A Man of the Cloth
During the summer of 1912, as was the custom with many well-to-do Persians, Nasrosoltan’s family moved from their home in Tehran to their summer garden in the foothills of the Alborz mountains. They did this to spend the hottest months of the season in a more favorable climate. The setting of this garden, with its simple cottage and surrounding wooded areas, including a creek of ice-cold water flowing down from the mountains, was a welcome relief from the hubbub of the capital city.
The Minbashians were welcoming to guests on day trips from Tehran. They always made sure plenty of kababs were served alongside wine or the favorite arak (an anise-flavored, distilled alcoholic beverage). On many occasions, guests would bring along friends and family without prior notice, for Salar Moazaz enjoyed meeting new people and was known to be a gracious host.
On Fridays, for entertainment, there would be many activities after lunch, such as reciting poetry and playing card games and backgammon. Most of these activities would take place on large wooden bedframes, covered in Persian carpets and lined with pillows. The guests could lean back or lie down as they wished, enjoying tea from the samovar or the cold watermelon and salted cucumber slices by their side.
One such Friday, a cousin of Nasrosoltan named Abbasgholi Khan, who worked in the newly created Government Gendarmerie, came to the outing accompanied by a young and rather peculiar-looking man. When he introduced this man, Abbasgholi Khan announced, “Our guest today is also known to some as a man of the cloth!”
Nasrosoltan, who was quite close with his cousin, inquired privately, “Dear cousin, why did you bring this man that no one knows to our gathering—and a cleric at that?”
Abbasgholi Khan let out a hearty laugh, and to alleviate Nasrosoltan’s concern, he said, “This man is the furthest thing from a cleric. I met him at another gathering and thought to bring him to add to the after-lunch entertainment today. He is, in fact, a falgir”—fortune-teller—“and everyone will soon see why he is known as a man of the cloth!”
Nasrosoltan was not pleased, as he did not believe in this type of superstition. He was always surprised how people could so readily rely on a cup of coffee or a deck of cards to divulge an unknown future and how they could even pay large sums for such a ridiculous pastime.
In Russia, Nasrosoltan had seen the vast popularity and cultural impact fortune-telling had on the people and how it had also found acceptance among the most educated strata of St. Petersburg society. In fact, some people would not make any decision without consulting such seers for guidance.
In Persia, this was one of the instances where Nasrosoltan agreed with the clerics who opposed fortune-telling. But his reason for not appreciating divination was different than theirs. Nasrosoltan believed fortune-tellers were plainly hoaxers and charlatans looking to fleece the uninformed. However, he did not attach any religious prohibition against this fascination, as the pious did while quoting their sacred texts.
Abbasgholi Khan said, “Don’t worry; it’s all in good fun, but I have to admit I was so surprised at this man’s abilities and what he revealed about my own future that I just had to bring him.”
Abbasgholi Khan moved closer to Nasrosoltan and lowered his voice to a whisper. “ The man is both deaf and mute, from birth, I believe.”
Since the fortune-teller could not speak, he used an oversized piece of cloth with all kinds of words and numbers written on it. He would point to them when wanting to express what he foresaw in someone’s future. There were also several sizable rectangular dice that did not have numbers but instead had unintelligible symbols that only the falgir could decipher. He used these by rolling them and then writing out on a piece of paper, in formulaic fashion, a calculated final number which directed him to the word or number he would point to on the cloth.
Nasrosoltan decided he was not going to partake in this charade. So, he sat by as several of the women had their fortunes told, with the falgir gesticulating wildly and grunting unintelligibly to get his point across. The ladies were bewildered and could not believe what they were witnessing.
From their expressions, it seemed the man was reading right through them with his accurate portrayals, leaving them in a state of both shock and amazement.
One of the women turned to another to ask, “How can he know this?” Some laughed nervously, and others feigned anger, attempting to dispel the information his dice and cloth provided, which they did not want broadcast publicly. It pained Nasrosoltan’s conscience to see the fortune-teller deceiving these inquisitive women.
Sensing Nasrosoltan’s disdain, the fortune-teller then turned to him and gestured to have his future told. Nasrosoltan shook his head to say no, but the man pointed to a word on his cloth in response. Nasrosoltan looked closer to see what word he alluded to, and it read fear.
Nasrosoltan broke out in laughter and turned to Abbasgholi Khan and asked, “Is he trying to say I am afraid of him?”
