The Death of Veezeer-Mukhtar

...Veezeer-Mukhtar continued to exist. They knocked out his front teeth, somebody hit his glasses with a hammer and one glass was pressed into the eye. Then a kebab seller put Griboyedov’s head on a pike and brandished it like a staff at his stall.

It was Griboyedov who was to blame for the war, for the famines, for the oppression of the elders and for the poor crop. His head was now floating over the street, smiling with his toothless mouth. The boys were throwing stones at the head and the stones hit the target.

Veezeer-Mukhtar still existed.

A thief from the mob was carrying Griboyedov’s right hand with its wedding band, occasionally giving the hand a firm handshake with his only hand, his left. The thief raised Griboyedov’s arm aloft and felt sorry that the arm was bare, with not a single shred of golden clothes left on it. Local craftsmen tried on the Russian ambassador’s cocked hat, but it proved too big for them and the hat fell below their ears.

The body of Veezeer-Mukhtar was tied to that of his blond servant and some other Russian, as well as to a pack of dead cats and dogs, and was mopping the streets of Teheran. Four Persians, thin as a rail, took turns pulling the three bodies with a big stick. Griboyedov’s blond aide’s leg was cut off, but his head was intact…

Veezeer-Mukhtar still existed. Nina was staying in the city of Tabriz and was waiting for a letter.

Mother Nastasya Fyodorovna passed from the boudoir to the dining room and was telling her guest that Alexander didn’t take after her: out of sight, out of mind; he was forgetful ...

They dragged Veezeer-Mukhtar with the Cossack, his servant Sashka, and the cats and dogs along the streets of Teheran for three days. He turned black and his body dried up.

On the fourth day, he was thrown into a cesspool outside the city.

The kebab seller ditched his head on the third day. He got tired of it. At night, he took Griboyedov’s head home, so as to have it only for himself. But then it was time for him to start carrying his rolls; the fete was over. So he just ditched the head ...

On the fourth night, locals secretly came to the ruins ... They dug a huge pit inside the rampart, in front of the ruins, pulled all the cadavers together and buried them. Veezeer-Mukhtar was already over the fence, in a cesspool.

Nina Griboyedova was waiting ... She was worried. There were no letters. She thought Alexander had forgotten about her. She was bored ...

The Russian government demanded the body of Veezeer-Mukhtar. Khosrov-khan ordered excavation of the cesspool. Soon, black, semi-putrefied cadavers were discovered. Some did not have arms, on some bodies, legs were missing. Khozrev-khan knew how to deal with this. He didn’t rely upon himself, as he hadn’t seen Veezeer-Mukhtar long enough to be able to recognize him. Therefore, he summoned a few Armenian merchants. They had seen him often in Tiflis.

... Yet, when Khozrev-khan and the merchants bowed over the anonymous human body parts, when the lantern shed light on their color and they could see the shape the bodies were in, they jumped back, realizing that no one could be identified.

Khozrev-khan was bewildered. He ordered continued excavation. More bodies were found. Finally, they found a somewhat conspicuous arm. When the lantern shed its light, Khozrev-khan looked closely and spotted a diamond ring. He ordered the arm set aside.

“Avetiz Kuzinyan,” he said to an old merchant, “now would you please identify Veezeer-Mukhtar?”

The old merchant picked up the lantern and toured the cadavers again. Other merchants followed suit.

“It is impossible to identify him,” one of them ended up saying. They all stopped.

“So what are we going to do?” Khozrev-khan asked, going pale.

Avetiz Kuzinyan was still carrying the lantern around and peering into the mass of dead bodies. Then he went up to Khozrev-khan. Kuzinyan was an old merchant from Tiflis and knew well what a commodity was and how it was to be sold.

“The Shah charged you with finding Griboyed [literally, “Mushroom Eater” – Ed.], didn’t he?” he asked  in Armenian.

Thus the name “Mushroom Eater” was brought up for the first time.

“So,” Avetiz Kuzinayn went on, “it is not about the man but rather about his name.”

Khozrev-khan still did not understand.

“Who cares what will be laying here and who is there,” the old man said. “It is the name which must be laid there, so pick up here what suits this name best. This guy with one arm is the best preserved and he is the least beaten up,” he said, pointing out in the darkness . “It is hard to distinguish the color of his hair. So, take him then add this arm with the ring. Then you will end up having the Mushroom Eater.” So, they took the one-armed body, added up the arm and obtained the Mushroom Eater ...

The rider in a peaked cap and a felt cloak had just passed the bridge ... Upon crossing the caravan he nodded and quickly asked in Russian:

“Where are you from?”

Avetiz Kuzinyan nodded is head in turn and responded halfheartedly, “From Teheran.”

“What are you carrying?” the man asked, crossing the caravan and staring back at the sacks and the box with a traveler’s look.

“The Mushroom Eater,” an indifferent Avetiz nodded in response...

Pushkin took off his peaked cap. There was no death. There was just a simple wooden coffin which he mistook for a box with fruit.

“His life was darkened by a number of circumstances. Strong circumstances. Did he leave any notes?”

... It began to drizzle... and then lightning lit the green space like a dotted line. He turned back. The oxen already looked like small flies below in the valley. It was getting dark and the horse got tired.

“He had nothing more to do. His death was instant and beautiful. He has done what he had to do: he left The Woes of Wit.”

The horse was trudging along, tripping. “Oh, you nag!” Pushkin swore ... then he tightened the belt of his felt cloak and pulled the hood over his peaked cap. It was raining. ... “Instant and beautiful ... Let providence take care of it all. My felt cloak won’t get wet. What a coffin. Just a box ...”

Then he saw a mass of stones looking like a hut. Women in tattered clothes were sitting on a stone – the flat roof of an underground hut. A boy with a kids’ sword was dancing in the rain.

“Tea,” Pushkin said, got off the horse and hid under the stone roof. They offered him some cheese and milk. Pushkin tossed them some coins. The rain stopped as abruptly as it had begun. He continued his ride and then turned back. The boy was still stuck in the puddle; the women were following him with their eyes ...

“The influence of luxury and Christianity could tame them,” he thought, “samovar and the Gospel would be important means.”

And then he remembered how Griboyedov, touching him gently with his hand, said to him, “I know it all. You don’t know these people. The Shah will die, and then it will come to knives.”

And he stared at him. He was good-hearted. He was bitter and still good-hearted. He knew, though, that he had made a mistake. ... But if he knew, then why? Why did he go there? But then there was the power, there was the fate, the renewal ... An extraordinary man ... Maybe a Descartes who has never written anything? Or a Napoleon without even a company of soldiers?

“What are you carrying?” he recalled. “The Mushroom Eater.”