THE RUBAIYAT OF VIKTOR KHAYYAM
Great excitement greeted the first publication of the volume which, under the direction of that esteemed professor of literary extremism, Zazzo Thim, has uncovered more than the wild-eyed fanatic in all of us. I believe it is time we all express this instant our eternal gratitude towards this most learned individual and the service he has done mankind, in his uncovering of this volume, The Rubaiyat of Viktor Khayyam.
On a wet winter morning I travelled to the distant city of education where I was due to meet him. The moment I got off the train I could feel the cold wind, which seemed to whip around the old, classical architecture and across the wide squares. I made my way down the main thoroughfare to a discreet cafe where we had arranged to meet.
A couple of students watched me enter. I ordered a hot chocolate at the bar and sat down at a table in the corner where the Professor might easily see me. One of the students came over and asked who it was I would be meeting.
“Professor Zazzo Thim”, I replied, with a hint of pride.
“Oh, him”, , they replied, and they slouched off through the door into the rain.
I watched them leave. They walked past the plate glass window and they were both smiling, laughing. How terrible, I thought, that such an intelligent man should not command the respect of his inferiors.
After a while the Professor himself entered the room. I recognised him immediately from the promotional material which went with the book. The long scarf, the heavy coat, the pained expression on his face, the cane which he leant on as if it were the only thing in his life which made any sense. He saw me in the corner and waved, jovially, then ordered himself a cup of coffee at the bar. He then attempted to navigate the room with the cane in one hand and the cup of coffee in the other, a feat which resulted in most of the drink being spilled on the bare wooden floorboards. The bar staff, I noticed, nudged each other in the ribs and pointed to the elderly gentleman, before suppressing giggled comments. How rude, I thought to myself, how unaccountably rude.
I introduced myself and pulled out a chair for the Professor to sit. He lowered himself down as if into a hot bath, then sighed. “Well well well, my dear child”, he said. He took off his wet cap, unwound his long scarf, then placed his palms flat on the table surface. “No doubt”, he said, “You have requested this meeting to add to the ill-feeling, the derision and the scandal. In that case, let the butchery commence
I shrugged, then took out a notebook. I told him how much I had enjoyed the poems, and that their discovery was nothing short of a godsend in this modern age, where word and the power of language have so recently lost all of their power to enchant. The old man leaned back in his chair and made a pyramid out of his fingers, though his face creased into a frown as if he were unsure of my true sentiments. When I told him that he had done the whole world a favour, that he was an explorer akin to those ancient adventurers who had discovered the new continents, strange tribes, buried treasure and the geographical features which now make up our general knowledge of the planet, he let out a big, long sigh and said: “Go on – what’s the punch line?”
“There is no punch line”, I replied, “My sentiments are sincere”.
He hummed, doubtfully.
“How strange”, he said.
He leaned forward and, quite sadly, looked down at his hands. “There has been”, he said, “Some controversy over the last few weeks”
I asked that he explain, and for the first time he looked up at me, looked me straight in the eyes. He told me that he had always assumed there to be a set of poems to be discovered in the ancient city of Tangiers, that the merchants and the council of that distant town had been hiding from the modern world a work of such literary merit as would change the world forever.
“Such beauty was hinted at” Zazzo said, “Such magnificent constructions, I just had to investigate. You see, it all dates back to a Victorian guide book I had come across in an antique shop, some thirty years ago. In detailing the attributes of Tangiers, it mentioned – and I quote – ‘ a wondrous system of oudagogoo veritably produced by his eminence Viktor Bayyam and now kept for the benefit of his excellency the sultan’. How enraptured I was by these words, for l knew that to find an oudagogoo – (the western Berber-derived word for a four-line verse set into a unified system) – would be the defining achievement of my career”.
N. “I left earlier this year for Tangiers. I sailed from Southampton on a steamer filled with chickens and llamas, for the desert tribes have been encouraged to experiment with different kinds of meat. The seas were unforgiving and I spent most of the time confined to my cabin, vomiting profusely and calming my volatile stomach with the image of these verses, these celebrated, yet secretive oudagogoo”
“When I finally arrived at the city I became inextricably lost in the labyrinth of back streets. Strange people crowded me in on all sides and I was hustled in the markets, shouted at, sneered at by unforgiving locals. At once I began to realise that they had already guessed the purpose of my visit, that I had come to steal their precious oudagogoo, that their secret would soon be in the domain of the world at large. The heat was oppressive, and as the sun went down I found lodgings for the night in a small hotel set around an inner courtyard with mosaic tile walls. The hotelier, a genial man who, despite the barrier of language, attested to my every need, allowed me to sleep in the open, under the stars where at night I would gaze up at the constellations, cursing my ill luck to be so near and yet so far.
