From Chapter III

"Herr von Ivándy, we all have our cards on the table, so I can be completely candid. Of course this line will benefit pan-Islamism. That is the purpose of the whole exercise. That is why our government is placing such great weight on this plan. The idea is to bring the entire Mohammedan East together... to organize it. Constantinople's influence is to extend all the way to India... I think you can imagine what comes next. I am being so frank and open with you because I know that you are a friend of my uncle's and are sworn to silence."

Ivándy crossed his legs. "No offense taken, Herr Director... but even if you hadn't spoken frankly and freely, I would have known all this anyway. This planned railway is a program that speaks for itself. And anyone who knows central Asia even a little will understand immediately that you are poking about in a hornets' nest, and that the Persian government will never give its consent."

"No? Why not? You mustn't think that I am not informed about Persia, Herr von Ivándy. I know very well that the majority of Persians no longer belong to the Zoroastrian religion, but to Islam. The new railway would be in their interest."

Ivándy smiled for the first time during the discussion. "The majority of Persians may well belong to Islam," he said with authority. "The only problem is that the Persians are Shi'ites."

"What do you mean?"

"I wouldn't want to assume, Herr Director, that your plans for central Asia have not taken into consideration the difference between Sunnis and Shi'ites."

Dorner was somewhat embarrassed. "Sunnis and Shi'ites... completely right. I wouldn't be surprised if we learned something about that in the fifth year. But to tell you the truth, the history of religion always left me somewhat cold."

"Whoever wants to build railways in central Asia must in his own interest pursue the history of religion. Because you can go fatally wrong if you don't know that the hatred of Shi'ite Persians and Arabs for Sunni Turks and Afghans is implacable. This hatred is almost as old as Islam itself, and its consequences have always been dire."

"But please, Herr von Ivándy... those simpletons over there are all Mohammedans. They all have the same religion..."

"Yes, Mohammed's teachings are certainly the same. But all the successors of the Prophet -- with the sole exception of Ali -- all the caliphs who rule in Damascus, Baghdad, or Constantinople, are only bloody usurpers deserving of hatred and contempt, according to the beliefs of the Shi'ites."

"Ali...? Who, may I ask, was this gentleman?"

"He was the son-in-law of Mohammed. According to the Shi'ites he was the only rightful successor to the Prophet. The Caliphate is the inherited position of his family... and of his sons Hussein and Hassan, who were also murdered. They are the most revered martyrs of the Shi'ites."

"That's all well and good, Herr von Ivándy. These men of antiquity may be of some interest to people who write history. I won't even deny that Ali was Mohammed's rightful successor. I'm really not that hard to talk to. But after all, you yourself have said that this was news twelve hundred years ago. I really can't imagine what all this has to do with us."

"The Shi'ites certainly don't share your view," Ivándy responded. "Ali and his sons died, but their successors, the Imams, are still the leaders of the faith."

"So, do such... what are they called -- Imams -- still exist today?"

"Yes and no."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll understand in a moment. In any case, the last Imam disappeared more than a thousand years ago."

"There, you see!"

"I said 'disappeared'. Because according to the Shi'ites he isn't dead at all, but continues to live hidden in time, invisible, and he will reappear at the appropriate moment. But whether he is invisible or not, he is the Caliph, the only rightful leader of the faithful. But, the Sultan in Constantinople, a Sunni, is a usurper and desecrator."

Dorner began to laugh out loud. "But that's complete nonsense. Please pardon me, Herr von Ivándy... I really don't wish to be too familiar, but I find it impossible to believe that a Persian with even a little common sense would take such foolish stuff seriously. I mean, I don't think particularly highly of these fellows -- but I'm sure they're not complete imbeciles!"

From Chapter XIV

They couldn't continue their conversation. The narrow, empty alley twisted for the last time -- they were now in front of Parliament. But the square was cordoned off by the military. "And this is where we'll have to stay," Schröder said.

"Let's try with that fellow over there," Walda said, paying no heed to Schröder.

