Chapter 2
He opens the burgundy sheath and exposes the jeweled scabbard. Of the few objects he brought with him to the Shaykhi school ten years ago, this one—this gleaming sword—is his most cherished possession. Caught in its mirrored surface for all time is the reflection of his father. Each time Jalal gazes on the perfect arc of the blade he can see his father’s kind smile, and sometimes—when he swings the graceful blade and carves the air into quarters—he can hear his father’s gentle, resonant voice singing out.
This time, though, he does not send the blade into its dizzying routine. He merely looks at it. Truth is, he has done no more than look at the sword for the past year. A weakness and tremor in his limbs has made it difficult to hold and maneuver. The last time he had tried to practice with it, the blade had spun out of his hand and lodged in a wall.
On this day he is feeling shaky and light-headed; still, the magnificent sword feels good in his hand—but so heavy. Now that he can barely lift it. Slowly he places it back into its scabbard and wraps it in the elegant pouch.
As he attempts to stand, the convulsions begin. The sword drops from his hands onto the stone floor with a muffled crash. He falls on top of it, arms flailing, legs shaking. He bites his tongue. His eyes roll, showing only the whites. Agonizing pain shoots through his body. Still conscious, he tries to form words with which to make a plea for God’s help.
At this precise time, Jahangir, a student who had arrived at the Shaykhi school six months earlier, appears in the doorway of Jalal’s room. He has been sent there by Siyyid Kazim to fetch the respected Mulla for a meeting. As the young man stares in alarm at the convulsing figure on the floor, he hears an awful moan that sounds like the words
Oh God, what would you have me do?
Mistaking the Mulla’s terrifying seizure for a kind of mystical ecstasy, Jahangir does nothing to interfere. In his suddenly awakened state, with excited visions of the imminent appearance of the Promised One whirling in his head, the student has his own revelation; so astonishing is it that he drops to his knees and covers his face in mortification at his profane intrusion, for in his confused mind he has become witness to a sacred conversation between God and his earthly manifestation, the Promised One, the Qa’im. He shivers with the thought that all this time, secluded in this simple school, the Qa’im has been present but unannounced, has embraced the young student with his holy arms, has breathed upon them all with his holy breath.
Jahangir prays for forgiveness. He should not have witnessed this remarkable communion of God and his agent. Jahangir should be punished. Killed, perhaps. The time has not yet come for the Qa’im to be made known to men.
And then the convulsions stop. Jalal turns, lies flat on his back, eyes closed. A great sigh like the exhalation of angels emits from him.
The conversation with God is done.
Jahangir leaps to his feet and flees for his life.
Chapter 3
They stroll down bustling Nassau Street,
the city’s brain
as it is called because along this busy thoroughfare are most of New York’s newspapers and a burgeoning industry of printers and publishers.
“You can smell the ink,” Ollie says.
“Smells like money to me,” Jonathon Fury replies. And then he stops, pointing to a complex of brick buildings across the street. The corner structure, which flies an immense American flag, is the largest. “Tammany Hall,” Jonathon explains. “Headquarters of the Democratic Party. Therein lies the black heart of politics. If you’ve got a vote to give, whether it’s yours or some long-dead fellow’s, Tammany Hall will exchange it for a promise.”
Jonathon’s slender finger points to three narrow buildings attached like vertical stripes to Tammany Hall. “And next to Tammany we have the offices of three of New York’s best fish wraps, the
Tattler
,
Brother Jonathon
—no relation, mind you—and the
Sun
.”
“I’ve read the
Tattler
. Wouldn’t wrap
my
fish in it,” Ollie remarks. “Which of these fine publications pays for your daguerreotypes?”
“None of ‘em. My partner in crime, so to speak, is the
Herald
. Has a taste for the macabre. Just down the street a little further. They’re all around us here, the public prints, the pamphleteers, the dime novels. Take another sniff! The smell of ink and paper covers up the stench of the rottenness and repulsive filth they prey upon and regurgitate for the masses.”
“You don’t seem to have much regard for your associates in the trade.”
“Regard? None whatsoever. May God one day see the trail of slime left by James Gordon Bennett, and smell his foul breath that mildews everything fresh and fragrant in the city. But the Herald—it pays the bills. Would you like to see some of my personal work—the pictures that don’t earn a penny? Not a hanging man or rotting corpse among them.”
“Very much.” Ollie is taken by this opinionated, fiery young man who is two or three years his junior.
“Fine. But first… a cigar. To celebrate our partnership.”
“To celebrate your
employment
, to be more precise.”