“The morning brought fresh sunshine and a renewed determination on my part to make this momentous discovery. My host showed me to the library in the middle of the town, where, among Arabic tracts and volumes of luxurious splendour, I found no mention of the oudagogoo. I realised quite soon that the verses, being so timeless and secretive, would never be mentioned so openly in any of these books, so l asked if there were any secret libraries or private collections where information might be gathered. When he took me to the local taxidermist and presented me with the head of a camel, I knew there had been a mis-translation.
“By the end of my third day I realised that I would not find these mythic verses. The heat was getting to me and I longed for the cold winds, the fogs of my homeland. In desperation I kept notebooks and filled them with what I hoped to find in the poems, though the images I created were obscured by the drops of sweat which fell down the side of my head on to the page. I constructed poems about the desert, about the beauty of camels, dromedaries, about the dreams and mystic visions of a traveller who longed only to see the fabled city of Basing Stoke, though at the end of each day I would screw up these vile sheets and throw them in the waster paper basket.
“And then came the twentieth day of my expedition. A knock at the gate of my lodgings, and a mysterious fellow entered, his hair wrapped in a thick turban despite the heat, his body covered by white robes which fell down to his sandalled feet. “I hear”, he said, “That you are looking for the oudagogoo”.
“My heart jumped, yet I dare not demonstrate an over-eagerness.
“And what of it?”, I asked.
“I can take you to them”.
“My word! I could barely speak with the excitement within me. Feigning indifference, I looked at my watch. “I can spare about half an hour”, I said
“Half an hour”, he said, “But a whole lifetime of wonder”.
“He led me through the streets, past markets and decrepit quarters where small children ran barefoot and old men smoked in the doorways of bars. We seemed to walk forever, but at last we came to a nondescript house and a large wooden door, which he opened with a key hung round his neck. When we entered I could smell the dust and the sand, a burning smell as if the centuries were falling away, crumbling before me. At last, rather grandly, he said: “Behold! The most beauteous, divine oudagogoo”
“He turned on a row of lights to reveal a row of laundry baskets.
“Is that it?” I asked
“He frowned and looked at me. “What were you expecting? When word reached us that an Englishman was looking for the oudagogoo, we decided we would not help you in the slightest.
“We have cherished these four baskets for years and have built up a system of mystic belief in their divine protection. But when you went to the local library and kept asking people for poetry, we thought, ‘Well, this isn’t any fun, let’s just show them to him’. So here we are – the oudagogoo of Tangiers”
“‘Oudagogoo?” I asked
“Yes. Laundry baskets. The most splendid laundry baskets for many years. My grandfather quaked in their presence, such was their beauty and power. It is said that an artist, deeply in love with a simple washer-woman, but kept from the woman he loved by his allergies to detergents, could only proclaim his love to her by these splendid laundry baskets, which she would see every day, a new oudagogoo every time she washed the clothes”.
“But there are only four of them”.
“They split after a week. Love can be so fickle. But the story is still, I think you would agree, deeply touching”
“But I thought oudagogoo were … •
“Poetry?” he asked.’
“If this were a western-influenced Berber word, it would indeed mean
‘four line verse’. But ‘oudagogoo’ in eastern Berber means laundry basket’. And you know, we Tangiers folk have a wicked sense of humour. We called these baskets ‘The Rubaiyat of Viktor Khayyam ”
He then commenced a deep bellied laugh which caused him to rock back and forth on his feet.
What could I do? I thanked my host, and returned back to the guest house. But now I was faced with a conundrum. I couldn’t go back to the university empty-handed having promised them such magnificent poems. Tired, I thanked my host and left that very afternoon, taking with me a wicker basket I could show my colleagues in demonstration of my folly.
When I arrived home, seasick and delirious with the llama and chickens the Moroccans had sent back in disgust, I was confined to my bed, though the wicker basket was an object of fascination among my colleagues. Imagine my surprise, when I emerged from my delirium, to find that a whole series of poems had been published, resultant from my travels, The Rubaiyat of Viktor Khayyam. I was intrigued, and tentatively, opened a copy to see that my name was mentioned as translator. Yet the poems were oddly familiar, and dealt with many subjects, including camels, the beauty of sand dunes shifting in the evening wind, and the bountiful, mythical city of Basing Stoke.
“We found them”, an assistant told me, “In the luggage you brought back. How feverishly you must have translated them to have left such stains of sweat on each page! And your madness, evident in the way you screwed them up, and hid them at the bottom of the basket in which you stored your linen, as if you never wanted to see them again”.
I looked at the aged Professor.
“They found out, didn’t they?” I asked.
He nodded, sadly.
“I have disgraced the university and made it a complete laughing stock”.
Gently, he wiped a tear from his eye. “On the plus side, my designs for laundry baskets have been taken up by a well-known DIY company”.
I left him short afterwards and walked back out into the windy, rainy streets. Students passed me on bicycles, others walked past with heavy volumes tucked under their arms. The whole world seemed darker, colder.
Robert Garnham 