The Death of Vazir-Mukhtar

Oleg’s brave brood is slumbering in the field;

far from home they’ve flown.

▶ The Song of Igor’s Campaign

Oh, the slumber before a delayed departure, when your feet are stuck in yesterday, when you sleep in a strange bed and the walls fall away and everything is packed and your feet are stuck and your arms bound by sleep.

From the empty quivers of the pagan Cumans, large pearls are strewn endlessly over your breast.

Your legs that knew the feel of the warm flanks of a stallion are now numb; your arms lie like foreign states.

Your breast inflates like bagpipes played by bumbling children.

In the first courtyard of the Russian legation, the Russian balalaika plays.

The slumber has shackled the roads, heaped them over with brushwood, muddied up the memories of Russia, exchanged them in the dark for the Caucasus. What a long way, even here, from the third courtyard to the second, from the second to the first—hard to cross the threshold, to find a gate. The sentries are on duty.

In the first courtyard of the Russian legation, the balalaika strums.

Your blanket slips from your feet, your feet are growing cold, and in your slumber you seem to be crossing a cold stream. You pull the blanket back on top of you, and the stream dries up. You meet your friends and loved ones, but all of them are nameless—the slumber makes you forget their names. As you lie there, you try to remember, you strain to recall the female arms nearby, so close.

In the city of Tabriz, Princess Yaroslavna is crying on an English bed. She is pregnant, and the confinement is filled with pain.

In the first courtyard of the Russian legation. a Cossack plays, and the balalaika strums.

The slumber is working on a case, on an unpleasant case, and try as it may, it cannot remember what started the case, its number, or the name of the accused. But the case is vital; the man is guilty. He seems to be Russian and apparently a traitor; he has almost betrayed Russia herself. And where is Russia?

The slumber has shackled the roads, thrown Russia into confusion. And you have to rake away thousands of miles of brushwood so as to reach her and to hear her: Princess Yaroslavna is crying in the city of Tabriz.

In the first courtyard, the Russian balalaika strums. O, slumber that has befallen the body of Russia! A man with no name—Paskevich?—is struggling in the torpor; Chaadaev is stuck in his backyard—in Tehran? in Moscow?—and there’s nothing up there in the skies as gray as Nesselrode’s eyes. Quiet falls. Someone is rummaging in the semidarkness and sweeping away the brushwood with screeching shovels, trying to reach you as you lie there in bed under a strange blanket.

In the first courtyard of the Russian legation, the balalaika has stopped its strumming.

After three knocks, the gate to the Russian legation creaked open.

A man demanded an immediate audience with Mr. Griboedov.

Shivering from the night cold, Griboedov, wearing a dressing gown and a pair of shoes, blinked at the man who had been brought in by two Cossacks. He remembered leaving his glasses on the bedside table, but they were not there. Two candles flickered and smoked. Sashka hovered behind him, in the door, watching. He was wearing nothing but his underwear.

The man who had entered was tall and simply dressed: his kulidja was greasy and his sheepskin hat had bald patches.

“Your Excellency, I need to talk to you in confidence,” he said in French.

Griboedov hesitated.

“Who are you?” he asked cautiously.

“I had the honor to entertain Your Excellency at a reception at His Majesty’s, and I have been at your embassy on business. You probably don’t recognize me in these clothes.”

Griboedov waved away the Cossacks and Sashka.

“Please, sit down.”

Khoja-Mirza-Yakub sat down stiffly and tentatively. He looked around the room, which still contained the trunks. Snow was melting on his expensive pointed shoes. He gave a soft sigh, like a man who is already tired of the business he is about to discuss, and began:

“Your Excellency! Forgive me disturbing you at this time of the night. My family name is Markarian, and I was born in the city of Erivan.”

A century ago, the word treason already seemed to have been relegated to an ode or an ancient legend. A century ago, Mickiewicz had already replaced the word traitor with renegade.

Whoever crossed the state border betrayed not his state, but his culture—clothes, language, mentality, faith, and women. A German poet forced to live in Paris wrote that his thoughts were exiled to the French language. Two faiths, two languages, two ways of thinking, and a man was teetering between them on a brittle little bridge.

