Ali and Nino: A Love Story

By Kurban Said

From the author of The Girl from the Golden Horn, a novel of the enduring love between childhood friends divided by war & their separate cultures.

First published in Vienna in 1937, this classic story of romance and adventure has been compared to Dr. Zhivago and Romeo and Juliet. Ali and Nino is Kurban Said’s masterpiece. It is a captivating novel as evocative of the exotic desert landscape as it is of the passion between two people pulled apart by culture, religion, and war.

It is the eve of World War I in Baku, Azerbaijan, a city on the edge of the Caspian Sea, poised precariously between east and west. Ali Khan Shirvanshir, a Muslim schoolboy from a proud, aristocratic family, has fallen in love with the beautiful and enigmatic Nino Kipiani, a Christian girl with distinctly European sensibilities. To be together they must overcome blood feud and scandal, attempt a daring horseback rescue, and travel from the bustling street of oil-boom Baku, through starkly beautiful deserts and remote mountain villages, to the opulent palace of Ali’s uncle in neighboring Persia. Ultimately the lovers are drawn back to Baku, but when war threatens their future, Ali is forced to choose between his loyalty to the beliefs of his Asian ancestors and his profound devotion to Nino. 

Combining the exotic fascination of a tale told by Scheherazade with the range and magnificence of an epic, Ali and Nino is a timeless classic of love in the face of war.

Praise for Ali and Nino

“Said’s romantic tale of young love and political upheaval in Central Asia calls for violins and handkerchiefs. . . . A saga of war and love and the difficult marriage of Europe and Asia in the Caucasus, this is at heart a rousing, old-fashioned, tear-jerking love story.” —Publishers Weekly

“Poignant and beautiful . . . alive with a vividly unique vision of colliding cultures and enduring love.” —Newsweek

“One feels as if one had dug up buried treasure. . . . An epic of cultural change that seems more immediate than this morning's headlines.” —The New York Times

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Sep 1, 1999
• ISBN: 9781590209783

Book preview

1

We were a very mixed lot, we forty schoolboys who were having a Geography lesson one hot afternoon in the Imperial Russian Humanistic High School of Baku, Transcaucasia: thirty Mohammedans, four Armenians, two Poles, three Sectarians, and one Russian.

So far we had not given much thought to the extraordinary geographical position of our town, but now Professor Sanin was telling us in his flat and uninspired way: ‘The natural borders of Europe consist in the north of the North Polar Sea, in the west of the Atlantic Ocean, and in the south of the Mediterranean. The eastern border of Europe goes through the Russian Empire, along the Ural mountains, through the Caspian Sea, and through Transcaucasia. Some scholars look on the area south of the Caucasian mountains as belonging to Asia, while others, in view of Transcaucasia’s cultural evolution, believe that this country should be considered part of Europe. It can therefore be said, my children, that it is partly your responsibility as to whether our town should belong to progressive Europe or to reactionary Asia.’

The professor had a self-satisfied smile on his lips.

We sat silent for a little while, overwhelmed by such mountains of wisdom, and the load of responsibility so suddenly laid upon our shoulders.

Then Mehmed Haidar, who sat on the back bench, raised his hand and said: ‘Please, sir, we should rather stay in Asia.’

A burst of laughter. This was Mehmed Haidar’s second year in the third form. And it looked as if he might stay there for another year, if Baku kept belonging to Asia. For a ministerial decree allows the natives of Asiatic Russia to stay in any form as long as they like.

Professor Sanin, who was wearing the gold-embroidered uniform of a Russian High School teacher, frowned: ‘So, Mehmed Haidar, you want to remain an Asiatic? Can you give any reason for this decision?’

Mehmed Haidar stepped forward, blushed, but said nothing. His mouth was open, his brow furrowed, his eyes vacant. And while four Armenians, two Poles, three Sectarians and one Russian were highly delighted by his stupidity, I raised my hand and said: ‘Sir, I too would rather stay in Asia.’

‘Ali Khan Shirvanshir! You too! All right, step forward.’

