Samarkand pdfdrive com

CHAPTER 28
It was a sumptuous prison with wide-open doors: a palace of wood and marble
on the hill of Yildiz, near the residence of the grand vizir; hot meals were
delivered straight from the Sultan’s kitchens; visitors came one after another,
crossing through a metal gate and walking down an alley before leaving their
shoes outside the door. The Master’s voice boomed from above with its grating
syllables and closed vowels, he could be heard castigating Persia and the Shah
and announcing the evils which would come to pass.
I tried to make myself unobtrusive, being the foreigner – an American with a
small foreign hat, small foreign footsteps and my foreign concerns who made the
trip from Paris to Constantinople, a trip of seventy hours by train across three
empires, in order to ask after a manuscript, an old poetry book, a pathetic bundle
of papers in a tumultuous Orient.
A servant came up to me. He made an Ottoman bow, spoke a few words of
greeting in French but asked not the slight question. Everyone came here for the
same reason, to meet the Master, to hear the Master or to spy on the Master. I
was invited to wait in the huge sitting room.
As I entered, I notice the silhouette of a woman. This induced me to lower
my eyes; I had been told too much about the country’s customs to walk forward
beaming and cheery with my hand outstretched. I simply mumbled a few words
and touched my hat. I had already repaired to the other side of the room from
where she was sitting to settle myself into an English-style armchair. I looked
along the carpet and my glance came up against the visitors shoes, then travelled
up her blue and gold dress to her knees, her bust, her neck and her veil.
Strangely however, it was not the barrier of a veil that I came across but that of

---

an unveiled face, of eyes which met mine, and a smile. I looked quickly down at
the ground, over the carpet again, swept over the edge of the tiling and then went
over inexorably towards her again, like a cork coming up to the surface of the
water. Over her hair she wore a fine silk kerchief which could be pulled down
over her face should a stranger appear. However, the stranger was there and her
veil was still drawn back.
This time she was looking into the distance, offering me her profile to
contemplate and her skin of such pure complexion. If sweetness had a colour, it
would be hers. My temples were throbbing with happiness. My cheeks were
damp and my hands cold. God, she was beautiful – my first image of the Orient
– a woman such as only the desert poet knew how to praise: her face was the
sun, they would have said, her hair the protecting shadow, her eyes fountains of
cool water, her body the most slender of palm-trees and her smile a mirage.
Could I speak to her? In what way? Could I cup my hands to my mouth so
that she would hear me on the other side of the room? Should I stand up and
walk over to her? Sit down in an armchair which was closer to her and risk
seeing her smile evaporate and her veil drop like a blade? Our eyes met again,
and then parted as if in jest when the servant came and interrupted us – which he
did a first time to offer me tea and cigarettes. A moment later he bowed to the
ground to speak to her in Turkish. I watched her stand up, veil herself and give
him a small leather bag to carry. He went quickly towards the exit and she
followed him.
However, as she reached the door of the sitting room she slowed down
leaving the man to distance himself from her. Then she turned towards me and
stated, in a loud voice and in a French purer than mine:
‘You never know, our paths might meet!’
Whether it was said in politeness or as a promise, her words were
accompanied by a mischievous smile which I saw as much as defiance as sweet
reproach. Then, as I was getting up out of my seat with the utmost awkwardness,
and while I was stumbling about trying to regain both my balance and my
composure, she remained immobile, her look enveloping me with amused
benevolence. I could not manage to utter a single word. She disappeared.
I was still standing by the window, trying to make out amongst the trees the
coach carrying her off when a voice brought me back to reality.
‘Forgive me for having kept you waiting.’
It was Jamaladin. His left hand held an extinguished cigar; he held out his
right hand and shook mine with warmth and friendship.

---

‘My name is Benjamin Lesage. I have come on the recommendation of Henri
Rochefort.’
I handed him my letter of introduction, but he slipped it into his pocket
without looking at it. He opened his arms, gave me a hug and a kiss on the
forehead.
‘Rochefort’s friends are my friends. I speak to them with an open heart.’
Putting his arm around my shoulder, he escorted me towards a wooden
staircase which led upstairs.
‘I hope that my friend Henri is keeping well. I heard that his return from exile
was a real triumph. With all those Parisians lining the streets and shouting his
name, he must have felt great happiness! I read the account in