A century ago, Nesselrode, a man multilingual and therefore nonsensical, was in charge of the Russian state’s foreign policy. The borderline between effeminate, diplomatic writing and the traitor’s cypher was becoming blurred.

Treason turned into a military word and was restricted to those cases when a man betrayed only once; double betrayal moved into the category of diplomacy.

Samson Khan, whose extradition Faddei Bulgarin’s friend Alexander Griboedov had been seeking to achieve, was a traitor not because he had betrayed Russia, but because he had betrayed Tsar Pavel, Alexander, and Nicholas. He was a renegade. Ensign Skryplev, lounging about by the Russian mission, was neither a traitor nor a renegade. For the likes of him, there was another word in the Russian language: flop-over, meaning “turncoat.”

Space and time affect the word treachery. Space renders it short and frightening. A soldier makes his way at night to the opposite camp and gives himself over to the enemy. A few hundred yards of impassable roads, wooded or bare, flat or mountainous, change him forever. It is not the borders of the state that get muddled and lost; it is the boundaries of the person.

Faddei Bulgarin, Alexander Sergeyevich’s true and valued friend, a Russian officer, gave himself over to the French, fought against Russian troops in 1812, was captured by his own side, and ended up a Russian man of letters. Eight years turned treason into an indistinct word, suitable for polemics in literary journals.

A flop-over’s business is pretty simple.

The Russian poet Teplyakov, who witnessed the Turkish campaign of 1829, described it like this:

“I saw two Turkish flop-overs surrounded by the crowd. One of them stunned me with his colossal stature and his proud belligerent stride, the other with the radiance of his feminine beauty and the fresh complexion of his near adolescence. Both approached our outposts and surrendered, tired of the discipline in the regular army in which they had been forced to serve.” Their wage of forty piasters was overdue.

And yet there is no more frightening word than treason. States are hurt by it like a man who has been deceived by a lover or betrayed by a friend.

Khoja-Mirza-Yakub, a man of such stature, learning, and wealth, was a eunuch.

He had been castrated by the Persian state not due to animosity or malice, but because the state required eunuchs. There were posts that could be occupied only by maimed men, castratos. Over fifteen years, his wealth had grown, together with his body’s emptiness. He was the holy property of the shah’s state, and one of the shah’s chattels. He was affluent. The important matters of trade and the harem were in his hands. And his hands, like all of him, belonged to the shah. But when he embraced a girl called Dil-Firuz, he felt that those hands were his own, that they were ordinary human hands, white and ringed.

The filthy Shamkhorian took her away. He did not resist. Particularly since she did not even live at his place. Although he believed it would be better if she were not at Khosraw Khan’s either. But having realized how empty he felt without her around, he understood that this was not exactly the case.

It so happened that the man with easy movements and casual manners dared sit in front of the shah for almost an hour. With his boots on. For the first time in his entire life, Khoja-Mirza-Yakub saw the shah, whose every gesture he read like an open book, gasping for breath, the sweat dripping off his nose. The shah’s days were numbered; the English doctor was spurring him on for a new war, and the war was to be waged by Abbas Mirza. The eunuch’s days of wealth were also therefore numbered. Looking at Vazir-Mukhtar, he realized that he wielded great power, but he lacked greater knowledge.

Griboedov had committed many errors: he ought to have paid his first visit to Alaiar Khan, and he need not have sent Dr. McNeill on his behalf.

He, Khoja-Mirza-Yakub, possessed greater knowledge.

Vazir-Mukhtar represented Russia. For the eunuch, Russia had been documents from the embassy, Dr. McNeill’s conversations, and notes. Now it was Erivan, where his parents lived and where he himself used to live when he was a boy.

It might well be that just for a second, the thought of Erivan had transported him back to the monastery at the Mother See of Holy Etchmiadzin, and to Babokatsor, where he was captured, taken to Tabriz, and castrated. On that day, he signed a receipt: Yakub Markarian, even though his usual signature now was Mirza-Yakub.

That decided everything. The eunuch Khoja-Mirza-Yakub’s boundaries became blurred. He was a Tehran dweller, but it was Erivan that once again felt like the main place in his life. The fifteen-year-long stay in Tehran had been the temporary life of a castrato; the eighteen years in Erivan were his youth, the dinner table at which his father would chat with his neighbor and which his mother covered with a fresh tablecloth. Khoja-Mirza-Yakub was wealthy; he was held in high esteem. Yakub Markarian was an unknown man from Erivan.