They briskly walk several blocks to Anderson’s Segars at 321 Broadway, just across from City Hall Park. It is an expansive shop guarded by a large statue of Sir Walter Raleigh, the patron saint of tobacco. Jonathon catches Ollie’s arm before he enters.
“Most of the newspaper trade frequents this shop,” Jonathon explains. “If you want to meet someone in the trade, plant your feet in Anderson’s and wait. Sooner or later everyone will make an appearance here. I’ve even seen Bennett himself ogling the beautiful cigar girl inside.”
The aromatic breath of the store nearly knocks Ollie off his feet. From one direction wafts delightful whiffs of sweet and spicy fragrances, and from another the most pungent and bitter smells. The effect is an olfactory thunder that crashes in Ollie’s nostrils and makes him sneeze. Twice.
“God bless you!”
Ollie blows his nose into a monogrammed handkerchief and looks around for the silky-voiced speaker. Across the room he sees an apparition of riveting beauty behind the counter, a gorgeous dark-haired young woman with streaks of sunlight painting her face.
“Uhh, please… I mean, thank you,” Ollie says awkwardly and then stubs his toe trying to take a step forward.
This must be the way men felt when they first saw my beautiful mother,
he thinks.
The breath knocked out of you. Words erased from the brain. All neural function jumbled.
“May I help you with something?” the silken voice asks.
At this moment Ollie is beyond help, but he lies. “Yes, please. Something, yes… I’m looking for something.”
Jonathon sees that Ollie has been seduced by the young maiden; he understands, for he has been rendered speechless himself by her attention, as have most of the men in the shop, some of whom don’t even smoke or chew. He knows that the crafty owner, John Anderson, a handsome fair-haired man of about Ollie’s age, had also fallen under the spell of Mary Rogers—some said they had been romantically involved—but the enchantment was finally broken by the tobacconist’s commercial instincts. In a stroke of genius, Anderson had hired Mary as his now-famous “cigar girl.” Almost immediately she had begun to draw the customers that previously had been so difficult to pull away from the more established shops. Mary’s allure proved to be more addictive than the nicotine Anderson purveyed. The newspapermen who now frequent Anderson’s Segars had published articles about the “beautiful cigar girl”; Jonathon had illustrated one of these gushing pieces for the
Herald
, producing an inspired woodcut that captured the wholesome coquettishness of the dark-eyed beauty. Other
segar
shops tried to duplicate Anderson’s not-so-secret ingredient, but none of the girls they hired could match the charisma and magnetism of Mary Rogers, the media darling.
“Watch out, my man—she’s a siren,” Jonathon whispers to Ollie.
Ollie nods without hearing a word of Jonathon’s advice and purposefully steps forward to the counter. He awkwardly extends his hand and says, “My name is Oliver Chadwick and I’ve only recently arrived here from New York. Pleased to meet you.”
He thinks this went well—he had not stumbled or stammered.
Mary takes his hand and shakes it courteously, professionally. “I’m very pleased to meet you as well, sir, but unless I’m mistaken, this
is
New York. How is it, then, that you recently arrived from this very city?” She smiles coyly.
Ollie’s heart is beating through his chest. What an idiot he is!
Jonathon walks up to the counter and rescues him. “Hello Mary,” he says.
“Jonathon! How good to see you! Don’t tell me you’ve gone through that entire pouch already,” she says with a sly grin.
“Actually, no. I’m showing my new employer the high spots of the city. He’s from London.”
“Not that I couldn’t tell from the British accent,” she says to Ollie, purring the last two words provocatively before laughing. “We specialize in
fine cut
, if that’s your particular interest.”
Ollie looks at Jonathon for an interpretation. “
Chewing
tobacco,” Jonathon explain.
“Oh. I’m afraid not. Perhaps a cigar for myself and my friend. Your finest—we’ve some celebrating to do.”
“Then I’ve just the thing!” Mary says with just the hint of a smile. She reaches beneath the counter and fetches three fat cigars from an ornate humidor, holding them up like trophies. “Though I suggest
three
, not two. Otherwise how could I celebrate with you?”
Ollie is so thoroughly charmed that he merely smiles—a stunned, goofy grin, Jonathan thinks—and grunts, “Of course.”
Mary begins to fit the first cigar into the opening of a silver-plated cigar cutter, but stops and looks up at Ollie. I’m sorry, may I?” she asks.
Such delicate fingers
, Ollie thinks.
Such pure white unblemished skin
. He craves a touch but dares not. “Please, go ahead,” he replies.
