Impatiently Dear Uncle Napoleon said, “Don’t talk such rubbish, Mash Qasem . . . now that this man shows no concern for the reputation of his family, it seems to me we should think of something else.”
Once again there was excited talk back and forth. The meeting became heated, with various discussions and arguments going on. Virtually everyone agreed that they should send someone to Shir Ali the butcher, to say to him that it was not right for Asadollah Mirza to be staying in his house, and that it might become a subject of gossip. However, no one who was there wanted to take on this difficult task, and they said that the only man for the job was Dear Uncle Napoleon.
But as Dear Uncle Napoleon wasn’t having it, Dustali Khan suddenly burst out in an excess of bravery, “Tell him to come here. I’ll tell him.” He was so eager to be revenged on Asadollah that he had turned into a brave and fearless man.
They sent Mash Qasem to fetch Shir Ali. While they were waiting for the butcher to appear, a regular storm of reproaches rained down against Asadollah, with the men blaming him and the women objecting to his unsavory character. Finally the door opened and Mash Qasem entered alone.
“Praise the Lord . . . nothin’ happens in this world without its punishment comin’ after.”
“What’s happened, Mash Qasem? Where’s Shir Ali?”
“Well now, why should I lie? His shop was closed. He’d been fightin’ and they’d taken him to the lockup. It was like this, see, the baker’s boy had said to the kneader who kneads the bread dough that Mr. Asadollah Mirza was in Shir Ali’s house . . . the kneader had pulled Shir Ali’s leg about it, and then Shir Ali had hit the kneader around the head with a leg of mutton . . . and the kneader had passed out and they’d taken him to the hospital. The cops took Shir Ali to the lockup . . .”
Virtually simultaneously various voices said, “The lockup?”
“They took Shir Ali?”
“How long are they keeping him?”
When the racket had quieted down somewhat, Dustali Khan, who it seemed had only just realized the important factor in all this, said with a flabbergasted expression on his face, “Then . . . then . . . if they’ve taken Shir Ali off to prison . . . it means . . . that man . . . perhaps ten days . . . twenty days . . . he might be in prison for six months.”
Then he turned to Dear Uncle and screamed, “Sir, think of something! What the hell are we to do?”
Dear Uncle Napoleon screamed right back, “What’s going on? Why are you yelling? Why’s Shir Ali so special all of a sudden?”
This argument was cut short when the door opened and Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh entered; it was clear that she had gone to the police station to withdraw the complaint she had made the previous day. As soon as he saw his wife, Dustali went over to her and said in a voice filled with emotion, “Did you know they’ve arrested Shir Ali?”
“Wonderful . . . God damn him and his rotten meat, too.”
Dustali Khan took her arm and said even more wildly, “But that thief of everyone’s reputation is in Shir Ali’s house. That shameless loafer . . .”
Aziz al-Saltaneh said with a very knowing, coquettish smile, “Oh, that Asadollah and the things he gets up to, he’s a real rascal.”
But then suddenly, as if a light had flashed on in her brain, the smile died on her lips. Wide-eyed, she stared at the door to the room and roared between clenched teeth, “What . . . Asadollah . . . that . . . that . . . that slut of a little bitch, is she there, too?” Everyone stared, silent and astonished, at Aziz al-Saltaneh’s contorted face.
Dustali was silent, too, but his upper lip and its mustache trembled with the effort of holding back his fury. Finally he said from between clenched teeth, “God rest that Rokn al-Din’s soul, by spawning this child in his old age he’s ruined the whole family’s reputation . . . and spawning it with his gardener’s daughter at that!”
Shamsali Mirza frowned and angrily said, “Mr. Dustali Khan, I’ll ask you to leave the dead in peace.”
And even more angrily, Dustali Khan answered, “The dead are at peace, with God. It’s just that they land the living in such a mess . . . God rest his soul, if your late father hadn’t been so free and easy about undoing the belt on his pants and hadn’t spawned this Asadollah, would it have been any great loss? Would it have been the end of the world if he hadn’t set this wolf among people’s women and children?”
“Mr. Dustali Khan, I’ll ask you not to talk about being free and easy undoing the belt on someone’s pants! Was it for my sake Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh brought a carving knife into bed with her?”
It seemed that Dustali Khan was so livid that he had forgotten all about the presence of his wife and the events of the night of the mourning ceremony, and, paying no attention to Shamsali Mirza’s remark, he shouted, “Stop defending that shameless thief! All right, so he’s your brother. He’s a thief . . . a thief of reputations. Yes sir, the high and mighty Asadollah Mirza is a thief of people’s reputations!”
