In Xanadu (26 page)

Outside,
the
sandstorm
had
died
down.
I
walked
down
the gridded
streets,
searching
either
for
the
boy
or
a
taxi
driver.

Many of the shops and
chai-khana
were closed, and the midday heat had driven most of the people off the streets. Straight ahead, at the end of the main road, I saw a small crowd had gathered in the shade of a mosque gateway. I headed in that direction. Bound to be a taxi driver there, I thought. Always one near a mosque. Then I heard a voice behind me. 'Hey! You! What are you doing?'

I spun around. Behind me a man was getting out of an old mustard-coloured Mercedes. He was wearing khaki fatigues and on his head was perched a khaki pillbox cap. He was not smiling.

'Who are you? What are you doing?'

'I'm a tourist.' I said lamely, extending my hand. I knew from experience of Cambridge debauches that much the best way to deal with angry policemen is to smile innocently and say as little as possible.

Passport!' said the policeman.

'I'm sorry but you see I've left it....'

'No passport?'

'It's at_ '

Get in!' said the policeman, pointing to his Mercedes. The seats were covered with furry pink material. I hesitated. The policeman put his hand on his pistol holster. I got in.

'It's really very easy to explain.. .

No talking!'

We drove a short distance down the street, turned left and pulled into a small compound. I was marched out of the car and into the station. It was indicated that I should sit down. The policeman left me in a waiting room, watched over by a minion. I smiled at the minion. He stared glassily back.

I sat and waited for something to happen.

The minion continued to stare at me for a while. Then he stared into the middle distance. I noticed some ants on the floor. I became aware of the urge to pee. My mind whined:
I've got a valid visa. I've done nothing wrong. Persians are nice people who have a reputation for hospitality. I’ll soon be out. Might even make Isfahan tonight. Just think of thou mosques. Forget that bladder. This man's got no right to keep me waiting like this. Why is he keeping me waiting anyway? Probably doing some work. Probably illiterate. Probably can't spell his own name. Probably.
..
Maybe these boys mean business. Stop thinking like this. It won't help. Think of something else. Think of sex. Not in Iran. Think of your family. You might never see them again. Stop this. You 're upsetting yourself Laura will come and rescue
you.

The policeman beckoned me in.

'You are from Britain?'

That's something, I thought. His English is quite good. "Yes.'

Britain is no longer the friend of Iran.'

'Oh you're wrong,' I said desperately. The British people love Iran. It's only Mrs Thatcher who is creating trouble. She's an unpopular, evil, repressive tyrant like the Shah.'

You have purges in Britain?'

Oh, yes.'

He looked justifiably suspicious. And you will have a revolution?' 'Soon. Tomorrow, maybe. Who knows?' The policeman crushed his cigarette on the table top. 'Do you know what happened today?' "What?'

'In Qom today five bombs went off in the market.'

'Oh,' I said lamely. 'I am sorry.'

'Maybe you are a spy.'

'Me?'

‘You.'

'No.'

The policeman continued to look accusingly at me. NO. I AM NOT A SPY. Really. I am a student.' 'Maybe. Maybe not. How do I know?' He shrugged his shoulders.

Then, in a flash of inspiration, I remembered my university library card. I fumbled in my inside waistcoat pocket, and found my card wallet.

'Look.'

'What is this?' he said. He looked at the card. Then he looked up.

'You are at
Cambridge?'
'Yes.'

'Cambridge University?' 'Cambridge University.' His expression changed.

'Oh, Agah,' he said. 'By the great Ali! This is the most famous university in the world.' He examined the card.

'Ah, my heart! Look at this card. Expiry date June eighty-seven. Borrowing October eighty-six. Five vols. Oh, Agah. For me these are magic words.'

'For me too.'

'Agah. I am your servant.' I sat up.

'Do you mean that?'

'Agah. You are a scholar. I am at your service.' He did mean it.

Five minutes later we drew outside the
kebabji
in the policeman's limousine. A bundle of black silk crashed through the doorway.

'And where in God's name do you think you've been?' 'Reza,' I said to the policeman, 'meet my wife.'