Walda took a large piece of cardboard out of his pocket. Above all manner of Turkish-looking flourishes and scrolls he drew an immense half-moon. "Our ticket to the parliamentary session," Walda explained. "Show it to the soldier! Perhaps he's illiterate."

And indeed this valiant Anatolian could not read. He looked at the mysterious symbols suspiciously, and finally asked "Irade?"

Schröder nodded earnestly. "You see, here, the Padishah's signature, O unfortunate one? Of course it's an irade."

The soldier probably had a fair amount of raki in him. He seemed to consider all further negotiation superfluous and stepped silently aside. The two Europeans proceeded.

And then they saw something that they could never have imagined. Ten thousand soldiers are packed in wild disarray into the broad square in front of the Hagia Sophia. No... not soldiers... but raging demons under the spell of some evil magic. Maddened Janissaries, all in uniform, carrying modern magazine rifles. They seem possessed. They yell and groan and bare their teeth as if drunk on some unknown intoxicant. They spin around in circles... tear the clothes from their bodies... threaten with their fists in senseless rage. Rabidly they cry out the names of the leaders of the Committee and demand their deaths. No... this is no coup... not even a revolt. This is a strange mixture of religious and political frenzy. These people would probably strangle their enemies with their bare hands... and have no idea, when they return to their senses, what they have done, or why.

Walda and Schröder stood by a lantern pole. Near them groping hands stretched convulsively into the air, bodies twitched, and guns went off. Nobody even noticed them. It was as if the wizard who had incited this madness had made them invisible.

"I think we're the only Europeans in the square," the Geheimrat said with some satisfaction.

From Chapter XIX

Dusk comes slowly. The barques of fishermen glide peacefully on the waters of the Sea of Marmara. The outlines of the city slowly become blurred in a gray fog.

San Stefano.

The station is completely quiet. In Constantinople they were told that the soldiers had already reached here. But there is no one in evidence. The train continues.

It is now evening. Schröder is still standing in the corridor, thinking about the dark wagon at the end of the train that is bearing a casket back to Germany. Poor girl. Like so many others, she, too, was a victim of romantic notions of the Orient. The Crusaders in their armor; the European scholar studying the Dervishes, the young girl who gave all for the ideals of the Young Turks... romantics all. Even the bank director who plans to build a railway is a romantic. The mysteries of the East pull all of them with magnetic force.

Hadimkoy.

Ah... something is going on here. Pitch torches flicker in front of the station. Black figures rush about in its uncertain light. Now they are surrounding the train.

Someone tears open the door to the corridor. What's this? More troops without officers?

A man addresses him in faultless French. "Pardon me, sir. I am an officer in the Rodosto Gendarmerie. We are attending to the work of the advance force of the army. That's why we are wearing enlisted men's uniforms. We are here to search the train... the scoundrel is trying to smuggle out ulemas and softas to sow disloyalty among the soldiers."

The Scoundrel... that is now the Padishah's official title.

Schröder exchanges a few words with the officer.

There are no softas in his compartment. Then he asks, "How long will the train be stopping?"

"Perhaps for half an hour."

Schröder gets off the train. A deep darkness blankets the broad plain. The only lights are from the train and the torches. In this dim light he watches as men in caftans are dragged out of some of the wagons. They are shoved forward and beaten. Some are being bludgeoned with pistol butts. With each new capture there is a wild cry of jubilation. The faces of the officers are contorted... where has he seen these faces before? Ah yes... now he remembers: in the square in front of Hagia Sophia.

Another traveler is standing next to Schröder. An Italian, but with Turkish citizenship. He is beside himself with joy.

"Good fellows! Good fellows!" he repeats enthusiastically. "Do you know what they are yelling? Death to the Sultan! Good fellows! The old despotism is done for. The good times are at hand."

Schröder doesn't respond. He looks back in the direction of Constantinople -- a feeble strip of light shows him where it is; the sky is lighter there -- a pale reflection of the city lights. Far away, at the edge of the eastern horizon a black cloud gathers. And it seems to Schröder that this cloud has taken a strange shape... like a giant hand raised in threat from some far-distant, unknown place.

Translation © Kenneth Kronenberg 2004