When he returned home, his mother would lay a fresh tablecloth. He looked at his long-fingered, white, disgraced hands. He would not come back home with unmanly, empty hands. The neighbors would not laugh at him.

He imagined Vazir-Mukhtar sitting with his legs crossed in front of the shah, who was panting and garbed in apparel weighing fifty pounds.

He sat there for an hour, and Yakub Markarian, who had been castrated in the city of Tabriz, imagined himself sitting in front of Fat’h-Ali-shah, taking Vazir-Mukhtar’s place for a minute or two.

Yakub Markarian, who knew many things and whose hands were white and plump and studded with rings.

He was no shorter than Vazir-Mukhtar, and his impassioned face was in no way inferior.

Afterward, he saw Vazir-Mukhtar on his own but said nothing.

He made up his mind only after Alaiar Khan threatened him with caning, after Alaiar Khan said petulantly that it was Khoja-Mirza-Yakub who had pointed out his wives to Vazir-Mukhtar, and that Khoja-Mirza-Yakub had acted in collusion with the shah’s other eunuch.

There was a modicum of truth in this—Mirza-Yakub was covering for his comrade, and Mirza-Yakub’s heels would probably be lashed.

Mirza-Yakub acted slowly, without haste, having weighed everything and given it sufficient thought.

He conferred with Khosraw-Khan and Manouchehr-Khan. They locked themselves away together for hours, and Khosraw came out with eyes entranced and Manouchehr was all hunched over.

They hesitated—perhaps it really made no sense to wait for Fat’h-Ali’s death, and it was worth their while going over to Vazir-Mukhtar. Both were Russian by birth.

But Khoja-Mirza-Yakub hesitated no longer. All his life, he seemed to have thought of nothing else but the Russian embassy. And when the farewell audience was granted to Vazir-Mukhtar, he put all his affairs in order: packed his things into five big chests, and put the letters, money, and various harem receipts in a small case.

In the evening, he took a stroll past the Russian legation and heard some hammering and commotion in the courtyard.

At two o’clock the following morning, he was at Griboedov’s.

And a friend of the traitor Faddei Bulgarin, Alexander Sergeyevich Griboedov, who had been demanding the immediate handover of the traitor Samson, was listening to Khoja-Mirza-Yakub’s story.

Khoja-Mirza Yakub was not a traitor because, in accordance with the Turkmenchai Treaty, people born in Russian territory or in those areas handed over to Russia according to the treaty had the right to return to their native country.

Griboedov drew his dressing gown tighter around himself and huddled inside it. The room was cold.

He shut his eyes for a moment. Then he said:

“I cannot accept you secretly, like this, at night; all my affairs must be overt and transparent. I want none of that Persian court intrigue. So, now go back home. Give it some careful thought. And if you really wish to return to your native land, come again, but this time during the day so that I can take you under my protection.”

His caftan thrown on over his underwear, Sashka shone the light for the eunuch as he went down the stairs.

Griboedov saw him stop at the bottom of the staircase, and again in the middle of the courtyard before slowly, reluctantly, going away.

At eight in the morning, the shah’s refusal to extradite Samson was delivered to Griboedov.

And at eight in the morning, Khoja-Mirza-Yakub came with three servants for the second and final time. Khoja-Mirza-Yakub stayed at the Russian embassy and was allocated a room in the second courtyard. The room was south-facing.

“Could you tell me please whether it’s true that when a harem goes out of town, signals are sent with rifle shots, the road is cleared of people, and those who don’t leave are thrown into prison?”

“No, not true. When we go to Negarestan Garden for an outing, there is no end of beggars and onlookers.”

“But Jean Chardin describes this in his book. Chardin is a reliable source.”

“Doctor, you seem to forget that Chardin lived in the times when there were knights in France, and before Russia had any emperors.”

Dr. Adelung was at the eunuch’s chamber, making inquiries about Eastern customs.

“I’ve seen a woman here with a scrap of paper attached to her elbow, or a forearm, on a string. What is this?”

“Precepts from the Quran.”

The doctor was delighted:

“I thought so. Amulets, aren’t they?”

The eunuch looked at him and smiled.

