The terrified doctor picked up his bag and scuttled toward the door. And I went after my mother, who was on her way out. Just at the last moment I glanced over at Layli and took with me the memory of her tear-filled eyes.
Most of the way back to our house, I could hear Dear Uncle’s voice explaining the strategy for searching for a thief.
The search by Dear Uncle and his helpers got nowhere; no sign of any thief was found, and half an hour later the noise and confusion died down.
I was so upset that I couldn’t sleep.
There could be no doubt that Puri had ruined the whole family’s efforts to settle the quarrel between Dear Uncle and my father. It was clear from his reactions on Dear Uncle’s verandah that it was he who had told Dear Uncle about the agreement with Dr. Naser al-Hokama. I wished I could have smashed his buck teeth in. Despicable creep! Tattletale! I just hoped that uncle colonel would realize his son’s treachery. If he didn’t, I’d have to tell him.
Although I hadn’t slept for half the night, in the morning I woke earlier than on any other day. The rest of the household was still not awake. Without making any noise, I went into the garden.
When I saw Mash Qasem, who was watering the flowers, I stood rooted to the spot in astonishment. He had his trousers rolled up to below his knees and Dear Uncle’s double-barrelled shotgun on his shoulder; in this state he was deeply absorbed in what he was doing.
“Mash Qasem, what’s the gun for?”
Mash Qasem looked around cautiously and said, “M’dear, get back to your own house, quick!”
“Why, Mash Qasem? What’s happened?”
“Today’s a bad day. Today’s Judgment Day. Tell your Mom and Dad not to come over this way either.”
“But why? Has something happened, Mash Qasem?”
“Well now, why should I lie . . . today I’m really worried. The Master’s given orders that if any one of you crosses over to this side of this walnut tree, I’ve to shoot him through the heart.”
If it weren’t for Mash Qasem’s serious face and flinty gaze I’d have thought he was joking. Shifting the gun about on his shoulder he said, “Early this morning Abbas—the pigeon-fancier feller—brought in last night’s thief, he’d been jumpin’ down from the roof of our house.”
“What did you do with him?”
“Well now, why should I lie? The Master wanted to kill him on the spot, but I put in a good word for him . . . now we’ve tied him up with a rope and he’s a prisoner in the cellar; I’m his guard.”
“In the cellar? Why didn’t you turn him over to the police?”
“You don’t know the half of it yet . . . the Master’s ready to string him up on a gallows in this garden this very day!”
For a moment I stood there, silent and horrified. Mash Qasem once again glanced this way and that and said, “And you mustn’t talk to me too much neither . . . if the Master hears I’ve been talkin’ with you he might do away with me, too.”
“But Mash Qasem, what has catching the thief got to do with us? Why is Dear Uncle so mad at us?”
Mash Qasem nodded his head and said, “What’s it got to do with you, m’dear? If you only knew who the thief was, then you’d realize what a pretty pass things have got to. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear . . . God help us all . . . God willing, it’ll all turn out right.”
Extremely worried, I asked him, “Who’s the thief, Mash Qasem? What did he steal?”
“Well, why should I lie . . . to the grave it’s only ah . . . ah . . . Oh my God, the Master’s comin’ . . . out of here, quick, off you go . . . you’re too young to die, off you go . . . or hide in this boxtree!”
As Mash Qasem saw that there was no opportunity for me to get away, he pushed me toward a huge boxtree, in which it was possible to hide myself among the leaves, while he busied himself with the flowers. When Dear Uncle got close to Mash Qasem I was horrified to see how stern his face was. As soon as he opened his mouth to speak, I realized from his tone of voice that he was extremely angry.
“Qasem, weren’t you supposed to stand guard over the thief? Is this the time for this business?”
“Not to worry, sir, I can keep me eyes on him from here.”
“How can you keep your eyes on the thief from here when he’s in the cellar?”
“Every minute I go and take a peek at him. Now what do you want to do with him, sir? We can’t leave him without bread and water, and there’s an expense in keeping him. How about we give him to the cops and then we’ll all be rid of him?”
