Samarkand (8 page)

Jahan, who unexpectedly arrived earlier than usual, had slipped in through the half-open door and noiselessly taken off her
woollen shawl. She was walking on tip-toe behind Omar. He was still distracted when she suddenly threw her bare arms around
his neck, pressed his face to hers and let her perfumed hair fall into his eyes.

Omar should have been overjoyed. Could a lover hope for more tender aggression? Once the moment of surprise had passed should
he not in turn have folded his arms around his beloved, held her and impressed on her body all the pain of absence and all
the warmth of reunion? However, Omar was upset by this intrusion. His book still lay open in front of him and he wanted to
get it out of sight. His first impulse was to free himself, and even though he repented immediately and his hesitancy had
only lasted a second, Jahan, who had felt this wavering and aloofness, very quickly
understood the reason. She looked at the book with distrust, as if it were a rival.

‘Excuse me! I was so impatient to see you again that I did not think my arrival could unsettle you.’

A heavy silence lay between them. Khayyam hastened to break it.

‘It’s the book, isn’t it? It is true that I had not thought of showing it to you. I have always hidden it when you were here,
but the person who gave it to me made me promise to keep it a secret.’

He held it out to her. She leafed through it for a few moments, pretending to be completely indifferent to the sight of a
few pages of writing scattered amongst dozens of blank pages. She handed it back to him with a decided pout.

‘Why are you showing it to me? I did not ask you for anything. Anyway, I have never learned to read. I have acquired everything
I know from listening to others.’

Omar was not surprised. It was not rare at that time for the best poets to be illiterate, just like almost all women of course.

‘What is so secret in this book. Does it contain alchemy formulas?’

‘They are poems which I write down sometimes.’

‘Forbidden and heretical poems, subversive poems?’

She looked at him suspiciously, but he defended himself laughingly:

‘No, what are you trying to make out? Do I have the soul of a plotter? They are only
rubaiyaat
about wine, beauty, life and its vanity.’

‘You! You write
rubaiyaat
?’

She let out a cry of incredulity which was almost scorn.
Rubaiyaat
were something of a minor literary genre, they were trite and even coarse and suited only for poets from the popular districts.
It could be taken as an amusement, a peccadillo or even a flirtation for an intellectual like Omar Khayyam to allow himself
to compose a
rubai
from time to time, but what astonished and worried a poetess devoted to the norms of eloquence was that he should take such
care to consign his verses, and with such extreme gravity, to a book shrouded in mystery. Omar seemed ashamed but Jahan was
intrigued:

‘Could you read some of the verses to me?’

Omar did not want to commit himself further.

‘I will be able to read them all to you one day, when I judge them to be ready.’

She did not press the point and stopped asking him further questions, but she commented, without stressing the irony:

‘When you finish this book, do not offer it to Nasr Khan. He does not think much of the authors of
rubaiyaat
. He will not ask you to join him on his throne any more.’

‘I have no intention of offering this book to anyone at all. I do not wish to gain anything by it. I do not have the ambitions
of a court poet.’

She had hurt him and he had wounded her. In the silence which enfolded them, they wondered if they had overstepped the mark
and if there was still time to stop and save what could still be saved. At that moment, it was not Jahan whom Khayyam resented,
but the
qadi
. He regretted having allowed him to speak and wondered if his words had not damaged irreparably the way he saw his lover.
Until then, they had been living a carefree life with neither of them wishing to bring up any potentially divisive subjects.
Omar could not decide whether the
qadi
had opened his eyes to the truth, or just clouded his happiness?

‘You have changed, Omar. I cannot say how, but there is in the way you are looking at me and talking to me something which
I cannot quite put my finger on. It is as if you suspect me of some misdeed, as if you resent me for some reason. I do not
understand you, but suddenly I am greatly saddened.’

He tried to draw her toward him, but she stepped aside brusquely:

‘You cannot reassure me like that! Our bodies can only draw out our words, they cannot take their place or belie them. Tell
me what the matter is!’

‘Jahan! Let us speak no more of it until tomorrow.’