“From the female Quran, doctor.”

“Female Quran?”

“His Highness assigned Prince Mahmoud Mirza to compose and record a female Quran. It differs greatly from the male one.”

The doctor looked baffled.

“This is completely new to me. And how is it different?”

“I’ll give you an answer when my books and manuscripts arrive.”

“But you are a man of learning …”

The doctor felt slightly bewildered.

“My learning is pretty meager.”

The doctor said firmly:

“You’re a learned man; you should write down your reminiscences; we’ll translate them together, and Mr. Senkovsky will publish them in Petersburg. They will cause a stir.”

Khoja-Mirza-Yakub kept silent.

“How large is your library?”

“All my property can fit into seven chests.”

“And when will your manuscripts and books arrive?”

“I am expecting them any moment now. My servants, Mr. Griboedov’s valet, and a couple of your chapars have gone to fetch them.”

Half an hour passed.

“Could you tell me please,” asked the doctor, “whether there are any discrepancies in the female Quran regarding ablutions?”

“There are,” responded Mirza-Yakub, and looked out of the window.

Sashka, the couriers, Rustem-Bek, and his men were in the courtyard.

Sashka shrugged his shoulders. He looked grim.

The eunuch’s things were not with them.

Rustem-Bek passed over a letter from the shah to Khoja-Mirza-Yakub. The letter was benign and invited Yakub to return for negotiations.

So they sat talking about the female Quran, and Khoja-Mirza-Yakub was becoming a man of letters and Senkovsky’s companion.

Nothing had changed in Tehran.

Except that the square in front of the Russian legation had become empty.

But it had become empty imperceptibly. The parents whose children had been released, as well as those whose hadn’t, had gone away, and the Armenians who had brought their petitions had also dispersed. And the hawkers too.

At nighttime, three big mashals lit up the entrance to the Russian embassy, and the smoke from the torches ran like dust along the blood-red, seemingly burning puddles.

Rags soaked in oil crackled like dry gunshots in the iron cages on the long, wooden handles of the mashals.

The door was shut tight and guarded by sarbazes.

And behind the door, the conversation was about the female Quran.

Nothing changed behind the door.

But something did change; something had been violated on the other side of the gate.

Dr. McNeill was pale; his droshky was seen traveling between Alaiar Khan’s palace and the shah’s.

The British state was changing in those days: its Eastern policy was in hands that were white, unmanly, studded with rings, in hands that were disgraced human hands. And not only in those hands: it was now in the long, slim, and tenacious fingers of the Russian poet who was enforcing the treaty.

The seven chests that belonged to Khoja-Mirza-Yakub, sealed by Manouchehr Khan, had been looted. The eunuch’s harem receipts were gone. The letters from various people, including Dr. McNeill, were also gone. There was, therefore, nothing of that female Quran that had so inspired Dr. Adelung, who had wished to see it published under Senkovsky’s editorship.

“We should send the sarbazes to bring Khoja back from the legation.”

This was the opinion of Shah-zade Zil-li Sultan.

“But that would be a flagrant violation of the treaty, and our eight kurors will have been paid in vain.”

It was on account of the kurors paid by the traitor Abbas that Zil-li Sultan had had such a sleepless night.

Alaiar Khan made a suggestion:

“Give Khoja back all his possessions and honor him like a king. Lure him with promises and kill him as soon as he leaves the embassy.”

Dr. McNeill had approved of the plan earlier that morning.

“He won’t believe us.”

Zil-li Sultan had his own opinion.

“Hand over Samson-Khan to the kafir, and he will then agree to extradite Khoja.”

Samson was a thorn in his side. If Abbas’s friend had no intention of guarding his father’s palace, Zil-li Sultan would have little to lose.

“I’ve already sent him a dastkhat about Samson’s extradition. The dastkhat is with him. But he is unwilling to hand over Khoja.”

Alaiar Khan came back with another proposition.

“Summon Griboedov to our country estate and kill the eunuch while Griboedov is out of the way.”

“Again, an obvious violation of the treaty.”

Which was exactly what Alaiar Khan wanted—to have the Qajar dynasty at war once again.

Abdal-Vehab, a dervish with the face of Nikita Pustosvyat and a shock of matted hair, made his own quiet contribution.