“Give him to the police? I’m not letting him go till I get a confession out of him. In particular, my guess is he was put up to it by that fellow!”
As he said “that fellow” Dear Uncle pointed toward our house.
At this moment I felt how uncomfortable Mash Qasem was and I saw him glance over toward the boxtree where I was hidden among its leaves. Dear Uncle continued, “This Hamdullah was his servant for two or three years . . . and he wasn’t a thief, either. He was a very upright, God-fearing man, and now this same man comes to my house as a thief! There’s no doubt he was put up to it; there’s no doubt there’s a plot involved.”
“Well, sir, why should I lie, to the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . what I say is he’s out of work . . . on his uppers, and he came to see if he couldn’t improve his prospects a bit . . .”
For a while Dear Uncle stood there silent and deep in thought. Mash Qasem busied himself with his work, but every now and then he glanced over at my hiding place.
Suddenly Dear Uncle said in a hoarse voice, “You know, Mash Qasem, now I’m worried about that malicious fellow’s blabbering foul mouth.”
“Who, sir?”
Dear Uncle pointed at our house.
“He’s already done more than enough dishonorable things for one person—what does he care about someone’s honor. I’m afraid he’ll go around telling people whatever comes into his head.”
Mash Qasem nodded and said, “Well, sir, when people argue, it’s no friendly picnic.”
And then, as though trying to change the subject because he didn’t want the conversation to reach too delicate a stage in front of a witness who, though he was hidden, was there all the same, he observed, “How would it be if you was to forget all about these remarks . . . to kiss and make up and have everything turn out fine for everyone?”
“Me, make up with that fellow?”
There was such violence and anger in Dear Uncle’s question that Mash Qasem answered in fear, “Didn’t say a word, sir, no, there’s no way you could make up . . . he’s really acted shameful to you, sir.”
“But I’m still afraid he’ll go around telling people the first rubbish that comes into his head.”
“Well, sir, as far as I know, whatever you wanted to say you’ve said to each other.”
Dear Uncle impatiently said, “Why can’t you understand . . . you remember what happened last night . . . I felt a little indisposed, I had a kind of attack . . . you remember what he said while he was leaving?”
“Well, sir, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . I don’t remember nothin’.”
“How can you not remember? He said something that meant I’d been afraid of the thief.”
“God forbid! You? Afraid?”
“Exactly! Even if no one else knows, you who’ve been everywhere in battle with me and on my journeys and different adventures, you know better than anyone that the word ‘fear’ has no place in my vocabulary.”
“Well, sir, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . As God’s my witness, no one can lay that one on you, sir. I remember Soltanali Khan, God rest his soul, sayin’ before the Battle of Kazerun that the Master’s so headstrong and fearless it’ll land him in trouble. You remember that night when the thieves attacked our tents . . . it’s lik
e it was yesterday . . . my God, with one bullet you made three of them thieves bite the dust . . .”
“And they were the savage pitiless thieves of those days . . . compared to them the thieves nowadays are babes still wet round the ears!”
Excitedly Mash Qasem said, “And besides, me who was so brave and wild—well, it’s no secret from God, so why should it be a secret from you—I was really afraid that night. That boss of the thieves, how he fell at your feet afterwards all weak and pleading . . . it’s like it was yesterday . . . wasn’t his name Seyed Morad?”
“Oh yes, I’ve seen these Seyed Morads, all right.”
“May he rot in hell. What a cruel, filthy bastard he was.”
Mash Qasem had become so excited that it seemed he’d forgotten I was nearby. Dear Uncle’s face was shining, too. From their glowing, rapt faces I felt that neither of them had the slightest doubt as to the truth of what they were saying; it was as if they saw the scenes and people before their eyes with complete clarity.
For a few moments both of them silently gazed into the distance, their faces lit up and smiling. Dear Uncle suddenly came to himself; once again he frowned and said, “But, Mash Qasem, you and I know these things . . . if . . . if that foulmouthed fellow and that simpleminded doctor go around saying so-and-so fainted because he was afraid of a thief, then what’s to become of years of my honor and reputation?”
