pout.
‘Why are you showing it to me? I did not ask you for anything. Anyway, I have never learned to read. I have acquired everything
I know from listening to others.’
Omar was not surprised. It was not rare at that time for the best poets to be illiterate, just like almost all women of course.
‘What is so secret in this book. Does it contain alchemy formulas?’
‘They are poems which I write down sometimes.’
‘Forbidden and heretical poems, subversive poems?’
She looked at him suspiciously, but he defended himself laughingly:
‘No, what are you trying to make out? Do I have the soul of a plotter? They are only
rubaiyaat
about wine, beauty, life and its vanity.’
‘You! You write
rubaiyaat
?’
She let out a cry of incredulity which was almost scorn.
Rubaiyaat
were something of a minor literary genre, they were trite and even coarse and suited only for poets from the popular districts.
It could be taken as an amusement, a peccadillo or even a flirtation for an intellectual like Omar Khayyam to allow himself
to compose a
rubai
from time to time, but what astonished and worried a poetess devoted to the norms of eloquence was that he should take such
care to consign his verses, and with such extreme gravity, to a book shrouded in mystery. Omar seemed ashamed but Jahan was
intrigued:
‘Could you read some of the verses to me?’
Omar did not want to commit himself further.
‘I will be able to read them all to you one day, when I judge them to be ready.’
She did not press the point and stopped asking him further questions, but she commented, without stressing the irony:
‘When you finish this book, do not offer it to Nasr Khan. He does not think much of the authors of
rubaiyaat
. He will not ask you to join him on his throne any more.’
‘I have no intention of offering this book to anyone at all. I do not wish to gain anything by it. I do not have the ambitions
of a court poet.’
She had hurt him and he had wounded her. In the silence which enfolded them, they wondered if they had overstepped the mark
and if there was still time to stop and save what could still be saved. At that moment, it was not Jahan whom Khayyam resented,
but the
qadi
. He regretted having allowed him to speak and wondered if his words had not damaged irreparably the way he saw his lover.
Until then, they had been living a carefree life with neither of them wishing to bring up any potentially divisive subjects.
Omar could not decide whether the
qadi
had opened his eyes to the truth, or just clouded his happiness?
‘You have changed, Omar. I cannot say how, but there is in the way you are looking at me and talking to me something which
I cannot quite put my finger on. It is as if you suspect me of some misdeed, as if you resent me for some reason. I do not
understand you, but suddenly I am greatly saddened.’
He tried to draw her toward him, but she stepped aside brusquely:
‘You cannot reassure me like that! Our bodies can only draw out our words, they cannot take their place or belie them. Tell
me what the matter is!’
‘Jahan! Let us speak no more of it until tomorrow.’
‘I shall no longer be here tomorrow. The Khan is leaving Samarkand early in the morning.’
‘Where is he going?’
‘To Kish, Bukhara, Termez, I don’t know. The whole court will follow him, along with me.’
‘Could you not stay in Samarkand with your cousin?’
‘If it were only a question of finding excuses! I have my place at court. I had to fight like ten men to gain it and I will
not give it up today for a frolic in the belvedere of Abu Taher’s garden.’
Without really thinking it over, Khayyam said, ‘It is not a question of a frolic. Would you not share my life?’
‘Share your life? There is nothing to share!’
She had said it without spite. It was simply a statement, and not lacking in tenderness. However, when she saw how crestfallen
Omar was, she begged him to forgive her and
‘Why are you showing it to me? I did not ask you for anything. Anyway, I have never learned to read. I have acquired everything
I know from listening to others.’
Omar was not surprised. It was not rare at that time for the best poets to be illiterate, just like almost all women of course.
‘What is so secret in this book. Does it contain alchemy formulas?’
‘They are poems which I write down sometimes.’
‘Forbidden and heretical poems, subversive poems?’
She looked at him suspiciously, but he defended himself laughingly:
‘No, what are you trying to make out? Do I have the soul of a plotter? They are only
rubaiyaat
about wine, beauty, life and its vanity.’
‘You! You write
rubaiyaat
?’
She let out a cry of incredulity which was almost scorn.
Rubaiyaat
were something of a minor literary genre, they were trite and even coarse and suited only for poets from the popular districts.
It could be taken as an amusement, a peccadillo or even a flirtation for an intellectual like Omar Khayyam to allow himself
to compose a
rubai
from time to time, but what astonished and worried a poetess devoted to the norms of eloquence was that he should take such
care to consign his verses, and with such extreme gravity, to a book shrouded in mystery. Omar seemed ashamed but Jahan was
intrigued:
‘Could you read some of the verses to me?’
Omar did not want to commit himself further.
‘I will be able to read them all to you one day, when I judge them to be ready.’
She did not press the point and stopped asking him further questions, but she commented, without stressing the irony:
‘When you finish this book, do not offer it to Nasr Khan. He does not think much of the authors of
rubaiyaat
. He will not ask you to join him on his throne any more.’
‘I have no intention of offering this book to anyone at all. I do not wish to gain anything by it. I do not have the ambitions
of a court poet.’
She had hurt him and he had wounded her. In the silence which enfolded them, they wondered if they had overstepped the mark
and if there was still time to stop and save what could still be saved. At that moment, it was not Jahan whom Khayyam resented,
but the
qadi
. He regretted having allowed him to speak and wondered if his words had not damaged irreparably the way he saw his lover.
Until then, they had been living a carefree life with neither of them wishing to bring up any potentially divisive subjects.
Omar could not decide whether the
qadi
had opened his eyes to the truth, or just clouded his happiness?
‘You have changed, Omar. I cannot say how, but there is in the way you are looking at me and talking to me something which
I cannot quite put my finger on. It is as if you suspect me of some misdeed, as if you resent me for some reason. I do not
understand you, but suddenly I am greatly saddened.’
He tried to draw her toward him, but she stepped aside brusquely:
‘You cannot reassure me like that! Our bodies can only draw out our words, they cannot take their place or belie them. Tell
me what the matter is!’
‘Jahan! Let us speak no more of it until tomorrow.’
‘I shall no longer be here tomorrow. The Khan is leaving Samarkand early in the morning.’
‘Where is he going?’
‘To Kish, Bukhara, Termez, I don’t know. The whole court will follow him, along with me.’
‘Could you not stay in Samarkand with your cousin?’
‘If it were only a question of finding excuses! I have my place at court. I had to fight like ten men to gain it and I will
not give it up today for a frolic in the belvedere of Abu Taher’s garden.’
Without really thinking it over, Khayyam said, ‘It is not a question of a frolic. Would you not share my life?’
‘Share your life? There is nothing to share!’
She had said it without spite. It was simply a statement, and not lacking in tenderness. However, when she saw how crestfallen
Omar was, she begged him to forgive her and
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