large, brawny, jovial man, with high cheekbones, a snub nose and a villainous black moustache that curled downwards round the corners of his mouth. The sweat ran down his brown body in streams as he hammered away. Round him a typical Eastern crowd of Tartars, with here and there a Russian, had gathered to look on and exchange gossip.
The sight of the horse he was shoeing, a sturdy Tartar pony, gave me an idea. I asked him if he or its owner could let me have it for a day or two. ‘What will you pay?’ he asked immediately. As I had suspected, he did a sideline in horse dealing.
Finally, after a good deal of talk, in which most of the crowd took part, making suggestions and offering advice, I got what I wanted and, accompanied by a friendly Tartar onlooker, set out in the direction of the mountains where, my companion told me, the Moslem villagers lived their own life relatively undisturbed by the doctrines of Marx and Lenin.
It was a fine day, the horses were not bad and I jogged along contentedly enough. Soon we had left the orchards and tea plantations behind us and were riding along a dry river bed, with, on either side, a tangled mass of semi-tropical vegetation. A snake slipped out of the bushes and slid across our path; a brightly coloured bird flew out of a tree, its wings flashing in the sunlight. I had, I felt, left Europe far behind.
After we had been riding some hours, I noticed a troop of cavalry riding across country at full gallop. They were some distance away and I watched them with interest. They were well mounted and were, I noticed, wearing the uniform of the N.K.V.D. Special Troops. They seemed to be heading in our direction. Suddenly, a broad circlingmovement brought them face to face with us. Then, before I had taken in what was happening, I found myself staring down the barrels of a pistol and half a dozen rifles. ‘Hands up,’ said the officer, and up went my hands.
I took advantage of the somewhat embarrassing pause which now ensued to explain to my captor, a shifty-looking little Tartar, that I was a diplomat and could therefore not be arrested. Did he know what a diplomat was? To this he replied, his foolish face suddenly crafty, that he knew only too well and that if I went on arguing he would shoot me on the spot instead of waiting till we got home. I said that if he did the consequences would be very unpleasant for him, to which he replied that they would be even more unpleasant for me.
This argument struck me as convincing and I relapsed into a gloomy silence. Then, with my hands above my head, a revolver in the small of my back and two rifles still covering me, we set out on the return journey to Lenkoran.
After we had ridden for two or three miles I thought it time to bring up once more the question of my diplomatic immunity. A first attempt to extract a Soviet diplomatic pass which I was carrying from my note case gave rise to more play with the revolver, but in the end I induced my captor to take it out for me and look at it. It did not, however, produce on him the effect for which I had hoped. Indeed it produced no effect at all and finally after a little hedging he admitted that he could not read Russian, or, as he put it, in his best Soviet official jargon, was ‘illiterate as far as Russian is concerned’. I replied that until he could find someone who could read Russian well enough to decipher my card I proposed to answer no questions. (He was anxious to know what I was doing on a horse so near the Persian frontier.) ‘Wait and see,’ he replied proudly, ‘at N.K.V.D. headquarters we shall find any number of people who can read Russian.’ Once again we relapsed into silence.
On our arrival the entire force was paraded and each man inspected my card in turn but without success. By this time a certain embarrassment had become evident amongst my captors, and seeing that I had them at a disadvantage, I made some scarcely veiled allusions to the lack of culture prevalent.
The sight of the horse he was shoeing, a sturdy Tartar pony, gave me an idea. I asked him if he or its owner could let me have it for a day or two. ‘What will you pay?’ he asked immediately. As I had suspected, he did a sideline in horse dealing.
Finally, after a good deal of talk, in which most of the crowd took part, making suggestions and offering advice, I got what I wanted and, accompanied by a friendly Tartar onlooker, set out in the direction of the mountains where, my companion told me, the Moslem villagers lived their own life relatively undisturbed by the doctrines of Marx and Lenin.
It was a fine day, the horses were not bad and I jogged along contentedly enough. Soon we had left the orchards and tea plantations behind us and were riding along a dry river bed, with, on either side, a tangled mass of semi-tropical vegetation. A snake slipped out of the bushes and slid across our path; a brightly coloured bird flew out of a tree, its wings flashing in the sunlight. I had, I felt, left Europe far behind.
After we had been riding some hours, I noticed a troop of cavalry riding across country at full gallop. They were some distance away and I watched them with interest. They were well mounted and were, I noticed, wearing the uniform of the N.K.V.D. Special Troops. They seemed to be heading in our direction. Suddenly, a broad circlingmovement brought them face to face with us. Then, before I had taken in what was happening, I found myself staring down the barrels of a pistol and half a dozen rifles. ‘Hands up,’ said the officer, and up went my hands.
I took advantage of the somewhat embarrassing pause which now ensued to explain to my captor, a shifty-looking little Tartar, that I was a diplomat and could therefore not be arrested. Did he know what a diplomat was? To this he replied, his foolish face suddenly crafty, that he knew only too well and that if I went on arguing he would shoot me on the spot instead of waiting till we got home. I said that if he did the consequences would be very unpleasant for him, to which he replied that they would be even more unpleasant for me.
This argument struck me as convincing and I relapsed into a gloomy silence. Then, with my hands above my head, a revolver in the small of my back and two rifles still covering me, we set out on the return journey to Lenkoran.
After we had ridden for two or three miles I thought it time to bring up once more the question of my diplomatic immunity. A first attempt to extract a Soviet diplomatic pass which I was carrying from my note case gave rise to more play with the revolver, but in the end I induced my captor to take it out for me and look at it. It did not, however, produce on him the effect for which I had hoped. Indeed it produced no effect at all and finally after a little hedging he admitted that he could not read Russian, or, as he put it, in his best Soviet official jargon, was ‘illiterate as far as Russian is concerned’. I replied that until he could find someone who could read Russian well enough to decipher my card I proposed to answer no questions. (He was anxious to know what I was doing on a horse so near the Persian frontier.) ‘Wait and see,’ he replied proudly, ‘at N.K.V.D. headquarters we shall find any number of people who can read Russian.’ Once again we relapsed into silence.
On our arrival the entire force was paraded and each man inspected my card in turn but without success. By this time a certain embarrassment had become evident amongst my captors, and seeing that I had them at a disadvantage, I made some scarcely veiled allusions to the lack of culture prevalent.
Similar Books