Mary expertly slices the end off the first cigar. The sound is deliciously crispy. “This particular blend has a smooth, rich, complex taste,” she says as she begins working on the second one. “Packed with earthy complexity, a hint of cocoa bean with leathery notes, and a spicy finish. My favorite.”
Mary begins to cut the third cigar as Ollie watches, astonished at the thought of this magnificent exemplar of femininity puffing on a cigar. Still, the thought excites him. Mary Rogers, he is quite sure, is full of surprises.
Mary offers a cut cigar to Ollie and Jonathon. With a saucy flick of her head she snaps back the flowing locks that had begun to veil her face like curling wisps of smoke, and then with the briefest of glances at Ollie says, “I’m glad you don’t chew.”
His mind races with the possible meaning of that.
Ollie and Jonathon insert the cigars into their mouths and Mary lights them. They puff and the fire catches with a crackling hiss. The aroma is strong but delightful. Something in it—a hint of bitterness, a trace of ripeness, an insinuation of citrus—transports him momentarily back to Bushruyíh and the pungent smoking rooms of the men. But then he is back in New York, in Anderson’s, staring into the eyes of a princess who sensuously puffs a cigar.
“Like it?” she asks.
Looking at her, Ollie responds, “The most incredible thing I’ve ever experienced. I’m not sure one will be enough.”
“We’d be happy to provide more if you wish,” she says.
Feeling suddenly transparent, Jonathan clears his throat. “We should be going, Ollie. I still have a delivery to make.”
“Perhaps we’ll see you again,” Mary says. Her eyes have not left Ollie since she took her first puff. “Are you staying in the neighborhood?”
“The Regis Hotel,” Ollie says. “Temporarily.”
“Ooooh” Mary coos. “Quite expensive there.”
Ollie quickly recalculates his need to stay in New York City. “I may be here for a while,” he says. “I’ll be looking for other accommodations nearby. I’m in journalism, you see.”
“Ah, yes, this is the center of the world for journalists, isn’t it?”
Ollie wants to correct her. London, in his mind, is the true center. But instead he finds himself saying, “Yes, I suppose.”
“My mother operates a boarding house on Nassau Street. Finest one in the district—wouldn’t you say so, Jonathon?”
Jonathon, who has been studying the torn leather on his shoe, politely nods
yes
.
“We’ve just had a room open up,” Mary says. “Perhaps you’d like to see it—but I’m being presumptuous, aren’t I? Forgive me.”
“Not at all!” Ollie exclaims. The idea has a great deal of merit in his mind, though he’s only thought about it from one angle. “Nassau Street would be the perfect address for me.”
“Then I suggest you show up tomorrow at, say, ten? I’ll tell my mother to be expecting Mr. Oliver Chadwick.”
Ollie loves the way his name sounds in her throat.
Chapter 4
Jalal loves this stone chamber, with lances of sunlight piercing cloudy air that smells of wisdom and sanctity, and the sound of sandals slapping across the hard floor as students scurry for the close seats. The sum of it is embedded into his consciousness after years of familiarity—
intimacy
, to be honest—with this small cube carved out of God’s kingdom. The fragrance of roses like a thick cloak, the jumbled geometry of the space, the Persian carpets that have sacrificed their luxurious weaves for the salvation of so many soles—these things, and the hauntings of a generation of the now-dead, and the anticipations of the soon-to-die, make the room an almost-living thing. Where the teaching chambers in Mashhad left him lonely and cold, this one has always enveloped him with tenderness and love. Jalal will miss it terribly when one day he must leave.
A decade of congregation here has finely tuned his senses, and he can feel a warp in the atmosphere. As he enters, he is startled by subtle shifts in the attitude and position of the other students, a collection of small, insignificant things: a concentration of eyes as he enters; conversations that are more hushed than usual; a furtive glance—then another; a look of bewilderment, and another of astonishment. For the first time since he had arrived at the Shaykhi school and was introduced to so many strangers in this chamber, he feels uncomfortable.
Jahangir is standing amidst a thick knot of students. The young man’s astonishment at the vision of Jalal’s body-quaking
communion with God
has spilled out of his mouth as rumor.
“He is the Qa’im, I’m sure of it; I saw him physically trembling in the embrace of God.”
Jahangir’s initial fear of having witnessed the forbidden sight has been overwhelmed by his excitement at the possibilities.
The other students buzz quietly with disparate views on the matter, but who can dispute that Jalal possesses the qualities that one would expect to find in the Promised One?
Has he ever expressed anger or a discourteous word to anyone?
Never.
Is he obedient in keeping the laws of his faith?
Without exception.
Does he exhibit spiritual insight and clarity?
