Ollie's Cloud (49 page)

Chapter 9

The rotting corpse of the caravanserai exudes the sweet-and-sour stench of rancid garbage, unwashed bodies, and camel dung. Fleas and lice and biting flies gnaw the flesh of the inhabitants, raising scabby welts. Clouds of dust and sharp bits of straw hang in the heavy air, stinging eyes and clogging nostrils. The clamorous cacophony of barking dogs, braying mules, grunting camels and squalling infants mixes raucously with the shouts and cries of belligerent travelers, quarrelsome charvadars, and screaming food vendors who prowl the courtyard uncensored, seeming to put every vague thought into words. Of all the foul caravanserais between Bushire and Tehran, this is the worst, an open pit filled with a steaming compost of humanity.

Within an hour dusk envelops the caravanserai, and the darkness seems to smother all human sounds, leaving night to the primitive songs and clanging bell choir of the animals. Lying against the south wall of his wretched den, Ali wonders at the choices he has made in life. He is independently wealthy, and yet he is spending this night on the hard floor of a rat-infested, flea-plagued cell rather than lying comfortably on a silky goose-down bed in an opulent Belgravia mansion.

Amidst Jonathon’s snoring and Ishaq’s stirring and the hungry rustling of rats in the straw, Ali searches his Wolesley valise and finds the precious images of Mary and Alice, silvery daguerreotypes that gleam eerily in the shaft of moonlight slicing through the single barred window of the room. And then he remembers why he has forsaken his privileged London life and traveled back to Persia, back in time, back to the vineyard of the Lord where His Prophets are rooted in the fertile, sacred soil; where God must plant and tend His grapes until that most propitious time when the Fruit is ripe for harvest. Ali remembers now, and his anger begins to flow again like lava. He wants to be that molten lava; he wants to scorch the vineyard and burn the grapes before the harvest, because only then will the Vinetender feel the anguish and torment of losing that which was so loved and which held so much promise.

Clutching his precious pictures, Ali goes to sleep.

The next morning, as the three English gentlemen eat a hastily made breakfast of bread and eggs, two Persian soldiers push their way into the small room made smaller still by the numerous trunks and portmanteaus lined against the walls for safekeeping.

“We are looking for Ali Qasim,” the first soldier exclaims brusquely.

Ali stands. He is dressed in rumpled linen trousers and a cotton bush shirt, the kind usually worn by adventurers in Africa. At his feet lies a pith helmet, soiled and roughened by the desert winds. “I am Ali Qasim,” he says.

The first soldier coldly eyes the foreigner and says, “The grand vizier sends his greetings and wishes you to be moved to an apartment that is more fitting for his new translator. Please come with us.”

Ali glances at Jonathon and Ishaq. They are all anxious to abandon this caravanserai, but Aqasi’s message does not bode well for Gordon Cranston.

“What has become of the grand vizier’s previous translator?” Ali asks.

The soldier was not expecting this question. “He has been assigned to another post,” he says.

Ali is quite certain the soldier knows nothing about Gordon’s fate. “We have quite a lot of personal belongings,” he says, gesturing to the baggage in the room. “And there is more in a guarded wagon outside.”

The first soldier pulls aside the curtain to reveal another six or seven soldiers. “It will be our honor to move your possessions.”

The new apartment is large and airy, with a separate sleeping room for each of them. A wide veranda overlooks the palace a mile away. A functioning
badgeer
, or wind tower, gently stirs the air.

That evening, all three of them are summoned to Aqasi’s chamber for dinner and conversation. Clearly, Aqasi has something in mind. Seated on the floor before the grand vizier, Ali says, “I was informed by your escort that you want me to be your translator.”

“You had offered your services and I accepted.”

“As I recall, I had offered to tutor your current translator.”

“He is no longer my translator. A wise man pointed out his deficiencies to me, and I have assigned him to another position in the government.”

“He is well, then?”

“Of course he is well. No harm has come to him. I hope you do not believe the vicious accusations of your newspaper that we are barbarians.”

“Of course not.”

