Equal of the Sun (34 page)

“Khadijeh, I need your advice,” I whispered. “Are the killings done?”

She shuddered. “I don’t know. He called me to him a few nights ago, and I pretended delight although I am sickened by him. To get him to talk, I told him I was glad he was destroying his enemies, and he replied, ‘I plan to root them out one by one.’”

“Did he say anything about your brother?”

“He didn’t even know he had been killed!” she replied. “When I told him, he expressed regret, but suggested that since Mohsen sacrificed his life for him, he would find his reward in heaven.”

My throat burned from bile. “How unnatural!”

“I think his twenty years of confinement have shattered his reason.”

“There are some who feel that he must go.” I was testing her to see how she would respond to this unholy idea.

“Vohhh!”
she said, and then she clapped her hand over her mouth out of fear that we might be heard.

She was silent for such a long time that I feared, for a moment, that she did not agree. Then, in a low voice, she confessed, “I must admit that I pray for it daily.”

“How can it be done?”

“Do you mean—permanently?”

Her eyes searched mine to confirm what I meant, and then her teeth shone in the darkness like those of an animal on the prowl.

“It won’t be easy. He removes his dagger when he sleeps, but I don’t know which of his women would have the stomach to stab him, especially since the perpetrator of such a deed would immediately be killed. Poisoning would be more difficult to trace, but everything he eats or drinks is sampled first by the royal taster. Even my own pastries must be tested before the Shah touches them.”

“Does he drink water in the middle of the night?”

“Sometimes, but he won’t touch a flask—water or wine—unless its contents have been tested and sealed.”

“Does he ever open a vessel and drink from it after time has elapsed?”

She paused. “It is possible he would do that in a moment of inattention—after much wine and much love,” she conceded.

“What can you tell me of his other habits?”

“Very little,” she said. “He doesn’t announce his plans to me. But I know of one thing he can’t live without.”

“What is it?”

“Not long ago, I noticed that he often became irritable without
provocation. A box of sweets he always kept nearby seemed to calm him. Once, when I thought he was asleep, I lifted the lid and peered in to see what kind of magical confections had tempted him away from mine. He woke up, discovered what I was doing, and became angry until I explained that I wanted to make him my own recipe of date pastries with cardamom to rival what was in the box. He smiled at me then, because he thought I hadn’t seen what was there. It was opium.”

May God be praised!

“How often does he eat it?”

“Every few hours, except when he is sleeping,” she replied. “He receives a sealed box and keeps it with him at all times.”

“So he can’t live without it?”

“That is how he endured the long years of his confinement.”

“Who prepares the contents of the box?”

“I don’t know. It would be best to look for a situation in which he forgoes caution.”

“Will you let me know if such a situation suggests itself to you?”

“I will.”

An owl hooted, a bad omen, and Khadijeh shivered in the cold night air.

“I must go.”

She disappeared into the garden without another word, and I remained under the walnut tree for a long time so that no one would suspect the two of us had been together.

The moon hung full and lovely in the sky. I permitted myself to think for just a moment of what might happen if the Shah were gone. Would Khadijeh be mine again? Would I be able to take her into my arms and lie with her until the sun rose? The thought of possessing her again filled my heart with joy, but that emotion was quickly succeeded by dread. Would we survive this terrible time? If there was one life I wished to shield from harm, it was hers.

When I returned to my quarters to ponder what to do next, Massoud Ali was waiting with another letter from my mother’s cousin. I had come to dislike her letters. The only time I heard from
her is when she wrote to demand something. I felt powerless to care for Jalileh the way I wished to, and I must pacify every demand for fear that Jalileh would be made to suffer. I broke the seal.

Greetings and may the blessings of God be upon you. As you know, your sister Jalileh is fifteen now and nearly pickled. Since you haven’t managed to bring her to Qazveen, it is time for us to find a good husband for her and allow her to become the treasure of another family. We have endeavored to fulfill your mother’s dying wish by caring for her, and although she is a lovely child, we regret that we cannot do so for the rest of her life. Can you send a generous dowry for her? We will find a good man to take responsibility for her. Please let us know if this accords with your wishes.

The threat was clear: They were tired of caring for her. They were probably already looking for a husband. I hastily penned a reply, insisting that no marriage should be contracted without my permission and promising to bring Jalileh to Qazveen as soon as I could. I wrote that since the palace was teeming with problems, they must be patient, for I would not expose Jalileh to danger. I promised them a generous reward for all their help once Jalileh was returned to my care, but I did not send money, to avoid facilitating a marriage. I hoped my response would placate them until I figured out what to do.

Balamani had gotten much better. His toe wasn’t hurting anymore, and his appetite had returned. We decided to have lunch together during the workweek, a rare treat that our duties usually prevented. We met in the guest room of our building and started our meal with hot bread, sheep’s cheese, and mint, along with yogurt mixed with diced cucumber. As we began eating, the noon call to prayer resonated throughout the palace.

“Have you heard the latest rumors about Isma‘il’s faith?” Balamani asked.

“No.”

“People say he is a secret Sunni.”

“A Sunni!” I exclaimed, so surprised that I withheld a morsel of bread from my mouth.

