Samarkand pdfdrive com

CHAPTER 11
Kashan – an oasis of low houses on the silk route, at the end of the Salt Desert.
Caravans nestled there, catching their breath before passing by Kargas Kuh, the
sinister Vulture Mountain which was the retreat of the bandits who were scourge
of the districts around Isfahan.
Kashan was built of mud and clay. A visitor could search in vain for a gaily
decorated wall or an ornamented façade. However, it is in Kashan that the most
famous varnished tiles were made to embellish the green and gold of the
thousand mosques, palaces or 
madrasas
from Samarkand to Baghdad.
Throughout the whole of the Muslim East, faience was simply called 
kashi
or
kashani
, rather as porcelain, in both Persian and English, is named after China.
Outside the city, in the shade of the palm trees, there was a caravansary
enclosed by rectangular walls with watch towers, an exterior courtyard for
animals and goods and an inside courtyard with small rooms all the way around.
Omar wanted to rent a room but the hostel-keeper apologized that he had none
left for the night. Some wealthy merchants from Isfahan had just arrived with
their sons and servants. He did not need to check the register to verify his claim,
the place was swarming with noisy retainers and venerable mounts. In spite of
the incipient winter, Omar would have considered sleeping under the stars, but
the scorpions of Kashan are hardly less renowned than its faïence.
‘Is there really not even a nook for me to spread out my mat until dawn?’
The landlord scratched his forehead. It was dark and he could not refuse
shelter to a Muslim.
‘I have a small corner room, occupied by a student. Ask him if he will let you
share.’

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They went to the room and found the door closed. The hostel-keeper pushed
it open without knocking. A candle flickered and a book was slammed shut.
‘This noble traveller left Samarkand three months ago and I wondered if he
might share your room.’
If the young man was against this idea he avoided showing it. He remained
polite, although without appearing eager.
Khayyam entered, greeted him and carefully stated his identity as ‘Omar of
Nishapur’.
There was a short, but intense glimmer of interest in the eyes of his
companion. He in turn introduced himself:
‘Hassan, son of Ali Sabbah, native of Qom, student at Rayy, 
en route
to
Isfahan.’
This detailed listing made Khayyam uneasy. It was an invitation for him to
say more about himself, his occupation and the purpose of his voyage. He could
not see any point in doing so and was suspicious of such behaviour. He thus kept
quiet, took the time to sit down against a wall and to take a good look at this
dark-skinned young man with such angular features who was so frail and
emaciated. Khayyam was disconcerted by his seven-day growth of beard, his
tightly-wound black turban and his bulging eyes.
The student unnerved him with a smile.
‘It is not very clever for people called Omar to be out and about in Kashan.’
Omar feigned complete surprise. However, he had understood the allusion.
His first name was that of the Prophet’s second successor, the Caliph Omar who
was hated by the Shiites as he had been a fierce rival of their founding father,
Ali. Even though, for the time being, the overwhelming majority of Persia’s
population was Sunni, there were already some pockets of Shiism, namely the
oasis cities of Qom and Kashan where strange traditions were carried on. Every
year an absurd carnival celebrated the anniversary of the Caliph Omar’s murder.
To this end women put on make-up, prepared sweets and grilled pistachio nuts
while the children positioned themselves on the terraces and emptied buckets of
water on the passers-by as they shouted triumphantly: ‘God curse Omar!’ An
effigy of the Caliph was made, holding a string of turds and this was then
paraded through certain districts by people chanting: ‘Your name is Omar and
your abode is Hell. You are the biggest villain ever! You are the infamous
usurper!’ The cobblers of Qom and Kashan had the custom of writing ‘Omar’ on
the soles of the shoes they made, muleteers gave his name to their beasts and
liked to utter it as they beat their mules, and hunters, as they flexed their last

