My Uncle Napoleon

by Iraj Pezeshkzad

  “Dearest, darling, have some pity on yourself . . . if you say anything to that crazy fool Shir Ali, you’ll be the first person he’ll chop to pieces with his cleaver.”

  “It’s not at all clear what I’m going to say to Shir Ali. First of all, if I want to tell him, I’ve other methods. Second, I’m not an underage child who doesn’t know what he’s doing. Third, I’ve no patience for more explanations. Fourth . . .”

  My father cut the conversation short and went about his business, and I went off to a quiet room to write a love letter which I’d already spent about twenty hours on and which still wasn’t ready to be sent.

  Toward noon the coming and going and various other noises emanating from the direction of Dear Uncle Napoleon’s house caught my attention.

  When I reached the garden I realized that something new and unexpected had happened. During the night Dustali Khan had disappeared. The previous night they’d prepared a room in Dear Uncle’s house for him to sleep in, and he had slept there, but when they went to call him to come and eat breakfast in the morning, he couldn’t be found.

  On Dear Uncle’s orders people had either phoned or been to the house of everyone in the family, but not the slightest trace of Dustali Khan had been discovered.

  The search went on until the evening, but without result. Around sunset I heard Aziz al-Saltaneh screaming and went over toward Dear Uncle’s house. Dear Uncle had hidden himself, apparently because he was afraid of her, and since Aziz al-Saltaneh could find only Mash Qasem, she had made him the target of a furious attack. “You’ve destroyed my husband . . . you’ve wiped him off the face of the earth . . . I’ll have my revenge on the lot of you . . . my poor husband . . . maybe you’ve killed him . . . maybe you’ve thrown him down a well . . . Dustali wasn’t the kind of man to go off somewhere. O God, where is he?”

  “Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . What I’ve seen with my own eyes is this, that your husband went in this room to sleep. Maybe he went to get a bit of air. I swear to God the Master’s even more upset than you!”

  “Talk sense, man, in a long nightshirt where’s he going to go to get some air?”

  And finally shaking her finger at him in a threatening manner, she said, “Tell your master, last night you kept my husband here by force; wherever you’ve hidden him you have to produce him safe and sound and hand him over to me and if you don’t, tomorrow I’ll go to the magistrate, I’ll go and lodge a complaint, I’ll go and stand in front of the minister of justice’s car.”

  Then she slammed the door leading into the inner apartments and set off for the garden door. When she was nearly at the garden door my father appeared—I’ve no idea from where—in front of her. “My dear lady, please calm yourself a little . . . Dustali Khan is not the kind of person to go very far . . . do come and have some tea . . . no, no, I won’t take no for an answer, you’ve got to come and have some tea.”

  Aziz al-Saltaneh suddenly burst into tears and, as she was walking with my father toward our house, sobbed out, “I know they’ve hidden him somewhere. From the beginning they couldn’t bear to see my husband’s and my life together . . .”

  As he was leading her into our reception room my father said, with every appearance of sympathy, “You poor thing! And poor Dustali Khan . . . but don’t be upset, he’s sure to turn up!”

  My father and Aziz al-Saltaneh went into the reception room and the door closed behind them. I waited for a while for them to come out. Since it was a long wait I went over to the door of the room and listened carefully. Aziz al-Saltaneh was saying, “You’re quite right . . . I have to say they’ve killed Dustali . . . they had real differences over property . . . until they’re forced to, they’re never going to confess where they’ve hidden Dustali . . . first thing tomorrow morning I’ll get started . . . you said Mr. Who?”

  My father quietly said a name to Aziz al-Saltaneh, and then a little louder he added, “In that same building where the mayor’s office is . . . when you go in you ask on the right for the office of criminal affairs.”

  After Aziz al-Saltaneh had gone, my father told our servant to go and invite Shir Ali for supper, but my mother started pleading and begged and beseeched so much that finally my father agreed to send the saucepan of rice and herbs and fish over to Shir Ali’s house.