‘I shall no longer be here tomorrow. The Khan is leaving Samarkand early in the morning.’

‘Where is he going?’

‘To Kish, Bukhara, Termez, I don’t know. The whole court will follow him, along with me.’

‘Could you not stay in Samarkand with your cousin?’

‘If it were only a question of finding excuses! I have my place at court. I had to fight like ten men to gain it and I will
not give it up today for a frolic in the belvedere of Abu Taher’s garden.’

Without really thinking it over, Khayyam said, ‘It is not a question of a frolic. Would you not share my life?’

‘Share your life? There is nothing to share!’

She had said it without spite. It was simply a statement, and not lacking in tenderness. However, when she saw how crestfallen
Omar was, she begged him to forgive her and sobbed.

‘I knew that I was going to cry this evening, but I did not know I would cry such bitter tears. I knew that we were going
to be parted for a long time, perhaps forever, but I did not know we would use such words and glances. I do not want to carry
from the most beautiful love affair I have had the memory of those eyes of a stranger. Look at me, Omar. Look at me for the
last time! Remember, I am your lover. You loved me and I loved you. Can you still recognize me?’

Khayyam tenderly put his arm around her. He sighed.

‘If only we had the time to explain ourselves, I know that this stupid quarrel would be cleared up, but time is rushing us
into playing out our future in a few confused minutes.’

He could sense a tear sliding down his face. He wanted to hide this tear, but Jahan clutched him savagely to her, pressing
his face against hers.

‘You can hide your writings, but not your tears. I want to see them, touch them and mix them with mine. I want to keep their
traces on my cheeks and their salty taste on my tongue.’

It was as if they were trying to tear each other apart, to suffocate or destroy each other. Their hands ran amok and their
clothes were scattered about. There is no night of love comparable to that of two bodies set on fire by burning tears. The
fire raged and enveloped them. It wound them up, intoxicated them, inflamed them, and fused them together, skin against skin,
taking them to the very extremes of pleasure. On the table an hourglass was running out,
grain by grain. The fire died down, smouldered and went out. They both wore an exhausted smile, and were breathing slowly.
Omar murmured, either to her or to the fate which they had just faced.

‘Our fight is just beginning.’

Jahan clutched him, her eyes closed.

‘Do not let me sleep until dawn.’

The next day there were two new lines in the manuscript. The calligraphy was scratchy, hesitant and tortured.

Next to your beloved, Khayyam, how alone you are!

Now that she is gone, you can take refuge in her
.

Kashan – an oasis of low houses on the silk route, at the end of the Salt Desert. Caravans nestled there, catching their breath
before passing by Kargas Kuh, the sinister Vulture Mountain which was the retreat of the bandits who were scourge of the districts
around Isfahan.

Kashan was built of mud and clay. A visitor could search in vain for a gaily decorated wall or an ornamented façade. However,
it is in Kashan that the most famous varnished tiles were made to embellish the green and gold of the thousand mosques, palaces
or
madrasas
from Samarkand to Baghdad. Throughout the whole of the Muslim East, faience was simply called
kashi
or
kashani
, rather as porcelain, in both Persian and English, is named after China.

Outside the city, in the shade of the palm trees, there was a caravansary enclosed by rectangular walls with watch towers,
an exterior courtyard for animals and goods and an inside courtyard with small rooms all the way around. Omar wanted to rent
a room but the hostel-keeper apologized that he had none left for the night. Some wealthy merchants from Isfahan had just
arrived with their sons and servants. He did not need to check the register to verify his claim, the place was swarming with
noisy retainers and venerable mounts. In spite of the incipient winter, Omar would have
considered sleeping under the stars, but the scorpions of Kashan are hardly less renowned than its faïence.

‘Is there really not even a nook for me to spread out my mat until dawn?’

The landlord scratched his forehead. It was dark and he could not refuse shelter to a Muslim.

‘I have a small corner room, occupied by a student. Ask him if he will let you share.’

They went to the room and found the door closed. The hostel-keeper pushed it open without knocking. A candle flickered and
a book was slammed shut.

‘This noble traveller left Samarkand three months ago and I wondered if he might share your room.’

