Authors: Amin Maalouf
‘Believe me, I am quite aware of that. For years, ever since I learnt that this book existed, I have lived for nothing else.
It has led me from adventure to adventure, its world has become mine and its guardian my beloved.’
‘And have you made this trip to Samarkand to discover the places it describes?’
‘I was hoping that the townspeople would be able at least to give me some indication of where the old districts lay.’
‘I am sorry to have to disappoint you,’ the Russian continued, ‘but if you are searching for something from the period for
which you have a fascination, you will only gather legends, stories of jinns and divs. This city cultivates them with delight.’
‘More than other cities in Asia?’
‘I am afraid so. I wonder if the proximity of these ruins does not naturally inflame the imagination of our miserable contemporaries.
Then there is the city which is buried under the ground. Over the centuries how many children have fallen down cracks never
to reappear, what strange sounds people have heard or thought that they heard, apparently coming out of the entrails of the
earth! That is how Samarkand’s most famous legend was born – the legend which had a lot to do with the mystery which envelops
the name of the city.’
I let him tell the story.
‘It was told that a king of Samarkand wanted to make everyone’s dream come true: to escape death. He was convinced that death
came from the sky and he wanted to do something so that it could never reach him, so he built an immense underground palace
of iron which he made inaccessible.
‘Being fabulously rich, he also had fashioned an artificial sun,
which rose in the morning and set in the evening, to warm him and indicate the passing of days.
‘Alas, the God of Death managed to foil the monarch’s vigilance and he slipped inside the palace to accomplish his job. He
had to show all humans that no creature could escape death, no matter how powerful, skilful or arrogant he was. Samarkand
thus became the symbol of the inescapable meeting between man and his destiny.’
And after Samarkand, where to? For me it was the furthest extremity of the Orient, the place of all wonders and unfathomable
nostalgia. The moment I left the city I decided to go back home; my desire was to be back in Annapolis and to spend some sedentary
years there resting from my travels and only then to set off again.
I thus drew up the most insane plan – that of going back to Persia to fetch Shireen and the Khayyam manuscript, and then to
go off and disappear in some great metropolis, such as Paris, Vienna or New York. For the two of us to live in the West but
to an oriental rhythm; would that not be paradise?
On my way back, I was continually alone and distracted, preoccupied solely with the arguments that I was going to present
to Shireen. ‘Leave? Leave …?’ she would say wearily. ‘Is it not enough for you to be happy?’ However, I did not despair of
being able to overcome her reservations.
When the convertible which I had rented at the edge of the Caspian set me down at Zarganda in front of my closed door, there
was a car there already, a Jewel-40 sporting a star-spangled banner right in the middle of its hood.
The chauffeur stepped out and enquired as to my identity. I had the idiotic impression that he had been waiting for me ever
since I left. He reassured me that he had only been there since the morning.
‘My master told me to stay here until you came back.’
‘I might have come back in a month, a year or perhaps never.’
My astonishment hardly upset him.
‘But you are here now!’
He handed me a note scribbled by Charles W. Russell, minister plenipotentiary of the United States.
Dear Mr Lesage
,
I would be most honoured if you could come to the Legation this afternoon at four o’clock. It is a matter of great importance
and urgency. I have asked my chauffeur to remain at your disposal.
Two men were waiting for me at the legation, with the same suppressed impatience. Russel, in a grey suit, a moiré bow-tie
and with a drooping moustache like Theodore Roosevelt’s but more carefully shaped; and Fazel, in his undeviating white tunic,
black cape and blue turban. Naturally it was the diplomat who opened the session in hesitant but correct French.
‘The meeting taking place today is one of those that change the course of history. In our persons, two nations are meeting,
defying distances and differences: the United States, which is a young nation but already an old democracy, and Persia which
is an old nation, several thousand years old, but a brand-new democracy.’
