Chapter XXXII

It was a great relief to Jaffer to lie back comfortably in the train, and reflect that he had in his belt two rubies worth at least a hundred dollars apiece. He felt it a crime to have accepted such riches just because a father loved his child. The world seemed to centre about children. Drop off a train anywhere in the world, stop at a house and ask after the baby, and nobody would be surprised. But of whom should he ask in Bokhara about that bad child, Saadi Sereef?

Towards evening the train swept into a great oasis and past walled gardens, and drew up before a low arabesque station of grey stone. It was Kagan. On the platform was a motley crowd, a coat of many colours, gathered like American farmers to see the train come in.

He slept at the Hotel d’Europe, and early Sunday morning rode for half an hour behind a short-winded engine up to the crenellated walls of Bokhara the Noble. He loaded his tea upon a donkey, paid his octroi at the gate, and followed into the crooked streets, while the donkey-boy ran ahead to make room for him with cries of “Pocht! pocht!” The travel-stained Jaffer, however, did not look like a personage, or likely to gain access to personages.

The boy conducted him through the ugly city to the tea-bazaar. He had no trouble in finding Ibrahim Ismail, who sat beside a smoking samovar. Nor did his fatness, Ibrahim, express surprise that five pood had arrived ahead of Ali. He gave the new agent tea and sweetmeats, and made many inquiries about affairs in Peshawar. Jaffer studied him, and decided that he was not the man to inquire of concerning Saadi Sereef. Jaffer casually mentioned the price of the tea, whereat Ibrahim frowned with adipose wrinkles, and changed the conversation.

“This is Jaffer’s first visit to Bokhara?”

“Strictly my first. What is that gigantic tower over there?”

“That is Minar Kalan. Formerly criminals were thrown from the top. The Russians object to the wholesome practice, and it has been abandoned.”

“Your bazaars are vast.”

“Thirty-two acres, Jaffer, even as the parts of the body.”

“I await, O Ibrahim the Just, the words of that part of the body which is called the tongue. I await your decision to pay the price of Umar Khel.”

“Grow not grey in Bokhara, young man.”

“You refuse?”

“The price is eight pouhls in the pound too high.”

“You embarrass me, Ibrahim Ismail. Who am I that I should be a judge of tea?”

“It is modestly answered. But you can see for yourself. Here is a leaf of Lonka—fine and soft as silk, a single leaf enough for a cup. And here is a leaf of your Kangra—coarse, common.”

“You do not look at them, O Comfortable One.”

“No, for my sight grows dim, and Allah has granted me finger-tips. I can select any one of my seventeen teas by the touch of a finger. Umar Khel is an honest man, but his fingers have held the rein and the sword too long to know the feel of tea. Nor has he seventeen varieties in his shop—though it is a good shop and he is a good man.”

“If so, shall not his price prevail?”

“Assuredly. But Jaffer has forgotten his instructions.”

Jaffer bowed his head in simulated humility. He saw a way opening to the best informed man in Bokhara—the prime minister himself.

“It may be so, thou hafiz of all tea-knowledge. It may be so, for there is one forgetfulness of the old, and another forgetfulness of the young. But the Kushbeg of Bokhara has power to refresh all memories, like hot water poured on the precious Lonka.”

Ibrahim smiled heavily. “Vazee is concerned this day with weighty matters of state. He would spurn us from the gate of the Ark.”

“Nevertheless to him I appeal. But first I will change these rags.”

Ibrahim smiled again. “Do so by all means.”

“You think he will then be assured that I do not need the money. But let us quarrel gently, thou Comfortable One. Leave the samovar to this youth of yours, and lead me to the man who will give you the largest rake-off on my new suit. Nay, lift no finger. If I had to live within these walls of mud, I should demand pay from everybody.”

Ibrahim set his bulk in motion, and took his guest through the gorgeous crowds to a booth where a Jew was selling a wild Tatar a light summer suit, or yektey. The Tatar was laughing for joy as he stood in his new raiment, and cared not how little he was allowed for the horseskin which he had laid aside here in his Paris. He paid his bill and strode gaily off.

