Samarkand (2 page)

The question was for the sake of form only. The man had no intention of introducing himself. He was in his home town and he
was asking the questions. Later on Omar would learn his name. He was a student called Scar-Face. With a club in his hand and
a quotation on his lips, he was soon to make all Samarkand tremble but for the moment his influence only extended to the circle
of youths around him, who hung on his every word and gesture.

Suddenly his eyes lit up. He went back toward his disciples, and then turned towards the crowd triumphantly and shouted, ‘By
God, how did I not recognise Omar, son of Ibrahim Khayyam of
Nishapur? Omar, the star of Khorassan, the genius of Persia and Mesopotamia, the prince of philosophers!’

As he mimed a deep bow, he fluttered his fingers on both sides of his turban and succeeded in drawing out the guffaws of the
onlookers, ‘How did I not recognize the man who composed such a pious and devotional
rubai:

You have broken my jug of wine, Lord.

You have barred me from the path of pleasure, Lord
.

You have spilt my ruby wine on the ground.

God forgive me, but perchance You are drunk, Lord
.

Omar listened indignantly, but worried. This provocation could provide an excuse for murder on the spot. Without wasting a
second, he shot back his response in a loud, clear voice lest anyone in the crowd be fooled. ‘I do not recognize this quatrain.
Indeed this is first time I have ever heard it. But here is a
rubai
which I myself have composed:

They know nothing, neither do they desire to know
.

Men with no knowledge who rule the world!

If you are not of them, they call you infidel

Ignore them, Khayyam, go your own way
.

Omar really should not have accompanied the words ‘men with no knowledge’ with a scornful gesture toward his opponents. Hands
came at him, grabbing his robe which started to rip. He tottered, his back struck someone’s knee and then landed on a paving
stone. Crushed under the pack, he did not deign to fight his way out but was resigned to having his clothing ripped from him,
being torn limb from limb, and he had already abandoned himself to the numbness of a sacrificial victim. He could feel nothing,
hear nothing. He was closed in on himself and laid bare.

So much so, that he viewed as intruders the ten armed men who came to break up this sacrifice. On their felt hats they wore
the pale green insignia of the
ahdath
, the town militia of Samarkand. The moment they saw them, his assailants drew back from Khayyam,
but to justify their conduct they started to shout, ‘Alchemist! Alchemist!’, calling upon the crowd as their witness.

In the eyes of the authorities being a philosopher was not a crime, but practising alchemy could mean death.

However, the chief of the patrol did not intend to enter into an argument.

“If this man is in fact an alchemist,’ he pronounced, ‘then he must be taken before the chief
qadi
Abu Taher.’

As Jaber the Lanky, forgotten by all, crawled toward the nearest tavern, and inched his way inside resolving never to step
foot outdoors again, Omar managed to raise himself up without anyone’s help. He walked straight ahead, in silence. His disdainful
mien covered his tattered clothing and bloodied face like a veil of modesty. In front of him, the militiamen bearing torches
forged ahead. To the rear followed his attackers, and behind them the group of gawkers.

Omar did not see or hear them. To him the streets were deserted, the country was silent, the sky was cloudless, and Samarkand
was still the place of dreams which he had discovered a few years earlier.

He had arrived there after a journey of three weeks and, without taking the least rest, had decided to follow closely the
advice of voyagers of times long past. Go up, they had suggested, onto the terrace of Kuhandiz. Take a good look around and
you will see only water and greenery, beds in flower, cyprus trees pruned by the cleverest gardeners to look like bulls, elephants,
sturdy camels or fighting panthers which appear about to leap. Indeed, even inside the wall, from the gate of the Monastery,
to the West and up to the China Gate, Omar had never seen such dense orchards and sparkling brooks. Then, here and there,
a brick minaret shot up with a dome chiselled by shadow, the whiteness of a belvedere wall, and, at the edge of a lake which
brooded beneath its weeping willows, a naked swimmer spreading out her hair to the burning wind.

Is it not this vision of paradise that the anonymous painter wanted to evoke, when, much later, he attempted to illustrate
the manuscript of the
Rubaiyaat?
Is it not this which Omar had in mind as he was being led away towards the quarter of Asfizar where Abu
Taher, chief
qadi
of Samarkand, lived? He was repeating to himself, over and over, ‘I will not hate this city. Even if my swimming girl is
just a mirage. Even if the reality should be cold and ugly. Even if this cool night should be my last.’

In the
qadi’s
huge
diwan
the distant chandeliers gave Khayyam an ivory hue. As he entered two middle-aged guards pinned him by the shoulders as if
he was a violent madman – and in this posture he waited by the door.

Seated at the other end of the room, the
qadi
had not noticed him as he gave out a ruling on some affair and carried on a discussion with the plaintiffs, reasoning with
the one and reprimanding the other. It seemed to be an old quarrel amongst neighbours, consisting of tired old gripes and
pettifoggery. Abu Taher ended by loudly showing his weariness, ordering the two heads of family to embrace, there and then
in front of him, as if they had never quarrelled. One of the two took a step forward but the other, a giant with a narrow
forehead, objected. The
qadi
gave him a mighty slap on the face at which the onlookers trembled. The giant cast a quick look at this chubby, angry and
frisky man who had had to hoist himself up to reach him, then he lowered his head, wiped his cheek and complied.

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.

‘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.’