He said all this with a touch of mystery, a whiff of formality and a glance toward Fazel to make sure that his words were
not upsetting him. He continued:
‘Some days ago I was a guest of the Democratic Club of Teheran. I expressed to my audience the great sympathy which I feel
for the Constitutional Revolution. This feeling is shared by President Taft and Mr Knox, our Secretary of State. I must add
that the latter is aware of our meeting today and he is waiting for me to apprise him, by telegraph, of the conclusions which
we reach.’
He left it to Fazel to explain to me:
‘Do you remember the day when you tried to convince me not to resist the Tsar’s troups?’
‘What a job that was!’
‘I have never held it against you. You did what you had to do and in one sense you were correct. However, what I feared has
unfortunately not died away. The Russians still have not left Tabriz, and the populace is subjected to daily torments. The
Cossacks snatch the veils off women in the street, and sons of Adam are imprisoned upon the least pretext.
‘Yet there is something more serious. More serious than the occupation of Tabriz and more serious than the fate of my companions.
It is our democracy that is at risk of floundering. When Mr Russel said “young”, he should have added “fragile” and “under
threat”. To all appearances everything is going well, the people are happier, the bazaar is is prospering and the religious
appear to be conciliatory. However, it would need a miracle to stop the edifice from crumbling. Why? Because our coffers are
empty, as in the past. The old régime had a very strange way of collecting taxes. It farmed each province out to some money-grubber
who bled the population and kept the money for himself, deducting a small part to buy the Court’s protection. That is what
has caused all our difficulties. As the Treasury was bare, they borrowed from the Russians and the English, who, in order
to be reimbursed, obtained concessions and privileges. That is how the Tsar became involved in our affairs and how we sold
off all our wealth. The new government finds itself with the same dilemma as the old leaders: if it cannot manage to collect
taxes the way modern countries do, it will have to accept the tutelage of the Powers. Our most urgent priority is to get our
finances into order. The modernization of Persia will follow on from that: such is the cost of Persia’s freedom.’
‘If the remedy is so obvious, why the delay in implementing it?’
‘There is no Persian today who is up to undertaking such a task. It is sad to say, for a nation of ten million, but the weight
of ignorance should not be underestimated. Only a handful of us here have received a modern education similar to that of the
top-ranking civil servants in the advanced nations. The only area in which we have numerous competent people is the field
of diplomacy. As for
the rest, by which I mean the army, communications and above all finance, there is nothing. If our régime can last twenty
or thirty years, doubtless it will produce a generation capable of looking after all these sectors but while we wait, the
best solution available to us is to call upon honest and competent foreigners for help. It is not easy to find them, I know.
In the past, we have had the worst experiences with Naus, Liakhov and many others, but I do not despair. I have spoken on
this subject with some of my colleagues in Parliament and the government, and we think that the United States might help.
‘I am flattered,’ I said spontaneously, ‘but why my country?’
Charles Russel reacted to my remark with a movement of surprise and worry. Fazel’s response quickly calmed him down.
‘We have reviewed all the Powers, one by one. The Russians and the British are only too happy to push us towards bankruptcy
so they can have more control over us. The French are too preoccupied with their relations with the Tsar to be worried about
our fate. On a more general level, the whole of Europe is beset by a game of alliances and counter-alliances in which Persia
is only small change – a pawn on the chequer-board. Only the United States could take an interest without trying to invade
us. I therefore turned to Mr Russel and asked him if he knew an American capable of taking on such a heavy task. I must acknowledge
that it is he who mentioned your name. I had completely forgotten that you had studied finance.’
‘I am flattered by your faith,’ I replied, ‘but I am certainly not the man you need. In spite of my degree, I have only middling
skill in finance and I have never had the opportunity to put my knowledge to the test. It is my father who is to blame, since
he built so many ships that I have not had to work. I have only ever busied myself with the essential – that is to say, the
futile: travelling and reading, loving and believing, doubting and fighting, and sometimes writing.’
