Samarkand Read Free Page A

and opened a damask box. He took out a book which he offered to Omar with a formality softened
     by a paternal smile.
    Now that book was the very one which I, Benjamin O. Lesage, would one day hold in my own hands. I suppose it felt just the
     same with its rough, thick leather with markings which looked like a peacock-tail and the edges of its pages irregular and
     frayed. When Khayyam opened it on that unforgettable summer night, he could see only two hundred and fifty-six blank pages
     which were not yet covered with poems, pictures, margin commentaries or illuminations.
    To disguise his emotions, Abu Taher spoke with the tones of a salesman.
    ‘It’s made of Chinese
kaghez
, the best paper ever produced by the workshops of Samarkand. A Jew from the Maturid district made it to order according to
     an ancient recipe. It is made entirely from mulberry. Feel it. It has the same qualities as silk.’
    He cleared his throat before going on.
    ‘I had a brother, ten years older than I. He died when he was as old as you. He had been banished to Balkh for having written
     a poem which displeased the ruler of the time. He was accused of formenting heresy. I don’t know if that was true, but I resent
     my brother for having wasted his life on a poem, a miserable poem hardly longer than a
rubai.’
    His voice shook, and he went on breathlessly.
    ‘Keep this book. Whenever a verse takes shape in your mind, or is on the tip of your tongue, just hold it back. Write it down
     on these sheets which will stay hidden, and as you write, think of Abu Taher.’
    Did the
qadi
know that with that gesture and those words he was giving birth to one of the best-kept secrets in the history of literature,
     and that the world would have to wait eight centuries to discover the sublime poetry of Omar Khayyam, for the
Rubaiyaat
to be revered as one of the most original works of all time even before the strange fate of the Samarkand manuscript was
     known?

CHAPTER 3
    That night, Omar tried in vain to catch some sleep in a belvedere, a wooden pavilion on a bare hillock in the middle of Abu
     Taher’s huge garden. Near him on a low table lay a quill and ink-pot, an unlit lamp and his book – open at the first page
     which was still blank.
    At first light there was an apparition. A beautiful slave-girl brought him a plate of sliced melon, a new outfit and a winding-scarf
     of Zandan silk for his turban. She whispered a message to him.
    ‘The master will await you after the morning prayer.’
    The room was already packed with plaintiffs, beggars, courtiers, friends and visitors of all sorts, and amongst them was Scar-Face
     who had doubtless come for news. As soon as Omar stepped through the door the
qadi’s
voice steered everyone’s gaze and comment to him.
    ‘Welcome to Imam Omar Khayyam, the man without equal in knowledge of the traditions of the Prophet, a reference that none
     can contest, a voice that none can contradict.’
    One after another, the visitors arose, bowed and muttered a phrase before sitting down again. Out of the corner of his eye,
     Omar watched Scar-Face who seemed very subdued in his corner, but still had a timid smirk on his face.
    In the most formal manner, Abu Taher bid Omar take his place at his right, making a great show of dismissing those near him.
     He then continued, ‘Our eminent visitor had a mishap yesterday evening. This man who is honoured in Khorassan, Fars and Mazandaran,
     this man whom every city wishes to receive within its walls and whom every prince hopes to attract to his court, this man
     was molested yesterday in the streets of Samarkand.’
    Expressions of shock could be heard, followed by a commotion which the
qadi
allowed to grow a little before signalling for quiet and continuing.
    ‘Worse still, there was almost a riot in the bazaar. A riot on the eve of the visit of our revered sovereign, Nasr Khan, the
     Sun of Royalty, who is to arrive this very morning from Bukhara, God willing! I dare not