Professor Sanin pushed his lower lip out and silently cursed the fate that had banished him to the shores of the Caspian Sea. Then he cleared his throat and said pompously: ‘You at least can give us a reason?’

‘Yes. I rather like Asia.’

‘Oh you do, do you? Well, have you ever been in really backward countries, in Teheran, for instance?’

‘Oh yes, last summer.’

‘There you are. And have you found there any of the great aquisitions of European culture, for instance motor-cars?’

‘Oh yes, very great ones indeed. Holding thirty and more people. They don’t go through the town, only from one place in the country to the other.’

‘These are called autobuses, and they are in use because there are no railways. This is reactionary. Sit down, Shirvanshir.’

I knew the thirty Asiatics were jubilant, they showed it by the way they looked at me. Professor Sanin kept angrily silent. He was supposed to make his pupils into good Europeans. Suddenly he asked: ‘Well—have any of you been to Berlin for instance?’ It was not his day—the Sectarian Maikov raised his hand and said he had been to Berlin when he was a small boy. He remembered vividly a musty spooky Underground, a noisy railway and a ham sandwich his mother had prepared for him. We thirty Mohammedans were deeply indignant. Seyd Mustafa even asked to be allowed to leave the room, as the word ‘ham’ made him sick. And that was the end of our discussion about Baku and its geographical situation.

The bell rang. Relieved, Professor Sanin left the room. Forty pupils rushed out. It was the big break, and there were three things one could do: run into the courtyard and start a fight with the pupils of the adjoining school, because they wore gold cockades and buttons on their school uniforms, while we had to be content with silver ones, or talk amongst ourselves in a loud voice in Tartar, because the Russians could not understand it and it was therefore strictly forbidden—or cross the street quickly and slip into the Girls’ Lyceum of the Holy Queen Tamar. This I decided to do. The girls strolled about in the garden, wearing chaste blue dress-uniforms and white aprons. My cousin Aishe waved to me. She was walking hand in hand with Nino Kipiani, and Nino Kipiani was the most beautiful girl in the world. When I told the girls of my geographical battle the most beautiful girl in the world looked down the most beautiful nose in the world and said: ‘Ali Khan, you are stupid. Thank God we are in Europe. If we were in Asia they would have made me wear the veil ages ago, and you couldn’t see me.’ I gave in. Baku’s undecided geographical situation allowed me to go on looking into the most beautiful eyes in the world. I left the girls and dejectedly played truant for the rest of the day. I looked at the camels, at the sea, thought of Europe and Asia, of Nino’s lovely eyes and was sad. A beggar approached me, his face and hands rotten with disease. I gave him money, he made to kiss my hand, but I was frightened and snatched it away. Ten minutes later it occurred to me that this had been an insult, and for two hours I ran around looking for him, so I could put it right. But I could not find him, and went home with a bad conscience. All this had been five years ago.

During these years many things had happened. A new headmaster had arrived, who liked to grab our collars and shake us, because it was strictly forbidden to box the pupils’ ears. Our religious instructor explained at great length how merciful Allah had been to let us be born into the Mohammedan faith. Two Armenians and one Russian joined, and two Mohammedans were not with us any more: one because he, in his sixteenth year, had married, the other because during the holidays he had been killed in a blood-feud. I, Ali Khan Shirvanshir, had been three times to Daghestan, twice to Tiflis, once in Kislovodsk, once in Persia to stay with my uncle, and I was nearly kept down for another year because I did not know the difference between the Gerundium and the Gerundivium. My father went for advice to the Mullah at the mosque, who declared that all this Latin was just vain delusion. So my father put on all his Turkish, Persian and Russian decorations, went to see the headmaster, donated some chemical equipment or other and I passed. A notice had been put up in the school stating that pupils were strictly forbidden to enter school premises with loaded revolvers, telephones were installed in town, and Nino Kipiani was still the most beautiful girl in the world.