“Who’d believe them, sir? Who in this kingdom doesn’t know about your grit and guts?”
“People believe their eyes and ears, and I’m sure that fellow will stop at nothing to harm my status and prestige.”
It seems that Mash Qasem once more remembered that I was hidden among the branches of the boxtree. He cast a sidelong glance toward the boxtree and said, “We can talk about it later. Up till now nothing’s happened.”
“Why are you talking such nonsense? Today they’ll be making a song and dance about it everywhere.”
“I’ll deny it . . . I’ll say the Master was unwell.”
“Yes, but . . .”
Dear Uncle was deep in thought. Mash Qasem went on, “I could say a snake bit the Master.”
“Why are you talking rubbish? If a snake bites someone, he’s not up and about the next day!”
“What do you mean he’s not up and about? There was a man in our town who . . .”
“All right, all right, there was a man in your town! Anyway, forget about the snake.”
Mash Qasem too was sunk in thought. “Aha, I’ve got it, sir. I’ll say the Master’d ate watermelon and honey together and he’d got a stomach cramp.”
Dear Uncle gave no answer but it was clear that hadn’t paid attention to this suggestion either.
After a few moments’ silence Mash Qasem suddenly said, “Sir, you know . . .”
“What do I know?”
“If you ask me it’s like it’s better we get rid of the thief and let him go.”
“We let the thief go? The thief?”
“If it gets around that we’ve caught the thief . . . then everyone’ll be talkin’ about the thief . . . and they’ll talk about what happened last night, too . . .”
“You’re talking nonsense!”
“Well, it’s nothin’ to do with me, but if you was to let this thief go, it’d be better, then this other bad business will go too. Right now no one except the pigeon fancier knows we’ve caught the thief . . . meanin’ no stranger knows . . . and the pigeon fancier won’t say nothin’ behind our backs.”
Dear Uncle was deep in thought. After a long silence he said, “You are right, Qasem. Forgiveness and magnanimity have always been customary in our family, and it’s likely this poor devil did what he did out of the pressure of poverty. For the sake of his children it’s better we overlook his sins.”
Again Dear Uncle was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Now do a good act and open the floodgates—God will reward you, it’s bread upon the waters. Quick, Qasem, free his arms and legs and tell him to make a run for it. Be careful to say to him, ‘I’m doing this on my own, and if the Master finds out, he’ll skin me alive.’”
Mash Qasem hurried to carry out his master’s orders and Dear Uncle started walking up and down, deep in thought.
A few minutes later Mash Qasem, the shotgun still on his shoulder, returned to Dear Uncle, who was sitting on a bench in the arbor formed by the sweetbrier. Mash Qasem had a satisfied smile on his lips. “God keep you in your generosity! You don’t know how thankful he was! It’s like your blood was made of generosity. If you remember, after Seyed Morad’d begged and pleaded a bit, you let him off, and besides that you gave him enough cash to find his way home.”
Dear Uncle was staring at the branches of the walnut tree; in a regretful voice he said, “But Qasem, who knows the value of such things? Perhaps it would have been better if I’d been merciless and cruel like all the others. Perhaps this is the reason I haven’t done so well in my life.”
“Don’t say such things, sir . . . what I know is what everyone knows, it was because of them there foreigners . . . just a couple of days ago in the bazaar they was talkin’ about you and I said if the English hadn’t been against the Master, there wasn’t nothin’ he couldn’t have done.”
“Yes, if it wasn’t for the power of the English I could have done many things.”
Mash Qasem, who had heard so many times from Dear Uncle’s own lips the whole story of how the English hated him that he knew it by heart, nevertheless asked, “But now, truly, sir, why do them English hate you so much?”
“That hypocritical wolf called England hates everyone who loves the soil and water of his own country. What sin had Napoleon committed that they harried him like that? That they separated him from his wife and children like that? That they broke his spirit like that so that he died of grief? Just that he loved his country. And this for them is a great sin!”