There were embarrassed laughs and an exchange of perplexed looks. I carried on:
‘When you find your man, I can be at his side, give him unlimited advice and provide him with small services, but it is from
him that
you must demand competence and hard work. I am brimming over with good will but I am ignorant and lazy.’
Fazel chose not to insist, but replied to me in the same tone:
‘It is true, I can testify to it. But you also have other faults which are even greater. You are my friend as the whole world
knows, and my political adversaries would have only one aim: to stop you succeeding.’
Russel listened in silence with a rigid smile on his face, as if he had been left out. Our banter was certainly not to his
taste, but he did not lose his composure. Fazel turned to him:
‘I am sorry about Benjamin’s defection, but it does not change anything as far as we are concerned. Perhaps it is better to
entrust this type of responsibility to a man who has never been mixed up in Persian affairs, neither from near nor afar.’
‘Are you thinking of someone in particular?’
‘I have no one’s name in mind. I would like him to be someone rigorous, honest and with an independent spirit. There are some
of that race amongst you, I know. I can see the person clearly and can almost tell you that I can see him before me; an elegant,
neat man who holds himself upright and looks straight ahead, and who speaks to the point. A man like Baskerville.’
The message of the Persian government to its legation in Washington on 25 December, 1910, a Sunday and Christmas Day, was
cabled in these terms:
‘Request the Secretary of State immediately to put you in contact with the American financial authorities with a view to engaging
a disinterested American expert for the post of Treasurer General on the basis of a preliminary contract for three years,
subject to ratification by the Parliament. He will be charged with reorganizing the state’s resources and the collection of
revenues and their disbursement with the help of an independent auditor who will supervise tax collection in the provinces.‘The Minister of the United States in Teheran informs us that the Secretary of State is in agreement. Contact him directly
and
avoid using intermediaries. Transmit the whole text of this message to him and act according to the suggestions he makes to
you.’
On the following 2 February, the Majlis approved the nomination of the American experts with an overwhelming majority and
to thunderous applause.
A few days later, the Minister of Finance, who had presented the plan to the deputies, was assassinated in broad daylight
by two Georgians. That very evening, the dragoman of the Russian Legation went to the Persian Ministry of Foreign Affairs
to demand that the murderers, subjects of the Tsar, be handed over to him with no further ado. In Teheran everyone knew that
this act was St Petersburg’s response to the vote in Parliament, but the authorities preferred to give in so as not to poison
their relations with their powerful neighbour. The assassins therefore were led off to the legation and thence to the border;
once over it they were free.
In protest, the bazaar closed its doors, ‘sons of Adam’ called for a boycott of Russian goods and there were even reports
of acts of vengeance against the numerous Georgian nationals, the Gordji, in the country. However the government, backed up
by the press, preached patience; the real reforms were going to begin, they said, experts were going to arrive and soon the
State’s coffers would be full, they would pay off their debts and throw off all tutelage, they would have schools and hospitals
as well as a modern army – which would force the Tsar to leave Tabriz and stop him threatening them.
Persia was waiting for miracles, and, in fact, miracles were going to come to pass.
It was Fazel who announced the first miracle to me, triumphantly albeit in a whisper:
‘Look at him! I told you that he would look like Baskerville!’
‘He’ was Morgan Shuster, the new General Treasurer of Persia who was coming over to greet us. We had gone to meet him on the
Kazvin road. He arrived, with his men, in dilapidated poste-chaises pulled by feeble horses. It was strange how much he looked
like Howard: the same eyes, the same nose, the same clean-shaven face which was perhaps a little rounder, the same light hair
parted the same way, the same polite but firm hand-shake. The way we looked at him must have irritated him, but he did not
show it; it is true that he must have expected to be the object of sustained curiosity, coming to a foreign country in this
way and in such exceptional circumstances. Throughout his stay, he would be watched, examined and followed – sometimes with
malice. Each of his actions, and every one of his omissions would be reported and commented on, praised or damned.