The cruel way by Maillart Ella 1903-

Author:Maillart, Ella, 1903-
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Maillart, Ella, 1903-, Maillart, Ella, 1903-
ISBN: 0860687511
Publisher: Boston : Beacon Press
Published: 1987-09-19T16:00:00+00:00

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ABBAS ABAD

Imam Reza is the patron saint of travellers and I like to think it was he who helped us the day we left Meshed for the Afghan border.

The country we crossed was vast and dull but for two clay lions that welcomed us at the entrance of the village of Fariman, an estate belonging to the Shah. These gilded statues waited patiently for a master who had been expected for the last three years.

At noon we rolled into depressing Turbat-i-Shaikh-Jam. Many ruined mud houses were slowly and surely returning to the earth they had been moulded from; carpet-slippered men shuffled along, a shapeless cap over one ear, a dead cigarette stuck to the lip; others sipped their glass of tea in a dusty chai-khana; a few sat on rickety chairs in the barber’s shop; some stood aimlessly by a new petrol-pump; a dishevelled urchin dragged a pleading lamb. It looked as if Turbat would never recover from an age-old slump.

It fitted that dreary day that we should be hailed by a policeman just after we had retired to a half-demolished room in our chai-khana to escape from the dazzling glare of the street as well as from the pursuit of indiscreet bugs. Before lunching on bread and melon, we had been to the tall shrine of Sheikh Jam, an island of shade and cleanliness at the foot of a great arched portal. Beyond the flagged court and marble tombs I photographed a woman wailing on a fresh grave. Now the policeman, looking at my permit, wants to know if we snapped other scenes.

He takes with him my out-of-date document and tells us that we are confined to the inn. Then returns and snappily asks for a better permit. I play the fool and threaten to complain about him to his superior. Not at all shaken by my attitude, he goes away to prepare his chief for our coming: a colleague is left in charge of us.

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We work out an escape. Christina walks to the car and when the guard tries to stop her, drives away, saying she needs petrol. I simulate a colic, vanish clumsily behind one wall and then another, hiding on me our mugs and satchels. Leisurely hurrying, I join Christina and thus, trembling with excitement, we run away.

Such was out short visit to the village that gave its name to Jami the poet, scholar and mystic translated by FitzGerald and of whom Emperor Babur wrote that he was “too exalted for there to be any need for praising him’\ Jami died at the end of the fifteenth century at Herat where the great men of the time used to gather.

That evening we were to be passed by the Persian customs at Karez. Of course we should empty our cameras beforehand; if they were found we should say that they had not been used, but devoid of seals, the cine-camera was bound to be confiscated. If Turbat rang up Karez about us, we were done for.

The country looked even duller than before.

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