“The clerics are angry,” Balamani said, “but they can’t do much about it, since their spiritual leader is the Shah.”

“What a reversal for a dynasty founded on Shi’ism! The qizilbash whose grandfathers fought for the dynasty must be outraged.”

“To be sure. And that is not the only reason. Lately, Isma‘il has been arguing that we should start a war with the Ottomans.”

“Why?”

“He wishes to regain territory lost by his father.”

“But that is preposterous,” I said. “Why disturb a long-lasting peace with one of the world’s most powerful empires? Pari will be furious on both counts.”

Balamani wrapped some greens and sheep’s cheese in lavash. “I didn’t say these things were logical.”

“In that case,” I said, “why don’t those fiery, well-armed qizilbash khans take charge of the situation?”

A servant from the harem kitchens brought in dishes of stewed lamb and rice with lentils and cinnamon. I wrapped some rice and lamb in a piece of bread and ate it.

After the servant left, Balamani said, “It would mean death for many of them. You know the risks.”

“So you are telling me that all those warriors, whose balls are so big that they dangle near the ground and whose penises are as thick as tent poles, are cowards?”

We laughed so hard that the walls shook.

“Balamani, I ask you again: How can I learn more about Hassan Beyg?”

“Easily,” Balamani said, his dark eyes twinkling. “Not long ago, Anwar sent me to deliver a document to the Shah. Did I ever tell you I was directed to leave it at Hassan’s home inside the Ali Qapu gate?”

“Don’t tease me,” I replied. “I know the name of every family that has a home inside the Ali Qapu. His is not one of them.”

Balamani smiled, triumph gleaming in his eyes. “It is well disguised,” he replied. “From the outside, it looks like an old administrative building. Go stand in the courtyard facing the Ali Qapu and look toward the city for the minaret of the Friday mosque. Walk directly toward the minaret, and when you get to the palace wall, count three doors to your right. You will see a battered old wooden door that looks as if it might lead to a servant’s quarters. In fact, the door opens onto a huge garden with a house in back of it. There are always guards inside the old wooden door, so don’t do anything foolish.”

I laughed in admiration. He was still the master, after all.

It was easy to locate the old wooden door, but I could hardly stand there and watch it without arousing suspicion. Up on Pari’s roof I found a spot with a partial view of the house’s interior courtyard. Since the ladies of Pari’s household used the roof to hang laundry and to dry fruits and herbs in the hot sun, I was able to conceal myself beneath a chador. Sitting on a small cushion and an old rug, I shelled peapods or picked the debris out of rice, just in case anyone observed me from below. Azar Khatoon came and went with herbs and fruit and occasionally stopped to tease me about the poor quality of my work.

“Look here!” she said, sifting through my rice and uncovering a few tiny stones. “A child could do better.”

I had to agree. Mostly I kept my gaze fixed on the activities at Hassan’s door. Tradesmen arrived laden with goods, which were accepted in the courtyard by servants, but no one of high rank ever went in or out. My vigil lasted for five days with no results, and I decided to stay on the roof all night as well. For three nights nothing happened. Then one night when I had dozed off, I was startled awake by the sound of a door slamming shut. The moon was bright, and I could make out the shapes of several men in the courtyard. Hassan was wearing a simple white cotton tunic and cotton trousers rather than his usual silk finery. A tight-fitting black cap covered his head. Except for his handsome face, which was unlined from sun or
work, he could have been an ordinary fellow of modest means, like a merchant who owned a small shop in the bazaar. It was odd for someone so close to the Shah to be so casually dressed. The person with him had darker skin, and it was difficult to see his features clearly. His robe was brown and nondescript, and he had wrapped a cloth around the lower part of his face. Yet there was something familiar about the way he moved, a slouching gait that made me suspect it was the Shah in disguise. A few men that I recognized as bodyguards accompanied them.

The men walked toward the back of the house’s gardens and all of a sudden disappeared from view. On a hunch, I threw off the chador, ran downstairs, and exited the palace through a side gate with the help of a friendly guard. I arrived just in time to catch sight of the men disappearing into one of the alleyways in the direction of the bazaar. By God above! Hassan’s house must also have a secret exit that led to the Promenade of the Royal Stallions.

I assumed the men were going to a tavern or some other pleasure house, but I didn’t dare follow them for fear of being discovered. I decided to enlist Massoud Ali, who would be less recognizable than me and could pretend to be out on an errand. We kept vigil together on the roof for several nights, during which his refusal to succumb to sleep and his desire to perform his job as well as a grown man made my heart swell with pride. We spent the long hours telling each other stories and playing backgammon, and I taught him a few new game strategies to try out on the other errand boys.

One night, when we were both restless, he began to demonstrate the techniques he had been learning in combat class to block hand strikes. Still clad in my disguising chador, I raised my arm as if to hit him, and he practiced batting it away and landing his own strike. Although he wasn’t strong, he was very fast. At one point he scored a strike on my chest that I had failed to see coming.

We were so engrossed that I didn’t notice when men appeared in Hassan’s courtyard, but Massoud Ali alerted me to their movements in the dark. Stealthily the men moved toward the secret exit. Massoud Ali jumped up and raced after them, armed with a plausible
excuse. I watched him until I could see him no more, a twinge of fear in my heart.