Just then, young Nasir al-Din enters the room and shyly whispers into Aqasi’s ear. Aqasi turns his attention to Ishaq. “Your name is Ishaq, as I recall.”

Ishaq courteously nods yes.

“Nasir al-Din will be the shah of all Persia one day, perhaps soon.” Aqasi looks up at Nasir al-Din and smiles, but the smile lacks sincerity.

Ali thinks it camouflages something more sinister; but then, perhaps it is just the grand vizier’s natural scowl that produces this effect.

“Though the prince is but fifteen years old,” Aqasi continues, “he will be the sovereign ruler of our nation. You are deeply honored to be in his presence.”

The four Englishmen bow reverently.

“Nasir al-Din would like to entertain Ishaq alone. He is quite interested in America, and would like to learn something of your language as well so he can communicate directly with the leaders of other English-speaking countries.”

Ishaq and Ali are stunned by this invitation to befriend the monarch-to-be. “I can, I mean, yes… I am deeply honored,” Ishaq says in Persian, “and would be happy to assist Nasir al-Din in whatever endeavors he seeks for me to, um, help him in.”

For the first time Nasir al-Din speaks so he can be heard by all. Addressing Ishaq, he says, “How many wives do you have?”

Ishaq turns red. How
many
? What kind of question is that? He turns to Ali for help. Ali whispers to him in English, “Persian men can take a number of wives, and kings can have as many as they like. Although one is more than most men can handle.”

Ishaq looks up at Nasir al-Din and replies in Farsi, “Actually, I have no wives at all.”

“Not even one?”

“None.”

Nasir al-Din, who is but fifteen, nods politely and says, “I have only one wife, but I’m told I should have more. Why have you not taken wives?”

Ishaq is startled that this youngster is already married. He replies, “I have been too busy traveling the world. Would it be fair to my
wives
—” he smiles at his use of the plural—“if I were not able to see them for years?”

Nasir al-Din contemplates this remark. “I see what you mean,” he says finally. “In such a case, perhaps
concubines
are a wiser choice.”

Ishaq knows about concubines from the Bible. He blushes uncontrollably and looks down at the floor.

Ali addresses Nasir al-Din: “Perhaps you would like Ishaq to tell you about America.”

“Oh yes—America. I hope to go there some day. And England, too.”

Aqasi has had enough of this adolescent banter. He motions Ishaq forward and sends him with Nasir al-Din into the bowels of the palace. “I will see that your son is brought back to your apartment when their conversation is ended,” he explains to Ali. “Now then, tell me—are
you
married?” Aqasi smiles for the first time. Perhaps this is his way of making a joke.

“I was married once, but my wife died in America. Would you like to see a picture of her?”

“You carry a painting of your wife with you?”

“Not a painting. An actual
picture
of her. Of the
real
her.”

This is awkward. There is no Farsi word for daguerreotype or photograph, no concept of the process or the result. Aqasi does not understand what he is describing.

Ali stands, reaches into a pocket, and produces the daguerreotype of Alice. “May I show you?” he asks.

Two guards step forward at Ali’s movement, which appears threatening. Aqasi waves them off and motions for Ali to bring him the object, which he carefully takes and studies.

“This is a wonderful painting. So lifelike. It deceives one into thinking this is the actual person.”

“But you see, this is not a painting at all. This picture of my wife is her actual image—it is her, you see—her image captured on a metal plate by my associate, Jonathon, using a process that only he and a few other individuals have mastered. In a sense, this is my wife. It is the light reflected from her face that is etched onto this silver plate…”

Aqasi is astonished. “Not a painting at all,” he says. “But your wife… captured onto this plate.” He looks up with at Jonathon with admiration. “And you know how to perform this magic?”

Jonathon has followed the gist of this conversation in Farsi, but has not understood the question. Ali translates into English and then Jonathon says in very imperfect Persian, “Yes, I make these pictures. I have—umm—a special
box
that helps me do it.”

Aqasi’s mind is soaring. “Can you put Nasir al-Din and me on your plates? Can you make pictures of the shah?”

Ali replies: “Yes, Jonathon can make pictures of anything.
Everything
! Your palaces, your thrones, your army. Anything at all.”