If the young man was against this idea he avoided showing it. He remained polite, although without appearing eager.

Khayyam entered, greeted him and carefully stated his identity as ‘Omar of Nishapur’.

There was a short, but intense glimmer of interest in the eyes of his companion. He in turn introduced himself:

‘Hassan, son of Ali Sabbah, native of Qom, student at Rayy,
en route
to Isfahan.’

This detailed listing made Khayyam uneasy. It was an invitation for him to say more about himself, his occupation and the
purpose of his voyage. He could not see any point in doing so and was suspicious of such behaviour. He thus kept quiet, took
the time to sit down against a wall and to take a good look at this dark-skinned young man with such angular features who
was so frail and emaciated. Khayyam was disconcerted by his seven-day growth of beard, his tightly-wound black turban and
his bulging eyes.

The student unnerved him with a smile.

‘It is not very clever for people called Omar to be out and about in Kashan.’

Omar feigned complete surprise. However, he had understood the allusion. His first name was that of the Prophet’s second successor,
the Caliph Omar who was hated by the Shiites as he had been a fierce rival of their founding father, Ali. Even though, for
the time being, the overwhelming majority of Persia’s population
was Sunni, there were already some pockets of Shiism, namely the oasis cities of Qom and Kashan where strange traditions were
carried on. Every year an absurd carnival celebrated the anniversary of the Caliph Omar’s murder. To this end women put on
make-up, prepared sweets and grilled pistachio nuts while the children positioned themselves on the terraces and emptied buckets
of water on the passers-by as they shouted triumphantly: ‘God curse Omar!’ An effigy of the Caliph was made, holding a string
of turds and this was then paraded through certain districts by people chanting: ‘Your name is Omar and your abode is Hell.
You are the biggest villain ever! You are the infamous usurper!’ The cobblers of Qom and Kashan had the custom of writing
‘Omar’ on the soles of the shoes they made, muleteers gave his name to their beasts and liked to utter it as they beat their
mules, and hunters, as they flexed their last arrow, would murmur, This one is for the heart of Omar!’

Hassan had made reference to those practices in a few vague words avoiding the coarser details, but Omar looked at him unkindly
as he stated with finality:

‘I will not change my route because of my name, and I will not change my name because of my route.’

A long, cold silence ensued during which they avoided each other’s sight. Omar took off his shoes and stretched out to try
and sleep. It was Hassan who badgered him:

‘Perhaps I have offended you by recounting these customs, but I only wanted you to be careful about mentioning your name in
this place. Do not be mistaken about my intentions. Naturally, I happened to participate in those festivities during my childhood
in Qom, but since my adolescence I have seen them in a different light and have come to understand that such excesses are
not worthy of a man of learning. Neither do they conform to the teaching of the Prophet. All the same, when you gaze in awe,
in Samarkand or elsewhere, at a mosque wonderfully clad in tiles glazed by the Shiite artisans of Kashan, and when the preacher
of that same mosque launches into tirades of invective and curses against “the accursed heretical sectarians of Ali”, that
too is hardly in conformity with the teaching of the Prophet.’

Omar raised himself up a little.

‘Now those are the words of a sensible man.’

‘I know how to be sensible, just as I know how to be a fool. I can be likeable or disagreeable. But, how can a man be friendly
with someone who comes to share his room but who will not even deign to introduce himself?’

‘Telling you my first name was enough for you to unleash a verbal attack on me. What would you have said if I had stated my
whole identity?’

‘Perhaps I would have said none of what I did. One can hate the Caliph Omar and feel nothing but admiration for Omar the Geometrician,
Omar the Algebraist, Omar the Astronomer or even Omar the Philosopher.’

Omar sat upright. Hassan went on triumphantly:

‘Do you think that people can only be identified by their name? They can be recognized by the way they look, by their gait
and bearing or the tone which they affect. The moment you entered I knew that you were a man of knowledge, accustomed to honours
and yet scornful of them, a man who arrives without having to ask the way. The moment you gave out the first part of your
name, I understood: my ears can recognize only one Omar of Nishapur.’