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CHAPTER 33
I had retained from my Persian adventure nothing but cravings. It had taken me
one month to get to Teheran and three months to get out. I had spent a few days,
which were both brief and numb, in its streets, having hardly had the time to
breathe in the smells, or to get to know or see anything. Too many images were
still calling me toward the forbidden land: my proud 
kalyan
smoker’s
sluggishness, lording it over the whisps of smoke rising from the charcoal in the
copper holders; my hand closing around Shireen’s, a promise; my lips on breasts
chastely offered by my mother of an evening and more than anything else, the
Manuscript
which awaited me lying in its guardian’s arms with its pages open.
To those who may never have contracted the obsession with the Orient, I
scarcely dare mention that on Saturday at dusk I took myself out for a walk on a
stretch of the Annapolis beach that I knew would be deserted, wearing a pair of
Turkish slippers, my Persian robe and a lambskin 
kulah
hat. There was no one
on the beach, and immersed in my daydreams on my way back I made a detour
via Compromise Road which was not at all quiet. ‘Good evening Mr Lesage,’
‘Have a nice walk. Mr Lesage.’ ‘Good evening Mrs Baymaster, Miss
Highchurch,’ the greetings rang out, ‘Good evening Reverend.’ It was the
pastor’s raised eyebrows which brought me back to myself. I stopped dead in
order to look contritely at myself from my chest to my feet, to feel my headgear
and hurry on my way. I think I even ran, draped in my 
aba
as if to cover my
nakedness. Once home I tore off my attire, rolled it up with a gesture of finality
and then tossed it angrily to the back of a broom cupboard.
I was on my guard not to do the same again, but that one walk had labelled
me an eccentric – a label which doubtless would be with me for life. In England

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eccentrics have always been viewed sympathetically or even admiringly, as long
as they had the excuse of being rich. America, in those years, was hardly ready
for such behaviour; the country was approaching the turn of the century with a
certain prudish reticence – perhaps not in New York or San Francisco, but
certainly in my town. A French mother and a Persian hat – that was far too
exotic for Annapolis.
That was the dark side, but my moment of folly also had its bright moments.
It won me, on the spot, an undeserved reputation as a great explorer of the
Orient. The director of the local newspaper, Matthias Webb, who had got wind
of my walk, suggested that I write an article about my experience in Persia.
The last time that the name of Persia had been printed on the pages of the
Annapolis Gazette and Herald
was back to 1856, I believe, when a transatlantic
liner, which was the pride of Cunard and the first ever metal-framed paddle-boat,
collided with an iceberg. Seven sailors from our county perished. The
unfortunate ship was called the 
Persia.
Sea-faring people do not play games with the signs of destiny. I also thought
it necessary to remark in the introduction to my article that the term ‘Persia’ was
incorrect, and that the Persians themselves called their country ‘Iran’ which was
an abbreviation of a very ancient expression ‘Aïrania Vaedja’, meaning ‘Land of
the Aryans’.
I then mentioned Omar Khayyam, the only Persian that most of my readers
might have heard of, quoting one of his quatrains which was imbued with a deep
scepticism. ‘Paradise and Hell. Might someone have visited these unique
regions?’ It provided a useful preamble before I expounded over the course of
some dense paragraphs on the numerous religions which, since the dawn of time,
have prospered on Persian soil, such as Zoroastrianism, Manicheism, Sunni and
Shiite Islam, Hassan Sabbah’s Ismaili variant and nearer our time, the