“Then we must start tomorrow,” Aqasi says. “We have many things to make pictures of. Now I wonder, Jonathon, if you would leave us so that we may have a private conversation.”

Ali translates for Jonathon, who nods and stands.

Aqasi calls for an escort. “We must see you home safely, Jonathon. It would not do to have any harm befall the court’s—” he does not know the word for what Jonathon does—“the court’s
picture maker
.”

“Photographer,” Ali suggests in English.

“Yes, the court’s
photographer
,” Aqasi repeats, saying the last word in English.

After Jonathon has departed, Aqasi motions for Ali to sit directly in front of him, close enough to pat his knee. He speaks quietly now, as if he wants no one to overhear their conversation. “You have been worried about Mr. Cranston, am I correct?” he asks.

“I trust that your words were true, that he has not been harmed.”

“I employed Mr. Cranston out of convenience. It is not easy to find someone fluent in English and Persian who does not work for the British government. I’m afraid, however, that Mr. Cranston’s interests were less in translation and more in enriching himself. While I needed him, I was willing to ignore his petty larceny, but when you arrived he became expendable.”

“Do you expect me to serve as your translator?”

“You are a British citizen. I cannot force you to take this position. But if you do, perhaps I can help you achieve your goal.”

“And what do you believe my goal is?”

“I have no idea, but I’m quite certain you will tell me, because unless I know what you want I cannot help you get it.”

Aqasi calls for more hot tea. During this pause in the conversation, Ali wrestles with his strategy. The grand vizier clearly is a perceptive and intelligent man. He remembered everyone’s name after one mention and is even now playing out a strategy that Ali struggles to comprehend. Perhaps Aqasi’s goal is simply to form an association with a British reporter so that coverage of Persian affairs will be more fair and balanced.
No, that seems too simplistic.
Maybe Aqasi sees in Ali an opportunity to study how the English think.
No, Cranston provided the same opportunity.
Could it be that Aqasi merely wants to replace Cranston, whom he seems to despise, with a more capable translator?

Ali decides to lay out his cards. After all, hadn’t Aqasi mentioned a willingness to help Ali achieve
his
goal?

“I can be of much more use to you than merely translating conversations,” Ali says.

“In what way?”

“I understand that this religious fanatic who calls himself the Rasul is causing quite a stir throughout your country. There has even been mention of him and his disciples in the
London Times
. I suspect that you would prefer this person to be eliminated, but that is risky business. Politically risky. We all know what happened to Pontius Pilate in the case of Jesus.”

“What is your interest in this imposter?”

“I hold him responsible for the death of my wife.”

This statement astonishes Aqasi, who thinks about it briefly then laughs out loud. “Are you saying that a young merchant from Persia killed your wife in America? It hardly seems possible.”

“Yes, I know, but I believe it to be true in a different sort of way. I don’t believe that he personally killed my wife, of course. But I do believe that the larger force that he represents is responsible by setting into motion events designed to cause my wife’s death. That’s all I can say right now.”

Aqasi takes a sip of tea. He had never imagined that the imposter might be the spearhead of a larger conspiracy that extends throughout the world. Countering the threat posed by the Rasul suddenly takes on even greater urgency. He says, “Perhaps you and I have the same enemy.”

“My thinking exactly.”

“And what would you do about him?”

“My goal is the same as yours—to destroy him. I will stop at nothing to achieve my goal. In America and England I have destroyed or at least nullified many lesser figures that represent the same force. But this imposter, as you call him, is the head of the snake. Perhaps my efforts can help insulate you and the Qajars from direct implication. At the very least, you will have my untiring efforts to bring this man down.”

Aqasi can feel the venom in this man, and he likes it. “And in return?”

“I will need some resources and, of course, the influence of your office to get certain things done. I will need you to thoughtfully consider my proposals for action, and act when you agree.”

“And money?”

“I don’t want your money. I find pleasure in spending my own fortune for this cause. I will spend it all if I have to.”

Ali pauses, and then says, “There is one other thing. I want you to restore Gordon Cranston to his post as your official translator. I will not have the time to serve in that capacity, though I am deeply honored to be asked.”