“Summon him to the ecclesiastical court.”

Dr. McNeill was not present at this meeting. Couriers were sent to Tabriz night and day.

The case was handed over to the ecclesiastical court.

Yakub Markarian was the shah’s property. That property was protected by a force mightier than the state or the shah, with his sarbazes: sharia law.

A little old man with a dyed beard was seated in Tehran in order to protect sharia law. His name was Mirza-Massi.

He was familiar with all the dictates of sharia law, the law that applied even to the shah himself.

His right-hand man was Mullah-Msekh, a man who served at the Imam-Zume Mosque, a man with a pale, pudgy face, a man of holy life.

When Iran grew poorer because of the war and the taxes levied by the kafir, Mirza-Massi kept silent: that was the scourge of God on the heads of the Qajars, who outwardly submitted to sharia law but on the sly did exactly as they chose. It was not he who had fought the kafirs.

When Alaiar Khan’s wives had moved in under the Russian’s roof, Mirza-Massi said: the filthy bitches were looking for filthy dogs. Both women were kafirs. Mirza-Massi disapproved of the custom of marrying kafir women. It was not he who had signed the peace treaty with the kafirs.

Now the eunuch, who had professed the Islamic faith for fifteen years, had fled to the kafirs to smear Islam with unbelievers who were as beardless and whiskerless as himself.

Mirza-Massi and Mullah-Msekh came to see the shah.

They had not fought the war; they had not entered into the peace agreements.

They were poring over sharia law. The case had been handed over to the holy court.

The same evening, the shah heard a word that he had not heard for a long time: jihad.

He made no objections. All he wanted was to extricate himself from this business that had been going on and on, to free himself from paying the kurors. His treasury, khazneh, was full, but the kafir was about to get his grubby little fingers into it; all he wanted was to forget about the kafir, to leave for Negarestan, to have some rest, and to find solace in the arms of Taji-Doulet. He was old.

“And yet, jihad? Really?”

The same night, secretly and without a word, he fled to Negarestan with his wife and his daughter, Taji-Doulet.

The same night, Dr. McNeill left town with the young Burgess and all his people to have some rest too, to relax for a bit, to get some fresh air. Just for a day.

On the bespectacled unbeliever. A holy war by the whole city against the kafir in glasses.

“Shut down the bazaar tomorrow and gather in the mosques! There, you will hear our word!”

Samson finished his dinner, wiped his mustache with his sleeve, smoothed his beard, and sent for Borshchov.

Borshchov, skeletal, with shifty eyes, came running. They locked themselves in the room.

“Here’s what I say,” said Samson quietly, “start getting the men ready tomorrow. We are leaving the day after. And as quiet as can be. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Borshchov, and gave him a nod.

“We’ll march to Mazandaran. There are thick woods over there. Pack all the tents that we’ve got. Supplies are already there.”

Borshchov asked eagerly, knowingly:

“Has the dastkhat arrived?”

Samson scoffed:

“Dastkhat my ass! I won’t let them get us.” And he swore. “We’ll overpower the sarbazes. If bayonets are not enough, we’ll fight them with rifle butts. There is no dastkhat; the matter is undecided as of yet but will be decided this evening.”

The dastkhat about the handover of Samson and his battalion was already with Griboedov, and Samson was well aware of it.

“Look here, Semyon,” he said. “Don’t tell the boys until the evening, right?”

“As silent as the grave. I’ll go along with whatever you do, Samson Yakovlich. We fought together and we”ll die together, as agreed.”

“That’s right.”

Samson thought for a bit.

“Semyon, don’t take offense, but I know that you have a grudge against me.”

Borshchov shrugged his shoulders:

“It’s all water under the bridge. Let bygones be bygones.”

“I sent that motherfucker away. He’s on his own now.”

Samson was talking about Skryplev, a rival of Borshchov.

Borshchov got up.

“This is military business. Not the place for grudges.”

In the evening, Samson sent for Borshchov once again.

“You haven’t told anyone, have you, Semyon?”

“As you said, Samson Yakovlich. But it looks like they already know.”

“Well then, make no preparations. We are not going anywhere yet.”

“Why is that?”

“There will be no dastkhat. That’s it. But there might be some uproar.”

Borshchov looked at him closely.