His cousin replied, “No, I think he means you fear hearing your fortune told.”
Nasrosoltan dismissed the idea that he was fearful of a few words on a piece of cloth and the absurd formulas of a fraud. But after his cousin's repeated insistence, Nasrosoltan finally agreed to have his fortune told in the spirit of some afternoon fun.
In the weeks leading up to this Friday gathering, Nasrosoltan had been preoccupied with the plans for his desired return to Russia. He had determined that even though Rimsky-Korsakov had died, he still wanted to pursue his music career in St. Petersburg.
Nasrosoltan was finding it difficult to enjoy this get-together with friends and family. The source of his anxiety was a letter he had received a few days earlier from Rustam, replying to his inquiry as to whether the conservatory would readmit him for the next session. Rustam wrote:
I have met with the conservatory director through the introduction of a good friend. As fortune would have it, the new director is none other than your music professor when you had first come to St. Petersburg, Alexander Glazunov!
Glazunov says he remembers you fondly, as he does your father, and he seemed eager for you to continue your studies here. He mentioned that there are now specific new regulations that have been instituted after the reopening of the conservatory. One is that foreign students now need a letter of introduction from the Russian legation in their home country.
Glazunov has reassured me that since you have already been an alumnus of good academic standing at the conservatory, you are sure to be welcomed. Still, his hands are tied with this new decree, which is now a necessary requirement of readmittance, albeit a formality due to your prior relationship. He emphasized that the new session would begin in late September, so the conservatory would need your letter no later than the first week of September to reserve you a place.
This news caused Nasrosoltan much trepidation as the timing was tricky, leaving him only a few weeks to get the letter and send it on to St. Petersburg. But what disturbed him further was that when he went to the legation to get the letter, they told him that this was under the purview of the man he and his father both despised—Colonel Liakhov.
Liakhov was the barbaric man who ordered the shelling of their sacred parliament building and hunted down and executed several constitutionalist leaders. He was a man who believed blood spilled for his cause was blood well spilled, and he always told his troops that the constitution was their enemy. Everything about the man ran counter to the beliefs of the Minbashians.
Liakhov was pardoned by the constitutionalists after his surrender and the liberation of Tehran, as the Persian government feared retribution from the tsar if any harm came to him. After a while serving in the capital, the Russian colonel was now summoned back to St. Petersburg.
Nasrosoltan was engulfed in an internal battle between his burning desire to go back to St. Petersburg and his revulsion at asking Liakhov for the necessary letter. He did not pursue the matter any further once he realized the hated Russian would need to be involved. However, Nasrosoltan also recognized another year of work at the conservatory would be missed if he did not seek the colonel’s help.
Time was now of the essence, and in the days leading up to this Friday gathering, Nasrosoltan was slowly losing bits of his resolve. He came close to succumbing and almost made an appeal to his father for help, but he knew Salar Moazaz did not want the Russian’s name even brought up, let alone requesting any kind of assistance from him.
Nasrosoltan was lost deep in thought as to what to do about his situation when the falgir suddenly let out a shriek to get his attention. He then rolled the dice in his hand and let them loose on the carpet-covered wooden bed frame.
The fortune-teller looked at the dice with a hint of surprise, raising a quizzical eyebrow as if questioning the result, and quickly made some calculations that seemed to be for show. The falgir then wrote down something and pointed to the word love on his cloth. With a strange smile on his face, he showed Nasrosoltan what he had written on a scrap of paper.
It read, You do not believe in fortunes, not even those that poets tell you from the grave. Then he pointed to the word love again, signaling what topic he meant.
Nasrosoltan was startled since he had told no one of the fal-e Hafez he had read at the poet’s tomb in Shiraz. That sonnet had also spoken of love, but Nasrosoltan had quickly dismissed it.
Like the women who were shocked at hearing their fortunes told, Nasrosoltan also wondered, How could this man have known such a thing? This is more than just a mere coincidence!
Once again, he was pulled out of his thoughts when the fortune-teller waved his hand vigorously in front of Nasrosoltan’s eyes, alerting him to the next revelation.
The falgir pointed to the word safar (journey) on the cloth, and with wild movements of his hands, he gestured that there was a long journey in Nasrosoltan’s near future. Then he pointed to the word love again, which Nasrosoltan took as maybe a good omen for his return to St. Petersburg in pursuit of the music he loved.