After the ease with which we discovered carpets in Sivas and silk in Tabriz, we were almost surprised when we failed to find the perfectly preserved bodies of the Three Wise Men lying unmoved in their 'large and beautiful monuments, side by side'.

All afternoon, Reza drove us around the monuments of Saveh, but it was clear that none of the surviving buildings fitted Polo's description. There were several tomb towers. They were low and round, topped by saucer domes and stepped at the base like ziggurats. But they contained Muslim saints, and anyway were too young for Polo to have seen. The nearest contender was a
gunbad
on the outskirts of the town. It was called the Imamzada Sayyid Ishaq, and centred on a three-tiered brick burial tower. Around it an arcaded court and a honeycomb of minor tomb houses had grown up. The site was still be ng used for burial purposes, and it was clear that a lot of rebuilding had taken place, including the addition of a flanged, onion-shaped dome. Nevertheless we were just beginning to believe that the older part of the complex could have been the mausoleum described by Polo when Reza discovered an inscription. It dated the tower to 1277 - five years too late.

By the evening we had discovered that there were only two structures in Saveh which could have been standing in 1272. Both were minarets. They were extraordinary structures: wonderfully primitive and squat, ribbed by bands of crude but very striking brick-work patterns of Stars of David, angular floral motifs and scarcely readable kufic inscriptions. They reminded me more of Irish round towers than of the needle-like minarets of later Persian architecture. In one, that attached to the Masjid-i-Maidan, the bricks were so eroded that they had mdted into one another, like chocolate running in the heat. Later I discovered that these were indeed the two oldest minarets in Iran, both dating from the early years of the Seljuk conquest: 1061 and 1110 respectively.

After six o'clock, when the sun began to sink, we rested beneath the pomegranate trees planted within the court of Masjid-i-Jumeh. Looking at the ancient minaret standing at the far end of the mud-brick boundary wall, I had the same feeling of discovery I had felt first on the hilltop above Sis. In their own way, the two towers were as remarkable works of art as the couplets of Omar Khayyam (their exact contemporaries) or. for that matter, the poems of the European
Vagantes
or the Troubadours. Yet how many people in Europe have ever heard of the Seljuks? Their obscurity adds to their glamour. The academic machine has never been able to subject them to the learned overkill that has taken the joy out of so much Western art. Long may it stay that way. Sitting in the shade of the pomegranate tree, watching the great red sun set over the desert, we agreed to give up looking for the tombs of the Three Wise Men. We thanked Reza and apologized for wasting his time.

This was not in fact the end of the search. One day after I returned to Cambridge I found myself in the University Library with nothing to do, so I set about researching the early historical references to Saveh. Strangely enough it appeared that until it was burned down by Ghengis Khan, the town was the site of one of the most important astronomical observatories in Asia. It is first referred to by the chronicler al-Muqaddasi, but the fullest account appears in the writings of his successor al-Khazwini. Khazwini says he saw rooms full of astronomical instruments, globes and telescopes as well as a vast specialist library. In other words, if the Magi had been watching out for a new star anywhere, it would have been in Saveh. The more I read the stranger the coincidences became, and it became increasingly tempting to see some son of historical event linking the two legends of the Magi - the one written down in Palestine around
ad
80, the other preserved in a Zoroastrian community in Persia as late as 1272.

Certainly it seems that St Matthew's original Gospel story is informed with a knowledge of Zoroastrian beliefs and practices. The Zoroastrian Magi were astronomers and did interpret dreams. Like the Jews, they believed in the coming of a Messiah. This was Shaoshyant, the son of Zoroaster, whose virgin birth, announced by a bright star, would herald the beginning of the reign of justice. It was thus quite reasonable for St Matthew to send some Magi to Palestine to look for a Messiah. More telling still is the fact that there is no precedent for gold, frankincense and myrrh being grouped together in the Old Testament. The three gifts are, however, often recorded together as Persian temple offerings. In the Gospel, St Matthew's Magi do in fact present genuine pagan offerings at the crib.