The evening began at sunset, but my host had insisted that I arrive earlier; he wanted to show me the splendours of his garden. Even if he possessed a palace, as was the case with Fazel’s father, a Persian rarely showed people around it. He would neglect it in favour of his garden, his only subject of pride.
As they arrived, the guests picked up a goblet and went off to find a place near the streams, both natural and made-made, which wound among the poplars. According to whether they preferred to sit on a carpet or a cushion, the servants would rush to place one in the chosen spot, but some perched on a rock or sat on the bare ground; the gardens of Persia do not have lawns, which in American eyes gives them a slightly barren aspect.
That night we drank within reason. The more pious stuck to tea, and to that end a gigantic samovar was carried about by three servants, two to hold it and a third to serve the tea. Many people preferred araq, vodka or wine, but I did not observe any misbehaviour, the tipsiest being happy to hum along with the musicians who had been engaged by the master of the house — a tar player, a virtuoso on the zarb, and a flautist. Later there were dancers, who were mostly young boys. No woman was to be seen during the reception.
Dinner was served toward midnight. The whole evening we had been plied with pistachios, almonds, salted seeds and sweetmeats, the dinner being the only the final point of the ceremony. The host had the duty to delay it as long as possible, for when the main dish arrived — that evening it was a javaher pilau, a ‘jewelled rice’, the guests ate it all up in ten minutes, washed their hands and went off. Coachmen and lamp-bearers clustered around the door as we left, to collect their respective masters.
At dawn the next day, Fazel accompanied me in a coach to the gate of the sanctuary of Shah Abdul-Azim. He went in alone, to return with a man who had a disturbing appearance: he was tall but terribly thin, with a shaggy beard and his hands trembled incessantly. He was clothed in a long narrow white robe with patches on it and he was carrying a colourless and shapeless bag which contained everything he possessed in the world. In his eyes could be read all the distress of the Orient.
When he learnt that I came from Jamaladin, he fell to his knees and clutched my hand, covering it with kisses. Fazel, ill at ease, stuttered an excuse and went off.
I held out the letter from the Master to Mirza Reza. He almost snatched it from my hands, and although it comprised several pages, he read it all the way through without hurrying, forgetting completely that I was there.
I waited for him to finish before speaking to him about what interested me. But he spoke to me in a mixture of Persian and French that I had some difficulty in understanding.
‘The book is with a soldier who comes from Kirman, which is also my town. He promised to come and see me here the day after tomorrow — on Friday. I will have to give him some money. Not to buy the book back but to thank the man for returning it. Unfortunately I do not have a single coin.’
Without hesitating I took out of my pocket the gold which Jamaladin had sent for him and I added an equal sum of my own. He seemed to be satisfied by that.
‘Come back on Saturday. If God wishes, I will have the manuscript and I will hand it over to you to give to the Master in Constantinople.’
CHAPTER 30
The sounds of laziness rose from the sleepy city. The dust was hot and glistened in the sunlight. It was a wholly languorous Persian day, with a meal of chicken with apricots, a cool Shiraz wine, and a siesta flat-out on the balcony of my hotel room underneath a faded sun-shade, my face covered with a damp serviette.
However, on this 1 May 1896, someone’s life was going to be ended at dusk and another would begin thereafter.
There was some furious and repeated banging on my door. I finally heard it and stretched out and jumped up bare-foot, my hair stuck together and my moustache unwaxed, wearing a loose white shirt which I had bought in town. My limp fingers fumbled with the latch. Fazel pushed the door open, pushed me out of the way to close it again and shook me by the shoulders.
‘Wake up! In quarter of an hour you be dead man!’
What Fazel informed me in a few broken phrases was the news which the whole world would know the next day by the magic of the telegraph.
The monarch had gone at mid-day to the Shah Abdul-Azim sanctuary for the Friday prayer. He was wearing the ceremonial suit he had had made up for his jubilee with gold threads, cornices of turquoise and emerald, and a feather cap. In the great hall of the sanctuary he chose his prayer space and a carpet was unrolled at his feet. Before kneeling down, his eyes sought out his wives and signalled them to stand behind him and he smoothed out his long tapering moustache which was white with bluish highlights, while the crowd of the faithful and the mullahs was pushing against the guards who were trying to contain them. Shouts were still coming from the outer courtyard. The royal wives came forward. A man had infiltrated amongst them, clothed in wool in the manner of a dervish. He was holding a sheet of paper in his outstretched arm. The Shah looked through his binoculars to read it. Suddenly there was a shot. A pistol had been hidden by the sheet of paper. The sovereign was hit right in the heart, but he still managed to murmur: ‘Hold me up,’ before he tottered and fell.
In the general tumult it was the grand vizir who was the first to gather his wits about him and shout: ‘It is nothing. It is a superficial wound!’ He had the hall evacuated and the Shah carried to the royal carriage. He fanned the cadaver on the back seat all the way to Teheran as if the Shah were still breathing. Meanwhile he had the crown prince summoned from Tabriz, where he was governor.
In the sanctuary the murderer was attacked by the Shah’s wives who insulted and thrashed him. The crowd ripped his clothing off him and he was about to be torn limb from limb when Colonel Kassakovsky, the commander of the Cossack brigade, intervened to save him — or rather to submit him to a first interrogation. Curiously the murder weapon had disappeared. It was said that a woman picked it up and hid it under her veil — she was never found. On the other hand, the sheet of paper which had been used to camouflage the pistol was retrieved.
Naturally Fazel spared me all those details. His account was terse:
‘That idiot Mirza Reza had killed the Shah. They found a letter from Jamaladin on him. Your name was written on it. Keep your Persian clothing, take your money and your passport. Nothing else. Run and take refuge in the American legation.’
My first thought was for the manuscript. Had Mirza Reza got it back that morning? In truth I was not yet aware of the gravity of my situation. An accomplice to the assassination of a head of state, I — who had come to the orient of poets! Nevertheless, appearances were against me. They were deceptive, misleading and absurd, but damning. What judge or commissar would not suspect me?
Fazel was watching from the balcony; suddenly he ducked and shouted out hoarsely:
‘The Cossacks are here. They are setting up roadblocks all around the hotel!’
We hurtled down the stairs. When we reached the foyer we took up a more dignified and less suspect pace. An officer with a blonde beard had just made his entrance, his hat pulled tight down and eyes that were sweeping all the room’s nooks and crannies. Fazel just had time to whisper to me: ‘To the legation!’ Then he separated from me and went over towards the officer. I heard him say ‘Palkovnik! Colonel!’ and saw him ceremoniously shake hands and exchange a few words of condolence. Kassakovsky had often dined with my friend’s father and that awarded me a few seconds of respite. I took advantage of it by speeding up my pace towards the exit, wrapped up in my aba, and turning into the garden which the Cossacks were busy turning into a fortified camp. They did not give me any trouble. As I was coming from inside the hotel they must have assumed that their commander had let me through. I went through the gate and headed towards the little alley to my right which lead to the boulevard des Ambassadeurs and in ten minutes to my legation.