• an extract from RAGAZZO, published September 2024 by Alien Rabbit

Katsoumi Tabatabee was the son of the Persian revolutionary Mohammad Tabatabee, who became obsessed with overturning the Monarchy when some sugar merchants were punished by having their feet beaten for refusing to lower their prices. For ten years, until the final establishment of the Majlis, the Persian parliament, this genuinely liberal man fought for a form of democracy in a country riddled with poverty and privilege. 

            And as an advocate of Western Democracy, Big Daddy ensured that his boy children were taught languages, mathematics, politics and science at Teheran’s famous International School.  He was far too busy attending meetings, leading demonstrations and writing articles in newspapers to do other than occasionally barking at them in the few hours he spent at home. 

Being his son was hard cheese. Or soft cheese. Panir, as they call it. Soft and crumbly, full of holes and in poor Tabby Kat’s case (the name was given to him by Roland Grieve, the son of the British Consul) full of worms. For much of the boy’s schooling at the International School in Tehran, the name chased him around the quadrangle, sought him out in notes sneaked into his pocket, even followed him in whispers to the one place he should have felt safe, the toilet block. In class, a plaintive miaow would trickle out of a mouth, waft like a barely discernible scent over to the cringing boy where he would feel suffocated by it and desperate to escape.

            As a boy there can be no doubt Katsoumi was somewhat feline. As slim and svelte as a starved panther, he didn’t so much move as slink. Partly, this was learned as an attempt to remain invisible, to blend into the dappled shadows of the tree-lined quadrangle. Mostly it was an attempt to escape the shabby overwhelming reality of his victimhood. 

            Roland was his tormentor-in chief. Tall for his age, Roland had the nervous energy of a rabid dog and the looks of a Borzoi. Always dressed elegantly and impeccably, he would have been regarded as effete by the other boys if he hadn’t always been so very manic. So much so, in fact, that his father hadn’t followed the usual practice of British Diplomats abroad and sent the boy to an exclusive Public School as a boarder. ‘I want him by me! You never know what the blighter will do next!’ he would say if you were to ask. Besides, the International School in Tehran was an excellent educational establishment which based its curriculum and ethos on the Public Schools of England. The Grand Master (too grand to be called High Master or Headmaster) had once been a Deputy at St Paul’s in London. The boys there were not just the sons of diplomats, but princes and sons of the aristocratic elite.

            The son of a cleric and revolutionary would never feel comfortable here in the very throat of the Establishment, and Roland was certainly going to make him know it.

            For his part, papa Tabatabee, if you were to ask this: ‘Tell me papa T, how can you have your son educated at such an establishment where the establishment of the establishment learn how to oppress the people?’ he would reply ‘Know thy enemy! The boy will learn how they think! What they think! And will know how to undermine them, right?’ Or perhaps, wrong.

            When Katsoumi came home bruised, or muddy, or even once with a black eye, would Papa regret sending him there? Or even ask how it happened? Mama would, sometimes, but would Papa listen to her? Or would he just say, ‘The boy must toughen up! These are bad people. I am abused every day! Do I cry about it? Until there is a democratic parliament in this country…’ Yes he would. And then launch into a rant on politics and freedom and the great legacy for the Persian peoples and Mama would shut her ears and long for a sweet swift death. Then he would find Katsoumi and say ‘Khak too Saret!’ Idiot. Shame on you. And go off to a meeting.

            As he grew up in all this misery, Katsoumi would take refuge in reading history. Yes, including Herodotus and Xenophon – in this, he was so similar to Guido. But what interested him most was the glimpse these writers afforded into ancient Persia. Into the Persian Empire before Mohamed, before Christ or the Sassanids. The great kings Cyrus, Darius, Xerxes. Yet there were no modern writers who had satisfactorily – and more pertinent, unbiasedly researched and recorded the history of what was once the greatest empire in the world.  

I am so fascinated by Persian history I wrote the music for two operas about ancient Persia. When I wrote the music for Serse (Xerxes), and Siroe if only I had Google then I could tell those librettists what ignorant idiots they are. (Very well I admit I adapted the libretto of Serse myself. It was so humourless I had to. This is a secret. No-one liked it at first.) 

Archaeological discoveries were happening all the time. Cuneiform, the ancient script of the lands between the Tigris and the Euphrates, had been deciphered 50 years ago. But where were the translations? Where had all the clay tablets been gathered and used as source material for a real history of these ancient lands?

All he wanted to do with his life was to become the greatest historian in Persia, and to produce volumes of history based on fact and research. But first he needed to kill Roland.

The desire started as a sparklet of light in his dark world as he lay weeping on his bed, blood and sand spattering the milk-white pillow. The encounter with Roland after school had been ugly.

How to kill him.

The Persian princes at the ancient court were taught to ride, shoot a straight arrow, and tell the truth. 

He would shoot him with an arrow! He could lurk unseen behind a wall or a bush, bow and arrow ready, whoosh! Then vanish!

There was a peremptory knock at the door. Enter Muhamad Tabatabee, the father himself.

Dad: Boy! Get up! Why aren’t you studying!

Son: I was reading – 

Dad: What is this. (Whips a book off the bed) Thucydides? What will that tell you. I told you read Plato. Did you pray this afternoon?

Son: (Lying) Yes.

Dad: Wash your face! You look dirty. By God, you are… (removes a package from the bag he’s carrying)…it’s time for you to be a man. A man! Do you know where I was this last week?

Son: No father.

Dad: Indonesia. For a meeting with the most powerful people in the world. I brought you a present. Stand straight!

Son: ? (Dad hardly ever brought presents. This was absolutely out of character.)

(Muhamad Tabatabee unwraps the Kris, nestled in its decorated leather scabbard. Drops the wrapping paper onto the floor.)

Dad: Do you know what this is? (Slowly, he withdraws the knife from the scabbard. The blade glows. He turns it this way and that, so that a sparkle of lethal light jumps from the zigzag of the blade across walls, floor and ceiling. The boy gasps.)

Son: (Awed) It’s a knife.

Father: When a boy is grown in Persia his father gives him a sword to defend his Faith, to defend his country. You are fourteen, so you get a knife. It will save you from your nemesis. The sword comes later. 

(He returns the knife to the sheath and then with both hands, passes it ceremoniously to his son. There is a tear in the Father’s eye.)

Son: Thank you Father. Thank you God.

FOR THE WHOLE STORY, part of the tale of Guido, the Castrato, click here to BUY THE BOOK