. Some wealthy merchants from Isfahan had just arrived with their sons and servants. He did not need to check the register to verify his claim, the place was swarming with noisy retainers and venerable mounts. In spite of the incipient winter, Omar would have considered sleeping under the stars, but the scorpions of Kashan are hardly less renowned than its faïence.
‘Is there really not even a nook for me to spread out my mat until dawn?’
The landlord scratched his forehead. It was dark and he could not refuse shelter to a Muslim.
‘I have a small corner room, occupied by a student. Ask him if he will let you share.’
They went to the room and found the door closed. The hostel-keeper pushed it open without knocking. A candle flickered and a book was slammed shut.
‘This noble traveller left Samarkand three months ago and I wondered if he might share your room.’
If the young man was against this idea he avoided showing it. He remained polite, although without appearing eager.
Khayyam entered, greeted him and carefully stated his identity as ‘Omar of Nishapur’.
There was a short, but intense glimmer of interest in the eyes of his companion. He in turn introduced himself:
‘Hassan, son of Ali Sabbah, native of Qom, student at Rayy, en route to Isfahan.’
This detailed listing made Khayyam uneasy. It was an invitation for him to say more about himself, his occupation and the purpose of his voyage. He could not see any point in doing so and was suspicious of such behaviour. He thus kept quiet, took the time to sit down against a wall and to take a good look at this dark-skinned young man with such angular features who was so frail and emaciated. Khayyam was disconcerted by his seven-day growth of beard, his tightly-wound black turban and his bulging eyes.
The student unnerved him with a smile.
‘It is not very clever for people called Omar to be out and about in Kashan.’
Omar feigned complete surprise. However, he had understood the allusion. His first name was that of the Prophet’s second successor, the Caliph Omar who was hated by the Shiites as he had been a fierce rival of their founding father, Ali. Even though, for the time being, the overwhelming majority of Persia’s population was Sunni, there were already some pockets of Shiism, namely the oasis cities of Qom and Kashan where strange traditions were carried on. Every year an absurd carnival celebrated the anniversary of the Caliph Omar’s murder. To this end women put on make-up, prepared sweets and grilled pistachio nuts while the children positioned themselves on the terraces and emptied buckets of water on the passers-by as they shouted triumphantly: ‘God curse Omar!’ An effigy of the Caliph was made, holding a string of turds and this was then paraded through certain districts by people chanting: ‘Your name is Omar and your abode is Hell. You are the biggest villain ever! You are the infamous usurper!’ The cobblers of Qom and Kashan had the custom of writing ‘Omar’ on the soles of the shoes they made, muleteers gave his name to their beasts and liked to utter it as they beat their mules, and hunters, as they flexed their last arrow, would murmur, This one is for the heart of Omar!’
Hassan had made reference to those practices in a few vague words avoiding the coarser details, but Omar looked at him unkindly as he stated with finality:
‘I will not change my route because of my name, and I will not change my name because of my route.’
A long, cold silence ensued during which they avoided each other’s sight. Omar took off his shoes and stretched out to try and sleep. It was Hassan who badgered him:
‘Perhaps I have offended you by recounting these customs, but I only wanted you to be careful about mentioning your name in this place. Do not be mistaken about my intentions. Naturally, I happened to participate in those festivities during my childhood in Qom, but since my adolescence I have seen them in a different light and have come to understand that such excesses are not worthy of a man of learning. Neither do they conform to the teaching of the Prophet. All the same, when you gaze in awe, in Samarkand or elsewhere, at a mosque wonderfully clad in tiles glazed by the Shiite artisans of Kashan, and when the preacher of that same mosque launches into tirades of invective and curses against “the accursed heretical sectarians of Ali”, that too is hardly in conformity with the teaching of the Prophet.’
Omar raised himself up a little.
‘Now those are the words of a sensible man.’
‘I know how to be sensible, just as I know how to be a fool. I can be likeable or disagreeable. But, how can a man be friendly with someone who comes to share his room but who will not even deign to introduce himself?’
‘Telling you my first name was enough for you to unleash a verbal attack on me. What would you have said if I had stated my whole identity?’
‘Perhaps I would have said none of what I did. One can hate the Caliph Omar and feel nothing but admiration for Omar the Geometrician, Omar the Algebraist, Omar the Astronomer or even Omar the Philosopher.’