Suddenly, the man shook his head as if to indicate he saw something unpleasant. He immediately pointed to the word khanevadeh, meaning “family,” and with his hands, he made a tearing gesture, implying a falling apart.
Nasrosoltan laughed at the ridiculousness of this prediction, for he wondered how it could be that he would ever break with his family.
“Never!” he exclaimed, and the fortune-teller displayed a sly smile and directed his attention to a final word on the cloth, which read pride, and then he pointed directly at Nasrosoltan.
The falgir wrote on the paper, as his final pronouncement, It is pride that is the enemy of love. Then he made the tearing gesture with his hands one last time and bowed his head, signaling he was done.
What Nasrosoltan expected to be an entertaining afternoon turned into a not-so-pleasant one, and he became anxious.
He thought, What did the man mean, that pride is the enemy of love?
He reasoned that the falgir was evidently mistaken, and it was hate, not pride, that was the enemy of love.
After the falgir finished reading Nasrosoltan’s fortune, Abbasgholi Khan noticed the sudden change in his cousin’s demeanor and suggested that they take a walk in the woods.
All along the way, Nasrosoltan was quiet and still buried in his thoughts. Assuming it was the fortune-teller’s words that were haunting him, Abbasgholi Khan tried to lift Nasrosoltan’s spirits. “Dear cousin, in your face, I read that you are troubled. If it was something he said, don’t worry. In his readings, the falgir throws out many things to see what sticks, and sometimes he gets lucky. He is just an entertainer, so don’t let him ruin the rest of your day with his ramblings.”
Nasrosoltan hid his true feelings from Abbasgholi Khan, assuring him that it wasn’t the fortune-teller’s words but the uncertainty about his return to Russia that distracted him.
Later that week, the Russian legation planned a ceremony in honor of Liakhov before his return to St. Petersburg. High-ranking officers of the Cossack Brigade, including Salar Moazaz, were expected to attend as a formality, though no one found a reason to celebrate anything about this man.
On the evening of the event, Nasrosoltan, who was not invited, said to his father, “If you permit, I would like to join you in attending the ceremony.”
A surprised Salar Moazaz asked, “Why would you want to come when I don’t even want to attend myself, especially that you have no such obligation?”
Nasrosoltan answered, “Dear Father, after many weeks of internal conflict about what I should do, I have finally decided to swallow my pride and ask Liakhov to write a letter of introduction for me. This is the only way a place can be reserved for me at the conservatory in time for the next session.”
Salar Moazaz was shocked, and he angrily responded, “You say you are swallowing your pride, but it is your pride that is making you want to do such a thing! It is your pride that is deceiving you into thinking that St. Petersburg has a better future for you than staying in your homeland and composing music here. For the hope of this fame and fortune, are you willing to prostrate yourself before this Russian?”
Nasrosoltan quickly tried to console his father and confessed, “Father, I mean no disrespect, but how many national anthems does Persia need? You have already written one, which will last for a long time, and another is not needed.”
This comment seemed to have the desired effect. Salar Moazaz, who was about to erupt, began to listen carefully and visibly became less agitated as his son pleaded his case.
Nasrosoltan continued softly in a respectful tone, “You are also a composer; why can you not understand what I am feeling? I have within me this burning desire to compose, but the environment is not suitable for me here. If I stay any longer, I will end up contributing nothing of significance.”
Nasrosoltan paused briefly to let this last admission sink in before he went on with his most profound confession, pouring his heart out. “Every moment I am away from the conservatory, I feel I am falling far behind, and I fear I will lose this final opportunity to realize my dreams. I have already stayed much longer than I had intended and promised to you. Now, I am begging you, allow me to ask for Liakhov’s assistance so that I can return to St. Petersburg.”
Salar Moazaz became dejected but felt powerless in the face of his son’s steadfastness and despair. “You are your own man, so I will not stand in your way. But make sure Liakhov does not think I will be indebted to him if he agrees to your request. This is between you and him; I want no part of whatever arrangement you set up for yourself. I will also pray to the Almighty for your sake since it seems it is only God that can help you control your pride!”
As he lingered on this thought, Salar Moazaz then continued with the assurance of a father with many years of experience. “Pride’s nature is to consume. My son, from ancient times, they have said that pride is the chief cause of misery in every family since the world began!”
Nasrosoltan kissed his father’s hand in gratitude for his acquiescence and replied, “Dear Father, you shall see, I will make you proud!” as if he had not heard one word his father or the falgir had cautioned him about this vice.