  Not long passed before uncle colonel turned up. In all this business uncle colonel was the most innocent and put upon, since the trees and flowers belonging to his house were drying up completely. Up till that moment he’d been hopeful that my father’s lack of water would persuade him to be less aggressive, but my father had filled his pool and cistern and my uncle was going to have to put up with having no water for at least another week. A little window of hope opened in my heart when I saw uncle colonel. Finishing this quarrel would be to the advantage of both of us—he for his many flowers and I for my one flower, Layli.

  Uncle colonel’s requests and pleading got nowhere, and my father repeatedly said, “Until he apologizes to me, in front of the whole family, I am not ready to yield one inch.”

  And uncle colonel knew very well that his brother was not someone who was going to apologize, not at any price. Only in answer to his request that, since my father had filled his own pool and cistern, he’d let the water flow through to their house, did my uncle hear a more or less favorable answer. “If they send the water over to our house, maybe we’ll send it over to you as well.”

  And all the worries of uncle colonel—who’d repeatedly said “What are my flowers compared to your peace of mind? It’s our family unity I’m really upset about”—were laid to rest by this favorable promise, so that he went back to his house happy and smiling.

  However, before going back to his house he did extract an assurance from my father that he would, for the time being, forget about the matter of Dear Uncle Napoleon’s being terrified at the sight of a thief, until he had tried to get Dear Uncle to agree to an apology.

  When my father gave him this promise, I felt strongly that, in the midst of all this enmity and hostility, he missed playing backgammon with Dear Uncle Napoleon. Everyone in the family knew how to play this game, but my father and Dear Uncle would only play with one another, and from the moment the battle between them started, no one had heard the sound of backgammon being played, neither from Dear Uncle’s house nor from ours. The thread of my thoughts even led me to believe that, at the bottom of their hearts, they liked each other without their realizing it, but I laughed at this idiotic notion of mine.

  At the beginning of the evening my father went to see Dr. Naser al-Hokama. My mother seemed very preoccupied and upset. I went over to her. As soon as I broached the subject of these recent events the poor woman burst out sobbing and, with tears running down her face, said, “I swear to God I wish I were dead and free of this life.”

  I was deeply moved by my mother’s crying. When I saw that her grief and sorrow were so great I almost forgot my own sorrow.

  Still crying my mother said, “I’d wanted that when you were old enough . . . when you were twenty, that I’d arrange for you and Layli to be married.” I blushed with embarrassment. With difficulty I managed to restrain the tears that welled up in me.

  I went back to my room, deep in thought. I loved Layli. A serious difference had arisen between her father and mine and I had done nothing to resolve it. It’s true that a child of thirteen has no strength to do anything, but when he falls in love like an adult, then like an adult he’s got to do something to fight for his love. I thought for a long time. What could I do? I couldn’t order either my father or Dear Uncle to lay aside their differences. O God, I wished I were as old as Puri, uncle colonel’s son, then I’d have married Layli and we’d have gone away together, far from the atmosphere they’d created. But I was still just a child in years. But . . . but if I really concentrated, perhaps I could find a way to resolve the d
ifferences between my father and Dear Uncle . . . suddenly, I’d got it, I needed a helper, an ally!

  Whichever way I looked at it, I couldn’t think of anything or anyone except Mash Qasem. What was to prevent me from telling Mash Qasem—who was really a good man—and asking for his help? But would he be ready to help me?

  I stole a small coin from my mother’s bag and, with the excuse that I was going to buy a notebook, went off to the covered bazaar. I bought a candle and lit it at the drinking fountain in the bazaar. “O God, first forgive me for lighting a candle with stolen money; second, either help me solve the argument between my father and Dear Uncle, or you solve it.”

  But I was certain that if God wanted to help He would choose the second of these two ways of solving the problem. I knew this, and only said the first way out of politeness. And anyway, as a priority I asked God to find the lost Dustali.

  There was a knock at our door early in the morning. I jumped up from sleep at the sound. I listened carefully. I heard the pharmacist’s voice greeting my father and asking how he was.