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arrow, would murmur, This one is for the heart of Omar!’
Hassan had made reference to those practices in a few vague words avoiding
the coarser details, but Omar looked at him unkindly as he stated with finality:
‘I will not change my route because of my name, and I will not change my
name because of my route.’
A long, cold silence ensued during which they avoided each other’s sight.
Omar took off his shoes and stretched out to try and sleep. It was Hassan who
badgered him:
‘Perhaps I have offended you by recounting these customs, but I only wanted
you to be careful about mentioning your name in this place. Do not be mistaken
about my intentions. Naturally, I happened to participate in those festivities
during my childhood in Qom, but since my adolescence I have seen them in a
different light and have come to understand that such excesses are not worthy of
a man of learning. Neither do they conform to the teaching of the Prophet. All
the same, when you gaze in awe, in Samarkand or elsewhere, at a mosque
wonderfully clad in tiles glazed by the Shiite artisans of Kashan, and when the
preacher of that same mosque launches into tirades of invective and curses
against “the accursed heretical sectarians of Ali”, that too is hardly in conformity
with the teaching of the Prophet.’
Omar raised himself up a little.
‘Now those are the words of a sensible man.’
‘I know how to be sensible, just as I know how to be a fool. I can be likeable
or disagreeable. But, how can a man be friendly with someone who comes to
share his room but who will not even deign to introduce himself?’
‘Telling you my first name was enough for you to unleash a verbal attack on
me. What would you have said if I had stated my whole identity?’
‘Perhaps I would have said none of what I did. One can hate the Caliph Omar
and feel nothing but admiration for Omar the Geometrician, Omar the
Algebraist, Omar the Astronomer or even Omar the Philosopher.’
Omar sat upright. Hassan went on triumphantly:
‘Do you think that people can only be identified by their name? They can be
recognized by the way they look, by their gait and bearing or the tone which they
affect. The moment you entered I knew that you were a man of knowledge,
accustomed to honours and yet scornful of them, a man who arrives without
having to ask the way. The moment you gave out the first part of your name, I
understood: my ears can recognize only one Omar of Nishapur.’
‘If you have been trying to impress me, I have to admit that you have

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succeeded. Who, then, are you?’
‘I have told you my name, but it means nothing to you. I am Hassan Sabbah
of Qom. I can boast of nothing save having managed, by the age of seventeen, to
read everything there is on science and religion, philosophy, history and the
stars.’
‘One can never read everything, there is so much new knowledge to acquire
every day.’
‘Put me to the test.’
As a jest, Omar started to ask him some questions on Plato, Euclid, Porphyry,
Ptolomy, on the medicine of Disocorides, Galen, Razi and Avicenna and then on
interpretations of Quranic law. His companion’s responses were always precise,
thorough and flawless. When dawn arose neither of them had slept or felt the
speedy passage of time. Hassan felt a real joy. Omar was fascinated and had to
admit:
‘I have never met a man who has learnt so many things. What do you plan to
do with all this accumulation of knowledge?’
Hassan looked at him distrustingly, as if some secret part of his soul had been
violated, but he recovered his composure and lowered his eyes.
‘I want to work my way close to Nizam al-Mulk. He may have some position
for me.’
Omar was so beguiled by his companion that he was on the point of revealing
to him that he himself was on his way to see the Grand Vizir. However, at the
last moment, he changed his mind. The last trace of distrust had not yet
disappeared.
Two days later, when they had joined a caravan of merchants, they rode side
by side, quoting from memory in Persian and Arabic large sections of the most
beautiful writings of the authors they admired. Sometimes an argument would
start up, but then quickly die down. When Hassan spoke of certainties, raised his
voice, proclaimed ‘empirical truths’ and enjoined his companion to admit them,
Omar remained sceptical. He slowly weighed the merits of certain opinions but
seldom settled for any of them, and willingly displayed his ignorance. He found
himself repeating untiringly: ‘What do you want me to say? These things are
veiled, and you and I are on the same side of the veil. When it falls, we will no
longer be here.’
After a week 
en route
, they arrived in Isfahan.

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