“Tell the lads not to get involved.”

Borshchov’s response was evasive:

“Whatever you say. All the same.”

“I am telling you: no fooling around,” said Samson, and suddenly grew red in the face. “Don’t let anyone out of the barracks. Are you hearing me, Semyon? We’ll all be held to account. Lock up the barracks.”

He paced the room, treading heavily on the carpet in his high boots.

And long after Borshchov had left the room, Samson kept stomping on the rugs with his bandy cavalryman’s legs in their oiled boots, like a barge in shallow waters.

Then he stopped, filled his pipe, calmly lit up, and resumed his pacing.

Once he threw a hesitant glance at the door and was about to leave the room.

But he waved his hand, sat down, and fixed his eye on the wall, on the rug with the weapons displayed on it. He looked at the curved blade of the scimitar, which Khosraw Khan had presented him with last year, and then back at his bowlegs.

“So what?” he asked himself quietly. “Do I care? Not a damn.”

And his bottom lip drooped as though he had been insulted.

That day, Mirza-Massi spoke to the people.

That day, Mullah-Msekh spoke to the people in the Imam-Zume Mosque.

That day, the argument was between the city and the man, the peace treaty and sharia law, Persia and Europe, Britain and Russia.

That day, the gifts for the shah were delivered to the Russian embassy at long last. The boxes were unloaded in the courtyard.

In the evening, a man darted, like a shadow, to the Russian legation. The streets adjacent to the Russian embassy were quiet.

The man was taken to Vazir-Mukhtar.

He was pale; his eyes darted around.

“Your Excellency,” he said with trembling lips, “I am here on behalf of Manouchehr-Khan. Mullah-Msekh and Mirza-Massi have been talking to the people today. They have declared jihad.”

Griboedov closed his eyes. He was perfectly calm; only his eyes were shut.

The man was babbling:

“Your Excellency! Your Excellency, before it’s too late, extradite Mirza-Yakub.”

Griboedov was silent.

“Or let him come to the Shah-Abdol-Azim Shrine in secret: it’s just a step away, Your Excellency, just across the ditch. No one will touch him in the mosque, Your Excellency.”

Tears welled in the man’s eyes. He was shaking.

“I cannot banish a person, especially a Russian subject who has come under the Russian banner and to whom protection has been extended, from the legation,” Griboedov cited the statute slowly and in a voice not his own. “But if Yakub would care to leave of his own free will, I will not hinder him. Good night, Mr. Melikyants.”

The man stumbled unsteadily, hesitantly, down the stairs. Ten minutes later, Griboedov sent Sashka to the eunuch with a note.

Sashka came back and reported:

“Mister chief eunuch asks me to convey that if Your Excellency wishes, he will always be glad to fulfill your wishes, but he will not go of his own accord.”

“Thanks, Sasha,” said Griboedov, “thank you. You’ve conveyed it correctly.”

“And Mr. Melikyants was not quite himself, was he?” added Sashka, pleased with himself.

“And now, my dear fellow, summon Ivan Sergeyevich Maltsov, will you?”

When the man arrived, he addressed him formally.

“Could you, Ivan Sergeyevich, kindly write a note, outlining my actions with references to the articles of the law? Starting from the moment of my arrival in Iran. Word it strongly, but keep all the titles. Finish it with something like this: ‘the undersigned is convinced that Russian subjects are no longer safe here and is asking for His Majesty’s permission to leave for Russia, or, even better, to withdraw within the borders of the Russian empire. ‘Most graciously,’ of course.’”

Maltsov became alarmed.

“Is there any news?”

“No,” said Griboedov.

“Shall I draw it up today?”

“Better today. I am sorry to bother you.”

When Maltsov left, Griboedov took a sheet of paper and scribbled:

Aol, otirsanatvfe’ easfrmr

According to the double cypher, the phrase meant:

Nos affaires vont très mal.1

Who was Alexander Sergeyevich writing it for?

Without finishing it, he placed the sheet of paper down on the desk along with the others.

He pulled out the desk drawer and counted the money. Not much was left; the expenses had been huge. How stingy he’d become!

11

So by nightfall, no one in the Russian legation, besides the eunuch Mirza-Yakub and Alexander Sergeyevich, knew what the distraught man had said.