Beyond the ability of any of them. Jalal’s character is beyond reproach and his leadership uncontested. There is not one among these students who would refuse to follow him on any mission. But some remain convinced that if the Qa’im were present in the school it must be the esteemed Shaykhi leader Kazim.
Jalal’s entry into the chamber sets off a quiet frenzy of conjecture and confusion. The students don’t know if they should look at him or not—
what if he is the Qa’im?
—or if they should wait until addressed.
When will he announce his station?
Many of them long to touch him, embrace him; such a privilege, to touch the Promised One.
But maybe he is not the Qa’im.
Perhaps Jahangir is mistaken, or has merely imagined his colorful vision, or is lying.
Look at Jalal—no!
Don’t
look at him—he is holy, anyone can see that. The way he carries himself.
Awkwardness and uncertainty permeate the chamber, for though Jalal is a close friend of most, the possibility that he is the Promised One changes everything.
Siyyid Kazim enters and takes his customary position in front of the students, who scramble for their positions on the floor. Kazim does not maintain discipline with threats and punishments. He is so loved and respected, and his attention so achingly desired by everyone present, that the merest wrinkle of his brow in disapproval or the slightest withdrawal of his gaze can cut to the bone; yet he never does this maliciously. He never raises his voice or his hand, and always admonishes his students with kindness and encouragement. Still, he is not soft or compliant, but firm—absolutely firm in his convictions. And his reasoning—often challenged, because the appropriateness of challenging convention is part of his message—is usually faultless. He exudes both confidence and humility, and in him this is no paradox.
Kazim begins to speak, so softly at first that students in the back don’t hear him until an irritated few silence the crowd. Embarrassed by their own inattention, the noisier ones immediately stop chattering and focus their attention on Kazim, who seems unusually weary, as if the weight of centuries were resting on his shoulders.
“It has come to my attention that certain powerful mujtahids in Persia have called for our extermination as heretics,” he says. “Yet these men, who profess to great spiritual wisdom, refuse to debate us openly on the issues. One can only presume that they fear the public humiliation of having their arguments reduced to rubble.”
The students laugh. Threats against them by the orthodox Islamic clergy are not new, but the attacks are growing fiercer as the time of the Qa’im approaches.
“They question our political aspirations,” Kazim continues, “yet we have none. They distort the goal of our mission, which is nothing more than to prepare our world for the appearance of the Promised One so it will not repeat the tragedies of the past.” The students understand that Kazim is referring to humankind’s perpetual rejection and persecution of God’s messengers of previous eras, from Moses and Jesus to Muhammad.
As Kazim passionately rallies the disciples to their vital task, a young man unknown to Jalal enters the chamber from the rear and takes a seat near the threshold. He is younger than Jalal and like Kazim wears a green turban signifying that he is a Siyyid, one of Muhammad’s direct descendants. A finger of golden sunlight finds the lap of this seated youth, whose face remains partly veiled in shadow.
Siyyid Kazim has been focusing his attention on the students seated at his feet. Now he lifts his eyes to survey the entire room, hoping to engage all of the students with his passionate discourse. But as his eyes fall upon the unidentified young man, he suddenly stops speaking. For quite some time he stands there, motionless and speechless. The pause becomes awkward.
“Please, continue,” someone urges.
Another voice calls out, “Yes, please go on.”
At last Kazim turns his eyes to this last speaker. “What more can I say?” Kazim replies. “The Truth is more manifest than the ray of light that has fallen upon that lap!” With a long, crooked finger he points to the mysterious youth in the back.
Jalal has seen the glowing stripe of sunlight illuminating the visitor’s lap, but none of the others have noticed. They seem confused by Kazim’s cryptic remark, distracted by the puzzle of his words. Jalal is suddenly seized by a most astonishing possibility;
has Kazim introduced the Qa’im?
The notion engulfs him. It races through his veins like fire shooting up a fuel-soaked string.
Still under Kazim’s hot gaze, the student who last spoke attempts to divert the conversation away from his own perplexity. “Why is it that you neither reveal the name of the Promised One nor identify His person?” he asks.
Kazim takes a step backward and then threateningly points his bony finger at his own throat. The meaning of this unspoken gesture is clear to everyone: if Kazim were to divulge the identity of the Qa’im, they both would be put to death. A great hush overcomes the assembly. Many of the faces turn toward Jalal. These men believe that he may be the long-awaited One and feel chastised now for their open gossip about him. Others devotedly remain with eyes fixed on Siyyid Kazim, their candidate.
Only Jalal glances at the youth in the back of the room, but the visitor is gone.