Now all this was coming to an end, the final exam was only one week away, and I sat at home and pondered on the futility of Latin tuition on the coast of the Caspian Sea. I loved my room on the second floor of our house. Dark carpets from Buchara, Ispahan and Koshan covered the walls. The patterns represented gardens and lakes, woods and rivers, as the carpet weaver had seen them with his inner eye, unrecognisable to the layman, breathtakingly beautiful to the connoisseur. Nomad women in far away deserts collected the herbs for these colours from wild thorny bushes, long slender fingers squeezed out the juice. The secret of blending these delicate colours is hundreds of years old. Often it takes more than a decade for the weaver to finish his work of art. Then it hangs on the wall, full of secret symbols, allusions, hunting scenes, knights fighting, with one of Firdausi’s verses, or a quotation from the works of Sa’adi in ornamental script running at the sides. Because of these many rugs and carpets the room looks dark. There is a low divan, two small stools, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, many soft cushions, and among all this, very disturbing and very unnecessary, books of Western knowledge: chemistry, physics, trigonometry—foolish stuff, invented by barbarians, to create the impression that they are civilised. I closed the books and went up to the flat roof of the house. From there I could see my world, the massive wall of the town’s fortress and the ruins of the palace, Arab inscriptions at the gate. Through the labyrinth of streets camels were walking, their ankles so delicate that I wanted to caress them. In front of me rose the squat Maiden’s Tower, surrounded by legends and tourist guides. And behind the tower the sea began, utterly faceless, leaden, unfathomable Caspian Sea, and beyond, the desert—jagged rocks and scrub: still, mute, unconquerable, the most beautiful landscape in the world. I sat quietly on the roof. What was it to me that there were other towns, other roofs and other landscapes. I loved the flat sea, the flat desert and the old town between them. The noisy crowd who come looking for oil, find it, get rich and leave again are not the real people of Baku. They don’t love the desert.

The servant brought tea. I drank it and thought of the exam. It did not worry me. Surely I would pass. But even if not, it would not really matter. The farmers of our estates would say that I could not tear myself away from the House of Wisdom. And indeed it would be a pity to leave school. The grey uniform with its silver buttons, epaulettes and cockade was very smart. I would feel degraded in civilian clothes. Not that I should wear them for long. Only for one summer and then—then I would go to Moscow to the Lazarev Institute for Oriental Languages. I had decided this myself, for there I will be miles ahead of the Russians. It will be very difficult indeed for them to learn all the things that are second nature to me. And the uniform of the Lazarev Institute is the best of all: red coat, gold collar, a slender gilt sword, and kid gloves even on week-days. A man has to wear uniform, or the Russians despise him. And if the Russians despise me Nino will not take me for her husband. But I must marry Nino, even though she is a Christian. Georgian women are the most beautiful in the world. And if she refuses? Well, then I’ll get some gallant men, throw her across my saddle, and off we go over the Persian border to Teheran. There she will give in, what else can she do? Life was beautiful and simple, seen from the roof of our house in Baku.

Kerim, the servant, touched my shoulder. ‘It is time,’ he said. I rose. On the horizon, beyond the Island of Nargin, a steamboat appeared. If one could trust a printed slip of paper, delivered by the Christian telegraph messenger, then my uncle was on that boat with his three wives and two eunuchs. I was to meet him. I ran down the stairs to the waiting carriage. Quickly we drove to the noisy port.

My uncle was a person of distinction. Shah Nasr-ed-Din had graciously bestowed upon him the title Assad-ed-Dawleh—‘Lion of the Empire’, and now no one was allowed to address him in any other form. He had three wives, many servants, a palace in Teheran and big estates in Mazendaran. He came to Baku because one of his wives, little Zeinab, was ill. She was only eighteen, and my uncle loved her more than his other wives. But she could not have any children, and just from her my uncle wanted an heir. Neither the amulets given to her by the dervishes of Kerbela, nor the magic words of the wise men of Meshed, nor the old women of Teheran, experienced as they might be in the arts of love had helped her. She had even made the journey to Hamadan. There stands, hewn from the red stone, the giant statue of a lion, staring forever across the vast desert with strange, mysterious eyes. It was erected by old, half forgotten kings. For many centuries women have made the pilgrimage to this lion, kissed his mighty member and hoped for motherhood and the blessing of children. Poor Zeinab had not been helped by the lion.