Dear Uncle spoke with vehement passion and Mash Qasem meanwhile was nodding his head and muttering curses, “Now by the sacred Ali, may sweet water never pass down their throats . . .”
“Their enmity for me started when they saw that I love my country . . . I’m a freedom fighter . . . a supporter of the Constitution . . .”
I was getting really tired in my hiding place. My feet had gone to sleep. I tried to shift my position a bit without making any noise but a sudden development stopped me.
It seems that my father had heard the sound of Dear Uncle’s and Mash Qasem’s conversation and had slowly got himself close to the arbor made by the sweetbrier bush. My heart was in my mouth. O God, what was going to happen now? From where I was, I could see my father but, from where they were behind the clustering sweetbrier branches, Dear Uncle and Mash Qasem couldn’t see him. There was no doubt that my father had quietly got himself close to them in order to hear their conversation. God help us all!
Dear Uncle was talking about his own self-sacrifice during the Constitutional Revolution. “Now everyone’s a supporter of the Constitution . . . everyone pretends that they struggled for the Constitution . . . but I say nothing, and I’m forgotten.”
At this moment an ear-splitting guffaw suddenly burst from my father’s throat and, in the midst of his forced laughter, he called out, “So Colonel Liakhoff’s Cossaks have become heroes of the Constitutional Revolution now, have they!”
There was a screen of sweetbrier between them. Appalled, I twisted my neck round to see Dear Uncle’s reaction. He had gone purple. All the muscles of his face were contracted. For a few moments he didn’t move. Suddenly he jumped up and rushed toward Mash Qasem. In a voice half strangled by the intensity of his fury he yelled, “The gun . . . Qasem, the gun!”
And he reached out his hand to grab the gun from Mash Qasem.
“I told you, the gun!”
With a shrug of his shoulder Mash Qasem slipped
the gun’s sling down to his hand. With one hand he held the gun behind his head and placed the other against Dear Uncle’s chest so that he couldn’t come any closer.
It seems that from the terrifying tone of Dear Uncle’s voice my father had seen which way the wind was blowing and he quickly made himself scarce. Again Dear Uncle screamed, “Idiot, traitor, I said give me the gun!”
With a quick movement Mash Qasem got himself free of Dear Uncle’s grip and, with the gun in his hand, took to his heels. Like a man possessed Dear Uncle set off after him through the garden trees.
While he was running Mash Qasem shouted, “Sir, for the sake of the blessed Ali, forgive him . . . sir, on the souls of your children . . . he was wrong, he didn’t know what he was doing!”
The garden was very big and there was plenty of room to run in. Mash Qasem ran with a weird nimbleness and Dear Uncle ran puffing after him. Suddenly Mash Qasem’s foot caught on a dry branch; he fell and the sound of a shot rang out.
“Aggghhh, I’m dead . . . aggghhh, God help me.”
The sound of Mash Qasem’s voice jolted me out of my bewildered state and I ran quickly toward him. Dear Uncle was standing over the motionless body of Mash Qasem, who had fallen on the shotgun.
“Sir, oh sir, you’ve killed your Qasem!”
Dear Uncle bent over to lift him but Mash Qasem with a heart-rending cry said, “No . . . no . . . don’t touch me, sir . . . I want to die right here.”
Dear Uncle pulled his hand back and as he saw me standing nearby shouted, “Dear boy, run and fetch Dr. Naser al-Hokama . . . run, run, boy!”
With a lump in my throat I ran as fast as I could toward Dr. Naser al-Hokama’s house. Fortunately at that precise moment he was coming out of his house with his doctor’s bag in his hand, as though he was going to pay a house call.
“Doctor, run! Mash Qasem’s been shot!”
Uncle colonel’s servant was standing at the door to the garden explaining to the curious passersby who had heard the shot that it was nothing, just a firecracker that had gone off in one of the children’s hands. We entered the garden and closed the door.
My Uncle Napoleon Page 7
