Samarkand pdfdrive com

CHAPTER 10
By the time they reached Samarkand, they were exhausted by the cold, the
jolting of their mounts and the disquiet which had arisen amongst them. Omar
retired to his pavilion straight away without taking the time to dine. During the
trip he had composed three quatrains which he started to recite aloud, ten times,
twenty times, replacing a word and modifying a turn of phrase before consigning
them to the secrecy of his manuscript.
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

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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

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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.

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‘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
.

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