Now she was coming to Baku, seeking the skill of Western doctors. Poor uncle! He had to take along the two other wives, old and unloved as they were. For thus custom decrees: ‘You may have one, two, three or four wives, if you treat them equally.’ Treating them equally means giving the same to all, for instance a journey to Baku.

But really all this had nothing to do with me. The women’s place is in the anderun, in the inner part of the house. A well brought up man does not talk of them, nor does he enquire after them or ask to give them his regards. They are a man’s shadow, even if the man only feels happy in the shadow. This is good and wise. We have a proverb in our country: ‘A woman has no more sense than an egg has hairs’. Creatures without sense must be watched, lest they bring disaster on themselves and others. I think this is a wise rule.

The little steamboat came to the landing stage. Hairy-chested broadly-built sailors put up the accommodation ladder. Passengers hurried out: Russians, Armenians, Jews, quickly, hastily, as if it were important not to lose a single minute. My uncle did not show himself. ‘Haste comes from the devil,’ he would say. Only after all other travellers had left did the neat figure of the ‘Lion of the Empire’ appear on deck. He wore a coat with silk lapels, a small black fur cap, and slippers. His broad beard and his nails were tinted with henna, in memory of the Martyr Hussein’s blood shed a thousand years ago for the true faith. His eyes were small and tired and his movements slow. Behind him, visibly agitated, walked three figures, sheathed in black veils: the wives. Then came the eunuchs: one with a face like a wise dried-up lizard, the other small, bloated and proud because he was the guardian of His Excellency’s honour. Slowly my uncle descended. I embraced him, reverently kissing his left shoulder, though strictly speaking this was not necessary in a public place. I did not waste a glance on the wives. We stepped into the carriage. Wives and eunuchs followed in covered equi-pages. Our entourage was such an impressive sight, that I ordered the driver to make a detour along the Esplanade, so the town might admire my uncle’s splendour.

Nino stood on the Esplanade and looked at me with laughing eyes. My uncle stroked his patrician beard and asked for news in town. ‘There is nothing much,’ I said, for I knew my duty was to start off with unimportant things, and only later to pass on to what really mattered. ‘Dadash Beg has stabbed Achund Sadé to death last week, because Achund Sadé came back to town although he knew the danger, having kidnapped Dadash Beg’s wife eight years ago. He was stabbed on the day he came. Now the police are looking for Dadash Beg. But they won’t find him, although everybody knows that he is in the village of Mardakjany. Wise men say Dadash Beg has done well.’ Uncle nodded, he agreed. Was there any other news? ‘Yes. The Russians have found much new oil in Bibi-Eibat. The great firm of Nobel has brought a big German machine into the country, to fill up part of the sea, and drill for oil.’ Uncle was very surprised. ‘Allah, Allah’, he said, and pursed his lips in a worried frown. ‘… at home everything is all right, and God willing I shall leave the House of Learning in a week’s time.’

I went on talking, and the old man listened attentively. Only when the carriage drew near our house I looked to the side and said indifferently: ‘A famous doctor from Russia has arrived in town. People say his knowledge is great, that he sees past and present in people’s faces, and that from this he can predict the future.’ Uncle’s eyes were closed in noble boredom. Quite detachedly he asked for the wise man’s name, and I saw that he was very satisfied with me. For all this was what we called Good Manners and Aristocratic Upbringing.

2

On the flat roof, soft, many-coloured, grotesquely barbarian patterned rugs were spread out, and we sat on them cross-legged, sheltered from the wind: my father, my uncle and I. Servants stood behind us, holding lanterns. Before us on the carpet a whole collection of oriental delicacies tempted us: honey cakes, candied fruit, shish kebab, and rice with chicken and currants. I admired my father’s and my uncle’s elegance, as I often had before. Without moving their left hands at all they tore off large pieces of black bread, formed them into cones and lifted them to the mouth. With exemplary grace my uncle put two fingers and the thumb of his right hand into the greasy steaming rice, took some of it, squeezed it into a ball and put this into his mouth without losing a single grain. Why are the Russians so conceited about their art of eating with knife and fork? Even the most stupid person can learn this within a month. I eat quite easily with knife and fork and know how to behave at a European table. But even though I am already eighteen, I cannot eat the many courses of oriental dishes with complete aristocratic grace, as my father and my uncle do, using only two fingers and the thumb of the right hand, and not drop a morsel, not even into the palms of their hands. Nino says our way of eating is barbaric. In the Kipiani’s house they always eat at table, the European way. In my home we do this only when we have Russian guests, and Nino is horrified at the thought of my sitting on the floor, eating with my hand. She forgets that her own father was already twenty years old when he took his first fork into his hand.