“Come within,” whispered Ibrahim to the Jew, “and look at my prince. He wants no stuff from Manchester.”

Jaffer rejected piece after piece and suit after suit. He had no desire to empurple the streets of Tashkent, but he wanted quality, and he got it.

“Shall it now be a choice cap of karakul, such as Habibullah wears, or a long, long turban?”

“Turban. White. And not too long.”

“Every ell will ennoble the noble Agha’s countenance. Let us say twenty.”

“Seven,” said Jaffer.

“Nay, Agha, so tall a man could not be enshrouded in seven. Look how large a tallis even I must wear when I am gathered to my fathers.”

“Seven,” repeated Jaffer, and seven he got. Then he bought a valise for the old suit, which he might again need.

They returned to the tea-bazaar. Jaffer caught up the samovar and marched off. “Bring some of the decoction, and move thy comfortable legs lest I be lost.”

They approached the gate of the citadel, were kept waiting by the guards for half an hour, and were then permitted to enter and kneel before the square platform where the Prime Minister sat. Daily for two hours in the morning he was to be found administering justice in the Gate.

Jaffer advanced with a delicately curved glass of tea on a saucer. “I would not insult Your Highness, O Nasrulla Beg, but in Peshawar it is said that no appeal for justice is too faint to be heard by Your compassionate ear. So please You, taste this glass of Kangra and say if any so good has ever assailed the fortress of Your mouth.”

Nasrulla Beg looked upon the audacious traveller, and saw that this was no ordinary povendah. He tasted the tea and slowly drank it all, concealing his satisfaction.

“I do not like Indian teas,” he said. “I cannot understand why the fancy for them has sprung up among us.”

“May it please Your Highness, I like no tea at all. Coffee is my drink.”

“What you like or do not like is of no importance. You have a saucy tongue.”

“I am Hakim, Your Highness. I learned in America to be saucy. Your Highness must forgive. I seek knowledge—even to the edge of China, as saith the Book—and if Your Highness declares that Chinese tea is better, then I have heard this day that which I shall remember.”

The Kushbeg turned and asked Ibrahim concerning the dispute, and promptly decided against Jaffer. But the remark about America had not gone unnoticed.

“What is the name of the new president—not the Hunter, but the new one?”

“Wilson.”

“It sounds very foreign. You have not entered his employ?”

“No, Your Highness.”

“Perhaps you would consider settling in Bokhara. Ibrahim tells me that you are of good family, and prosperous. I have no doubt that Badewlet[3] would permit it. Who knows but that I His humblest servant might find patients for Hakim Jaffer?”

“I thank His Majesty and Your Highness. But I return to America.”

“You shall go in peace, but remember the invitation. Are there other medical students from Afghanistan or Turkestan?”

“One from Kabul, Your Highness, the only Afghan in America except the Amir’s brilliant nephew, Achmed Abdullah. And of course Saadi ibn Astanakoul.”

“Saadi who?”

“Why, the son of your eminent predecessor in office, Your Highness.”

“You are speaking riddles. Astanakoul has no son named Saadi.”

Jaffer had now learned what he came to Bokhara to learn, but he hoped for more.

“I did not know Saadi personally, Highness, and doubtless I was misinformed. But there is certainly a Saadi who boasts of having known His Majesty when His Majesty was yet Crown Prince.”

Nasrulla Beg stroked his smooth black beard and reflected. “Badewlet, when Turra-djan,[4] did indeed bestow favour upon a young beg named Saadi, in the months before Badewlet came to the throne. But whence came the visitor, whether from Teheran or Stamboul, I never knew, nor does it befit the master of the falcons to inquire into the friendships of the Eagle. And now I can give you no more time. See the crowd that has gathered. Feed the Hakim generously, Ibrahim, and give him coffee, for he is like an Arab.”

FOOTNOTES:

[3] His Majesty.

[4] Crown Prince—literally, Soul Prince. But the “Djan” is merely the term of endearment which every Persian gives to his eldest son, and which Saadi gave to Ameen at parting.