‘I had a brother, ten years older than I. He died when he was as old as you. He had been banished to Balkh for having written a poem which displeased the ruler of the time. He was accused of formenting heresy. I don’t know if that was true, but I resent my brother for having wasted his life on a poem, a miserable poem hardly longer than a rubai.’
His voice shook, and he went on breathlessly.
‘Keep this book. Whenever a verse takes shape in your mind, or is on the tip of your tongue, just hold it back. Write it down on these sheets which will stay hidden, and as you write, think of Abu Taher.’
Did the qadi know that with that gesture and those words he was giving birth to one of the best-kept secrets in the history of literature, and that the world would have to wait eight centuries to discover the sublime poetry of Omar Khayyam, for the Rubaiyaat to be revered as one of the most original works of all time even before the strange fate of the Samarkand manuscript was known?
CHAPTER 3
That night, Omar tried in vain to catch some sleep in a belvedere, a wooden pavilion on a bare hillock in the middle of Abu Taher’s huge garden. Near him on a low table lay a quill and ink-pot, an unlit lamp and his book — open at the first page which was still blank.
At first light there was an apparition. A beautiful slave-girl brought him a plate of sliced melon, a new outfit and a winding-scarf of Zandan silk for his turban. She whispered a message to him.
‘The master will await you after the morning prayer.’
The room was already packed with plaintiffs, beggars, courtiers, friends and visitors of all sorts, and amongst them was Scar-Face who had doubtless come for news. As soon as Omar stepped through the door the qadi’s voice steered everyone’s gaze and comment to him.
‘Welcome to Imam Omar Khayyam, the man without equal in knowledge of the traditions of the Prophet, a reference that none can contest, a voice that none can contradict.’
One after another, the visitors arose, bowed and muttered a phrase before sitting down again. Out of the corner of his eye, Omar watched Scar-Face who seemed very subdued in his corner, but still had a timid smirk on his face.
In the most formal manner, Abu Taher bid Omar take his place at his right, making a great show of dismissing those near him. He then continued, ‘Our eminent visitor had a mishap yesterday evening. This man who is honoured in Khorassan, Fars and Mazandaran, this man whom every city wishes to receive within its walls and whom every prince hopes to attract to his court, this man was molested yesterday in the streets of Samarkand.’
Expressions of shock could be heard, followed by a commotion which the qadi allowed to grow a little before signalling for quiet and continuing.
‘Worse still, there was almost a riot in the bazaar. A riot on the eve of the visit of our revered sovereign, Nasr Khan, the Sun of Royalty, who is to arrive this very morning from Bukhara, God willing! I dare not imagine what distress we would be in today if the crowd had not been contained and dispersed. I tell you that heads would not be resting easy on shoulders!’
He stopped to get his breath, to drive his point home and let fear work its way into the audience’s hearts.
‘Happily one of my old students, who is with us here, recognized our eminent visitor and came to warn me.’
He pointed a finger towards Scar-Face and invited him to rise.
‘How did you recognize Imam Omar?’
He muttered a few syllables in answer.
‘Louder! Our old uncle here cannot hear you!’ shouted the qadi, indicating an ancient man with a white beard to his left.
‘I recognized the eminent visitor by his eloquence,’ Scar-Face could hardly get the words out. ‘and I asked him who he was before bringing him to our qadi.’
‘You did well. Had the riot continued, there might have been blood-shed. You deserve to come and sit next to our guest.’
As Scar-Face was approaching with an air of false submission, Abu Taher whispered in Omar’s ear, ‘He may not be your friend, but he will not dare to lay into you in public.’
He continued in a loud voice, ‘Can I hope that in spite of everything that he has been through, Khawaja Omar will not have too bad a memory of Samarkand?’
‘I have already forgotten whatever happened yesterday evening,’ replied Khayyam. ‘In the future, when I think of this city, a completely different image will spring to mind, the image of a wonderful man. I am not speaking of Abu Taher. The highest praise one can give to a qadi is not to extol his qualities but the honesty of those for whom he has responsibility. As it happens, on the day I arrived my mule had struggled up the last slope leading to the Kish Gate, and I myself had hardly put my feet on the ground when a man accosted me.
‘“Welcome to this town,” he said. ‘Do you have family, or friends here?”
‘I replied that I did not, without stopping, fearing that he might be some sort of crook, or at the very least a beggar or irksome. But the man went on:
‘“Do not be mistrustful of my insistence, noble visitor. It is my master who has ordered to wait here and offer his hospitality to all travellers who turn up.”
The man seemed to be of a modest background, but he was dressed in clean clothes and not unaware of the manners of respectable people. I followed him. A few steps on, he had me enter a heavy door and I crossed a vaulted corridor to find myself in the courtyard of a caravansary with a well in the centre and men and animals bustling all about. Around the edges, on two floors, there were rooms for travellers. The man said, “You can stay here as long as you wish, be it one night or the whole season. You will find a bed and food and fodder for your mule.”
‘When I asked him how much I had to pay, he was offended.
‘“You are my master’s guest.”
‘“Tell me where my generous host is, so that I can address my thanks to him.”
‘“My master died seven years ago, leaving me a sum of money which I must spend to honour visitors to Samarkand.”
‘“What was your master’s name, so that I can tell of his acts of kindness?”
‘“You should give thanks to the Almighty alone. He knows whose acts of kindness are being carried out in His name.”
‘That is how it came about that I stayed with this man for several days. I went out and about, and whenever I came back I found plates piled high with delicious dishes and my horse was better cared for than if I myself had been looking after him.’
Omar glanced at this audience, looking for some reaction, but his story had not caused any looks of surprise or mystery. The qadi, guessing Omar’s confusion, explained.
‘Many cities like to think that they are the most hospitable in all the lands of Islam, but only the inhabitants of Samarkand deserve the credit. As far as I know, no traveller has ever had to pay for his lodgings or food. I know whole families who have been ruined honouring visitors or the needy, but you will never hear them boast of it. The fountains you have seen on every street corner, filled with sweet water to slake the thirst of passers-by of which there are more than two thousand in this city made of tile, copper or porcelain have all been provided by the people of Samarkand. But do you think that a single man has had his name inscribed on one to garner gratitude?’
‘I must confess that I have nowhere met such generosity. Would you allow me to pose a question which has been bothering me?’
The qadi took the words out of his mouth, ‘I know what you are going to ask: how can people who so esteem the virtues of hospitality be capable of violence against a visitor such as yourself?’