  My father had a pharmacy in the covered bazaar and the pharmacist was in charge there. This meant he received a small monthly salary from my father and a share of the pharmacy’s profits. As a result, my father had nothing to do with the running of the pharmacy; he just collected the income at the end of the month. Worry and extreme agitation were apparent in the pharmacist’s voice, “Last night Seyed Abolqasem, the preacher, said from the pulpit in the mosque that the medicines and drugs in our pharmacy are all made with alcohol and that it’s religiously forbidden to use them . . . I don’t know what filthy bastard has stirred this up . . . I beg you to think of something today. This Seyed Abolqasem is a tenant of your wife’s brother, please have him do something about it because I’m sure that no one’s going to set foot in our pharmacy any more.”

  My father was silent and the pharmacist added, “It’s not just that now they won’t buy medicine from us; it’s quite possible the people in the area will set fire to the pharmacy and tear me to pieces!”

  When my father replied, I was terrified by the fury and malice that could be heard in his voice, “I know who has stirred this up, the shameless wretch! I’ll have my revenge on him in such a way that they won’t forget it for five generations. You carry on as normal until I’ve fixed him once and for all.”

  “But sir, I daren’t open the pharmacy today.”

  My father’s speech on the advantages of bravery and standing firm had no effect on the pharmacist and he wouldn’t budge from his position. Finally my father gave in and said, “All right, don’t open the pharmacy today and I’ll see what’s happening tomorrow . . . but stick a note on the door . . .”

  “What should I write on it?”

  “I don’t know but it should certainly have something religious about it. For example, write ‘Due to a pilgrimage to the sacred shrine in Qom . . . ,’ because if you don’t, they’ll think up some other trick.”

  “As you say, sir, but don’t forget to tell your wife’s brother to say something to this preacher.”

  Between clenched teeth my father said, “Yes, yes, I’ll certainly say something to my wife’s brother . . . in fact, I’ll fix my wife’s brother so that he won’t know what’s hit him or whether he’s coming or going.”

  The pharmacist, who apparently understood nothing of what my father was talking about, left, and my father busied himself in pacing up and down the yard.

  A deathly quiet reigned on the opposite front. It was as if, after their successful attack through Seyed Abolqasem the previous night, they were resting. There was no sign even of Mash Qasem. It looked as though he had watered the flowers early in the morning and then gone back to the house. This calm worried me. I went over to the door to the inner apartments of Dear Uncle’s house a few times but heard nothing. Finally I saw Mash Qasem in the alleyway; he’d bought some meat and was on his way home.

  “Mash Qasem, isn’t there any news about Dustali Khan?”

  “Well m’dear, why should I lie? It’s like the little fellow’d turned to smoke and disappeared into thin air . . . we’ve been every place we could go and no one’s seen hide nor hair of him.”

  “Mash Qasem, we’ve got to think of something. Today Mrs. alSaltaneh’s gone to lodge a complaint . . . they’ll think Dustali Khan’s been killed in your house.”

  “You don’t say so! Now it’s sure to be detectives and I don’t know what . . .” And he hurried on home and wouldn’t let me finish what I was saying.

  An hour later I saw Mash Qasem once again returning to the house. As soon as he saw me, he said, “M’dear, now I know that you want this row to be over and done with, too . . . well, the Master’s told everyone that if a detective comes they’re not to say a word about Dustali Khan’s knowin’ Shir Ali the butcher’s wife, nor that his wife wanted—God forbid—to cut off his privates. So don’t you be sayin’ nothin’ neither!”

  “Mash Qasem, you can be sure I won’t say anything, but . . .”Again Mash Qasem hurried home and wouldn’t let me say what I wanted to tell him.

  Around noon I heard Aziz al-Saltaneh making a racket in our yard and ran out. “Now they’ll realize just who it is they’re dealing with. And it so happens that the head of the criminal division turned out to be a friend of the late lamented . . . he said he’ll send Deputy Taymur here before noon . . . that’s the man who found Asghar the murderer and arrested him . . . and he was so polite to me, a real gentleman. He said, ‘Rest assured Deputy Taymur will find your husband dead or alive in one day.’ He said Deputy Taymur’s method of surprise attack is famous even in Europe!”

