Having dismissed this group, Abu Taher signalled to his militiamen to approach. They reeled off their report and replied to questions, having to explain how they had allowed such a crowd to gather in the streets. Then it was the turn of Scar-Face to give his explanation. He leant toward the qadi who seemed to have known him a long time, and started off on an animated monologue. Abu Taher listened closely without revealing his own feelings. Then, having taken a few moments to think it over, he gave an order, ‘Tell the crowd to disperse. Let every man go home by the shortest route and,’ addressing the attackers, ‘you all go home too. Nothing will be decided before tomorrow. The defendant will stay here overnight and he will be guarded by my men, and none other.’
Surprised by being asked so speedily to disappear, Scar-Face made a feeble protest but then thought the better of it. He wisely picked up the tail of his robe and retreated with a bow.
When he was alone with Omar, the only witnesses being his own confidants, Abu Taher pronounced a mysterious phrase of welcome, ‘It is an honour to receive the famous Omar Khayyam of Nishapur.’
He revealed not the slightest hint of emotion. He was neither sarcastic nor warm. His tone was neutral, his voice flat. He was wearing a tulip-shaped turban, had bushy eyebrows and a grey beard without moustache, and was giving Khayyam a long piercing gaze.
The welcome was the more puzzling since for an hour Omar had been standing there in tatters, for all to see and laugh at.
After several skilfully calculated moments of silence, Abu Taher added, ‘Omar, you are not unknown in Samarkand. In spite of your tender years, your knowledge has already become legendary, and your talents are talked about in the schools. Is it not true that in Isfahan you read seven times a weighty work by Ibn Sina, and that upon your return to Nishapur you reproduced it verbatim from memory?’
Khayyam was flattered that this authentic exploit was known in Transoxania, but his worries had not yet been quelled. The reference to Avicenna from the mouth of a qadi of the Shafi rite was not reassuring, and besides, he had not yet been invited to sit down. Abu Taher continued, ‘It is not just your exploits which are passed from mouth to mouth, but some very curious quatrains have been attributed to you.’
The sentence was dispassionate. He was not accusing but he was hardly acquitting him — rather he was only questioning him indirectly. Omar ventured to break the silence. ‘The rubai which Scar-Face quoted was not one of mine.’
The qadi dismissed the protest with a gesture of impatience, and for the first time his voice took on a severe tone. ‘It matters little whether you have written this or that verse. I have had reports of verses of such profanity that I would feel as guilty quoting them as the man who spread them about. I am not trying inflict any punishment upon you. These accusations of alchemy cannot just go in one ear and out of the other. We are alone. We are two men of erudition and I simply wish to know the truth.’
Omar was not at all reassured. He sensed a trap and hesitated to reply. He could see himself being handed over to the executioner for maiming, emasculation or crucifixion. Abu Taher raised his voice and almost shouted, ‘Omar, son of Ibrahim, tent-maker from Nishapur, can you not recognize a friend?’
The tone of sincerity in this phrase stunned Khayyam. ‘Recognize a friend?’ He gave serious thought to the subject, contemplated the qadi’s face, noted the way he was grinning and how his beard quivered. Slowly he let himself be won over. His features loosened and relaxed. He disengaged himself from his guards who, upon a sign from the qadi, stopped restraining him. Then he sat down without having been invited. The qadi smiled in a friendly manner but took up his questioning without respite. ‘Are you the infidel some people claim you to be?’
It was more than a question. It was a cry of distress that Omar did not overlook. ‘I despise the zeal of the devout, but I have never said that the One was two.’
‘Have you ever thought so?’
‘Never, as God is my witness.’
‘As far as I am concerned that suffices, and I believe it will for the Creator also. But not for the masses. They watch your words, your smallest gestures — mine too, as well as those of princes. You have been heard to say, “I sometimes go to mosques where the shade is good for a snooze.”’
‘Only a man at peace with his Creator could find sleep in a place of worship.’
In spite of the qadi’s doubting scowl, Omar became impassioned and continued, ‘I am not one of those for whom faith is simply fear of judgement. How do I pray? I study a rose, I count the stars, I marvel at the beauty of creation and how perfectly ordered it is, at man, the most beautiful work of the Creator, his brain thirsting for knowledge, his heart for love, and his senses, all his senses alert or gratified.’
The qadi stood up with a thoughtful look in his eyes and went over to sit next to Khayyam, placing a paternal hand on his shoulder. The guards exchanged dumbfounded glances.
‘Listen, my young friend. The Almighty has granted you the most valuable things that a son of Adam can have — intelligence, eloquence, health, beauty, the desire for knowledge and a lust for life, the admiration of men and, I suspect, the sighs of women. I hope that He has not deprived you of the wisdom of silence, without which all of the foregoing can neither be appreciated nor preserved.’
‘Do, I have to wait until I am an old man in order to express what I think?’
‘Before you can express everything you think, your children’s grandchildren will be old. We live in the age of the secret and of fear. You must have two faces. Show one to the crowd, and keep the other for yourself and your Creator. If you want to keep your eyes, your ears and your tongue, forget that you have them.’
The qadi suddenly fell silent, but not to let Omar speak, rather to give greater effect to his admonition. Omar kept his gaze down and waited for the qadi to pluck more thoughts from his head.
Abu Taher, however, took a deep breath and gave a crisp order to his men to leave. As soon as they had shut the door behind them, he made his way towards a corner of the diwan, lifted up a piece of tapestry, and opened a damask box. He took out a book which he offered to Omar with a formality softened by a paternal smile.
Now that book was the very one which I, Benjamin O. Lesage, would one day hold in my own hands. I suppose it felt just the same with its rough, thick leather with markings which looked like a peacock-tail and the edges of its pages irregular and frayed. When Khayyam opened it on that unforgettable summer night, he could see only two hundred and fifty-six blank pages which were not yet covered with poems, pictures, margin commentaries or illuminations.
To disguise his emotions, Abu Taher spoke with the tones of a salesman.
‘It’s made of Chinese kaghez, the best paper ever produced by the workshops of Samarkand. A Jew from the Maturid district made it to order according to an ancient recipe. It is made entirely from mulberry. Feel it. It has the same qualities as silk.’
He cleared his throat before going on.