He was breathless but made an effort to add:
‘You may write up everything that I have just said except that I called Sultan Abdul-Hamid half-mad. I do not wish to lose every last chance of flying out of this cage one day. Besides, it would be a lie since that man is almost completely mad, a dangerous criminal, pathologically suspicious and completely under the sway of his Aleppine astronomer.’
‘Have no fear, I shall write nothing of all this.’
I took advantage of his request to clear up a misunderstanding.
‘I must tell you that I am not a journalist. Monsieur Rochefort, who is my grandfather’s cousin, recommended that I come and see you, but the aim of my visit is not to write an article about Persia nor about yourself.’
I revealed to him my interest in the Khayyam manuscript and my intense desire to be able to leaf through it one day and to study its contents closely. He listened to me with unflagging attention and evident joy.
‘I am obliged to you for snatching me away from my woes for some moments. The subject that you mention has always gripped me. Have you read in Monsieur Nicholas’ introduction to the Rubaiyaat, the story of the three friends, Nizam al-Mulk, Hassan Sabbah and Omar Khayyam? They were radically different men, each of whom represented an eternal aspect of the Persian soul. Sometimes I have the impression that I am all three of them at the same time. Like Nizam al-Mulk I dream of establishing a great Muslim state, even if it were led by an unbearable Turkish sultan. Like Hassan Sabbah, I sow subversion over all the lands of Islam, I have disciples who would follow me to the death …’
He broke off, worried, then pulled himself together, smiled and carried on:
‘Like Khayyam, I am on the look-out for the rare joys of the present moment and I compose verses about wine, the cupbearer, the tavern and the beloved; like him, I mistrust false zealots. When, in certain quatrains, Omar speaks about himself, I sometimes believe that he is depicting me: “On our gaudy Earth there walks a man, neither rich nor poor, neither believer nor infidel, he courts no truth, venerates no law … On our gaudy Earth, who is this brave and sad man?”’
Having said that, he relit his cigar and became pensive. A small piece of glowing ash landed on his beard. He brushed if off with a practised gesture, and started speaking again:
‘Since my childhood I have had an immense admiration for Khayyam the poet, but above all the philosopher, the free-thinker. I am amazed that it took him so long to conquer Europe and America. You can imagine how happy I was to have in my possession the original book of the Rubaiyaat written in Khayyam’s own hand.’
‘When did you have it?’
‘It was offered to me fourteen years ago in India by a young Persian who had made the trip with the sole aim of meeting me. He introduced himself to me with the following words: “Mirza Reza, a native of Kirman, formerly a merchant in the Teheran Bazaar. Your obedient servant.” I smiled and asked him what he meant by saying “formerly a merchant”, and that is what led him to tell me his story. He had just opened a used clothing business when one of the Shah’s sons came to buy some merchandise, shawls and furs, to the value of eleven hundred toumans — about one thousand dollars. However, when Mirza Reza presented himself the next day to the Prince’s to be paid, he was insulted, beaten and even threatened with death if he took it into his head to collect what he was owed. It was then that he decided to come and see me. I was teaching in Calcutta. “I have just understood,” he told me, “that in a country run in an arbitrary fashion one cannot earn an honest living. Was it not you who wrote that Persia needs a Constitution and a Parliament? Consider me, from this day on, your most devoted disciple. I have shut my business and left my wife in order to follow you. Order and I shall obey!”’
In mentioning this man Jamaladin seemed to be suffering.
‘I was moved but embarrassed. I am a roving philosopher, I have neither house nor homeland and have avoided marrying in order that I would have no one in my charge. I did not want this man to follow me as if I were the Messiah or the Redeemer, the Mahdi. To dissuade him I said: “Is it really worth leaving everything, your business and your family, over a wretched question of money?” His face closed up, he did not respond, but went out.’
‘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.