  My father took Aziz al-Saltaneh into the sitting room and shut the door. My curiosity wouldn’t let me just sit there and I got behind the door where I could eavesdrop.

  “My dear lady Aziz, my dear lady, take my word for it you have to insist that they’ve killed Dustali Khan . . . even say they’ve buried him under the big sweetbrier bush; if the officials make so much as a move toward that sweetbrier bush, they’ll confess where Dustali is because this man would die for that sweetbrier bush . . . he loves it more than his own children.”

  “But to bury someone the size of Dustali they’d have to dig a big pit at the foot of the sweetbrier. No one’s going to believe it when they see the ground under the bush hasn’t been disturbed.”

  “Don’t worry about that; I’m working on this because of my devotion to you and because of the concern I have that Dustali Khan be found soon. He really must be found soon because, as you know better than I do, they want you and Dustali Khan to separate; that old maid of a sister of theirs, who for years was supposed to marry Dustali Khan—they’re trying to fix him up with her again.”

  “Oh yes! In their dreams! The angel of death wouldn’t take that old maid of a sister of theirs. I’ll fix them good and proper so it’ll be a legend in their lifetime! First I’m going to settle accounts with the Master and then with the rest of them . . . especially that rotten ‘moment, moment’ brat.”

  A few minutes later Qamar, Aziz al-Saltaneh’s daughter, led Deputy Taymur into the garden.

  My father ran out to greet him, “Good day, sir . . . this way, please . . . heh boy, bring some tea.”

  “Very grateful, I’m sure, but no tea while I’m working!”

  Deputy Taymur refused my father’s offer of tea in a dry tone of voice. The deputy had a strange face. The features of his face and his hands were heavy and shapeless like those of a person suffering from elephantiasis; his pince-nez, perched on his huge face, seemed very tiny, and he spoke Persian with the accent of someone from the Indian subcontinent. Leaning on his cane and gazing steadily round the yard, he said, “If you’ll permit me to suggest . . . we’d better get down to work. Madam, I must request you to lead me to the scene of the crime.”

  “As you wish, please come this wa
y.”

  My father didn’t want to let the detective get away from him so easily. “Sir, if you will allow me, I can clarify the details of this case to you . . .”

  Deputy Taymur dryly cut him off, “If you’ll permit me to suggest . . . no clarification is necessary. If it becomes necessary, I shall question you later.”

  And he set off after Aziz al-Saltaneh in the direction of Dear Uncle’s house. Qamar and I set off after them. I threw caution to the winds. I had to know what was going on even at the risk of enraging Dear Uncle. Besides, I was hopeful that in this way I might see Layli for a moment.

  Mash Qasem opened the door of the inner apartments a crack. Aziz al-Saltaneh pushed him in the chest, “Out of the way. It’s the detective from the police.”

  Mash Qasem didn’t resist for a moment and stood aside. At that time not only people like Mash Qasem but also people who were considerably his social superiors respected police detectives.

  Deputy Taymur and Aziz al-Saltaneh and Qamar and I entered Dear Uncle’s inner apartments. Dear Uncle seemed to have been waiting for the detective to appear. He was wearing his military jacket over his Napoleonic winter longjohns, and they were covered by his cloak which he’d slung over his shoulders. Shamsali Mirza was also there. I guessed that, as soon as news of the arrival of the detective had come, he’d sent for Shamsali Mirza, the cross-examining magistrate, to be present so that he wouldn’t be alone, because the moment the detective entered, before anything else, he introduced Shamsali Mirza to Deputy Taymur as the cross-examining magistrate of Hamadan. The detective greeted him but didn’t treat him with any special respect.

  As soon as Dear Uncle saw me he pointed at the outer door and said, “You, out!”

  But before I could make a move the police detective shouted, “No, no . . . let him stay, let him stay!”