Sashka forgot about him. Before sleep, he read his favorite “poem” The Little Orphan, composed by Mr. Bulgarin. Then he went to bed. Griboedov was in his bedroom; his window remained lit until late in the night.

“Still awake,” said one of the Cossacks, glancing at the little window from the courtyard.

The other one yawned:

“Business matters.”

Then his conscience stood up before him, and he began talking to it as if it were a human being.

“These are bygones. Never mind your papers—don’t fuss over them.”

“Sit down and have a think.”

“You kicked a dog in the street today, remember?”

Griboedov winced: “Not nice, but it’s probably used to that.”

“Well, then, your life has gone awry; it’s in tatters.”

“You have lived in vain, to no purpose whatsoever …”

“In cloud cuckoo land, Nephelokokkygia?2”

“Who said—‘cloud cuckoo land’?” Griboedov became interested. “Ah well, the doctor said that.”

“What have you abandoned your childhood dreams for? What has come of your learning, of your work?”

“Nothing,” said Griboedov quietly. “It has been a tiring day. Let me be.”

“Where did you go wrong?”

“You married a child and abandoned her. She is pregnant and suffering and waiting for you.”

“You shouldn’t have crossed swords with Nesselrode or wrangled with Abbas Mirza: it was no concern of yours. What did Samson do to you? Even in an official capacity, one needs to be better-natured, my dear chap.”

“I haven’t had much success in literature,” said Griboedov reluctantly. “And whatever you think, the East …”

“Perhaps what you needed were Russian clothes and a patch of earth to call your own. You don’t like people, so you bring harm to them. Think about it.”

“You forgot your childhood. Your taunting of Maltsov! You have been deluding yourself. What if you are neither an author nor a politician?”

Griboedov chuckled: “What am I, then?”

“Perhaps you will flee, you will hide? It does not matter that they say: failure. You can extradite the eunuch; you can start a new life; you can secure another appointment.”

“Let this cup pass from me.”

“You bragged that you would revolutionize literature, return it to its folk roots. You wanted song; you wanted a new Russian theater.”

“It wasn’t empty bragging,” said Griboedov, coldly. “It just didn’t happen.”

“The dangers are exaggerated. I will put on my peacock uniform, come out, and they will calm down.”

“Does it really mean that there would be no Russia, no literature? You are envious. You are in awe of your mama, my dear. Hence your evasive behavior.”

“Remember Katya. You used to love her.”

A shy smile, and Griboedov said softly: “Sweetheart.”

“You will have a son, Nino will cradle him: luli-luli … For your son’s sake …”

“You can extradite the eunuch; you can find refuge in a mosque.”

First thing tomorrow—to present the gifts to the shah.

“You will grow a beard like Samson … No need to overcomplicate things. There will be Tsinandali.”

“Maybe it is not yet too late?”

The thought was waved aside by Griboedov, like tiresome gossip:

“Late or not, I know all of this myself.”

“But you have to flee, you have to! It is a dreadful thing—to die—never to see or hear anything ever again.”

“I don’t want to think about it. I followed the terms of the treaty to the letter.” And he rose.

Against his will, he took a sheaf of papers from the desk—the dastkhat on Samson, perhaps, or Rustem-Bek’s bills, or the encrypted notes. He tossed them into the fireplace and lit a match. The papers smoldered, refusing to catch fire: the draft was poor.

Maltsov came in with a sheet of paper in his hands.

“Permit me to read something to you … Are you making a fire yourself?”

He looked puzzled.

“Are you not well? Where is Alexander?”

Griboedov did not turn round:

“Alexander is asleep. Alexander is asleep, Alexander is asleep,” he intoned gently.

Maltsov shivered, for no real reason.

“You are unwell. Maybe I should call the doctor? Why are you burning the papers?”

“I am not,” he answered seriously. “They won’t burn; it’s too thick a wad and too damp. They will take some time to burn down. Ivan Sergeyevich, I beg you not to hinder me.”

The papers were now burning brightly. It was snug.

Griboedov warmed his hands in front of the fireplace.

“Cozy,” he said, suddenly animated, “all is well and will be so.”

He went to bed, snuggled up in his blanket, and glanced at the fire again. Then he turned to the wall and fell asleep at once: a wholesome, deep, and sweet sleep.