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Rubaiyaat
, the story of the three
friends, Nizam al-Mulk, Hassan Sabbah and Omar Khayyam? They were

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radically different men, each of whom represented an eternal aspect of the
Persian soul. Sometimes I have the impression that I am all three of them at the
same time. Like Nizam al-Mulk I dream of establishing a great Muslim state,
even if it were led by an unbearable Turkish sultan. Like Hassan Sabbah, I sow
subversion over all the lands of Islam, I have disciples who would follow me to
the death …’
He broke off, worried, then pulled himself together, smiled and carried on:
‘Like Khayyam, I am on the look-out for the rare joys of the present moment
and I compose verses about wine, the cupbearer, the tavern and the beloved; like
him, I mistrust false zealots. When, in certain quatrains, Omar speaks about
himself, I sometimes believe that he is depicting me: “On our gaudy Earth there
walks a man, neither rich nor poor, neither believer nor infidel, he courts no
truth, venerates no law … On our gaudy Earth, who is this brave and sad man?”’
Having said that, he relit his cigar and became pensive. A small piece of
glowing ash landed on his beard. He brushed if off with a practised gesture, and
started speaking again:
‘Since my childhood I have had an immense admiration for Khayyam the
poet, but above all the philosopher, the free-thinker. I am amazed that it took
him so long to conquer Europe and America. You can imagine how happy I was
to have in my possession the original book of the 
Rubaiyaat
written in
Khayyam’s own hand.’
‘When did you have it?’
‘It was offered to me fourteen years ago in India by a young Persian who had
made the trip with the sole aim of meeting me. He introduced himself to me with
the following words: “Mirza Reza, a native of Kirman, formerly a merchant in
the Teheran Bazaar. Your obedient servant.” I smiled and asked him what he
meant by saying “formerly a merchant”, and that is what led him to tell me his
story. He had just opened a used clothing business when one of the Shah’s sons
came to buy some merchandise, shawls and furs, to the value of eleven hundred
toumans – about one thousand dollars. However, when Mirza Reza presented
himself the next day to the Prince’s to be paid, he was insulted, beaten and even
threatened with death if he took it into his head to collect what he was owed. It
was then that he decided to come and see me. I was teaching in Calcutta. “I have
just understood,” he told me, “that in a country run in an arbitrary fashion one
cannot earn an honest living. Was it not you who wrote that Persia needs a
Constitution and a Parliament? Consider me, from this day on, your most
devoted disciple. I have shut my business and left my wife in order to follow

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you. Order and I shall obey!”’
In mentioning this man Jamaladin seemed to be suffering.
‘I was moved but embarrassed. I am a roving philosopher, I have neither
house nor homeland and have avoided marrying in order that I would have no
one in my charge. I did not want this man to follow me as if I were the Messiah
or the Redeemer, the Mahdi. To dissuade him I said: “Is it really worth leaving
everything, your business and your family, over a wretched question of money?”
His face closed up, he did not respond, but went out.’
‘He returned only six months later. From an inside pocket he took out a small
golden box, inlaid with precious stones, which he held out to me, open.’
‘Look at this manuscript. How much do you think it could be worth?’
‘I leafed through it, then discovered its contents as I trembled with emotion.’
‘The authentic text of Khayyam; those pictures, the embellishment! It is
priceless!’
‘More than eleven hundred