The meal was finished. We washed our hands, and uncle said a short prayer. Then the food was taken away. Tiny cups of strong, dark tea were served, and my uncle started to talk as old people do after a good meal—circumloquacious and a little garrulous. My father did not say much, and I said nothing at all, because that is the custom. As always when he came to Baku, my uncle talked of the times the great Nasr-ed-Din Shah had reigned, when he himself had played a very important, if to me not quite clearly defined, role at the court. ‘For thirty years,’ my uncle said, ‘I sat on the King of King’s carpet of favour. Three times His Majesty took me with him on his travels abroad. During these travels I came to know the world of the unbelievers better than anyone else. We visited the palaces of Kings and Kaisers and met the most renowned Christians of that time. It is a strange world, and the strangest thing of all is the way they treat their women. Women, even the Kaisers’ and Kings’ women, walk about the palaces naked, and nobody is disgusted. Perhaps this is because Christians are not real men, perhaps for some other reason, God only knows. But in contradiction to this the unbelievers are disgusted by quite harmless things. One day His Majesty was invited to a banquet at the Czar’s palace. The Czarina sat next to him. On His Majesty’s plate was a very nice piece of chicken. To show his courtesy His Majesty took this nice fat piece very elegantly with two fingers and thumb and put it on the Czarina’s plate. The Czarina went quite white, and began to cough, she was so frightened. Later we heard that many courtiers and princes at the Czar’s palace were quite appalled by the Shah’s amiability. So low is the European’s estimate of their women!

They show their nakedness to the whole world, but do not bother to be courteous to them. After the meal the French Ambassador was even allowed to embrace the Czar’s wife and circle round the hall to the sounds of horrible music. The Czar himself and the officers of his guard looked on, but nobody defended the Czar’s honour. In Berlin we saw something even more strange. We were taken to an opera, called ‘L’Africaine’. On the stage stood a very fat woman and sang dreadfully. We disliked the woman’s voice very much. Kaiser Wilhelm noticed this and punished the woman on the spot. In the last act many negroes came and erected a big pyre. The woman was bound hand and foot and slowly burnt to death. We were very pleased about that. Later somebody told us that the fire had been only symbolical. But we did not believe this, for the woman shrieked just as terribly as the heretic Hürriet ül Ain, whom the Shah had had burnt to death in Teheran just before we set out on our journey.’

For some time uncle sat, silently lost in his thoughts and memories. Then he sighed deeply and continued: ‘There is one thing I cannot understand about the Christians. They have the best weapons, the best soldiers and the best factories, in which they produce everything they need to conquer their enemies. Every man who invents something to kill other people easily, quickly and in as great numbers as possible is highly praised, he makes much money and a decoration is bestowed on him. That is good and right. War must be. But on the other hand the Europeans build many hospitals, and a man who during a war cures and feeds enemy soldiers is also praised and decorated. The Shah, my illustrious master, was always puzzled to see that men who do the opposite of each other are equally highly rewarded. Once he had a talk about this with the Emperor in Vienna, but it was impossible to get an explanation for this absurd behaviour. And yet the Europeans despise us, because we are allowed to have four wives, even though they have often more than four themselves, and because we live and reign the way God ordered us to.’

Uncle fell silent. The night was dark. His shadow looked like an old thin bird. He straightened his back, coughed, as old men do, and said fervently: ‘But even so, though we do everything our God commands us and the Europeans do nothing of what their God commands, their