Aziz al-Saltaneh was completely lost in thought and seemed not to hear the noise going on around her, but when she heard the name Asadollah she came back to herself and, in a terrifying voice, said, “Dustali, shut up! I wish there was just one hair of his on your body! I wish all thieves were like him!”
Then under her breath she said, “I’m sure that slut of a little bitch has tricked the poor boy!”
Then she suddenly turned on Dear Uncle Napoleon and shouted, “And you’re just sitting there! A respectable member of this family is a prisoner in that butcher Shir Ali’s house and you’re not doing anything? If that slut’s slipped him a love potion, what are you going to do?”
Calmly Dear Uncle said, “Don’t get angry, ma’am . . . I’ve just come from Shir Ali’s house. I talked to Asadollah from behind the door and he wasn’t coming out and that’s that. However much I begged, however much I shouted, he wouldn’t budge.”
“Why? What did he say?”
“How should I know, ma’am, a thousand ridiculous things, a thousand bits of nonsense, he says he daren’t come out from fear of Dustali but . . .”
“Out of fear of Dustali? And whose dog is Dustali to raise a hand against my uncle’s son? I’ll have to go and get him myself . . . I’ll have to go, because that slut with that disgusting figure of hers, she’s got a thousand ways to put spells on people . . . and she must have put a spell on him now, otherwise Asadollah’s not the man to stay there . . .”
Dear Uncle Napoleon said, “Ma’am, consider that he himself may be quite happy for this spell . . .”
But Aziz al-Saltaneh interrupted him, “Why are you talking so much? A terrible catastrophe might happen to the young man.”
Mash Qasem found an opportunity to speak, “The lady’s right . . . when I heard Mr. Asadollah Mirza’s voice from behind the door it was shakin’ like a little kid’s. He was in a really bad way. It was like he’d got typhoid fever. His voice could hardly come out of his throat . . . like his head was trapped in a leopard’s jaws . . .”
Aziz al-Saltaneh slapped herself on the cheek, “O God strike me dead . . . the poor young man, what kind of a state’s he in? And this crowd are supposed to be his relatives.”
Having said this she prepared to set off. “I know as soon as I’ve said one word to him he’ll come out . . . up till now the poor thing hasn’t heard a kind word from you, so why should he listen to you!”
Dustali Khan got up, too. “Then I’ll come, too, and tell him I’ve forgiven his sins . . . I’ll have to make it clear to him that . . .”
“Sit down where you were . . . if the poor thing hears your ugly voice, his courage’ll melt away to water.”
When Aziz al-Saltaneh was in the hall, Dear Uncle Napoleon called after her, “Don’t tell him they’ve taken Shir Ali off to prison . . . and I didn’t tell him, because once he finds out it’ll be impossible to get him to
move.”
“And if you’re so good at lullabies, how come you haven’t sung yourself off to sleep?”
Aziz al-Saltaneh set off for Shir Ali’s house. And just as I’d done the previous time, I followed her like a shadow.
The alleyway was quiet and I tracked her from a distance. She knocked at the door a few times before the voice of Tahereh, Shir Ali’s wife, could be heard from behind the door; for a while Aziz al-Saltaneh bargained with her and threatened her, until the mistress of the house agreed to bring Asadollah to the door so that she could talk to him.
In a voice that she tried to keep calm and enticing, Aziz al-Saltaneh said, “Asadollah, open the door so I can have a word with you.”
“My dear lady, ask me anything you want except that I leave this house. I fear for my life.”
“I’m telling you to open the door! Dustali wouldn’t dare raise his hand against you; I’ve completely forgiven Dustali and he’s forgiven us . . .”
His voice trembling, Asadollah said, “My dear, I’m afraid . . . I know that Dustali’s there with you now . . . I know that now he’s got his knife hidden behind his back ready to sink it into my heart . . .”
“Asadollah, open the door a crack and see for yourself that Dustali’s not here . . . just think what people are saying, you’re alone in the house with a woman . . .”
“Moment, moment, praise the Lord such relationships aren’t at all my kind of thing. Shir Ali’s like my brother, his wife and children are like my own wife and children . . . just wait till Shir Ali comes home and I’ll hand his house over to him, then I’m at your service.”
“Asadollah, you know Shir Ali had a fight and they’ve taken him to the lockup? How can you want . . .”
“What! Good God! Shir Ali’s gone to prison . . . well then, it’s quite impossible for me to set foot outside this house . . . duty, ethics and conscience all command me to stay. Dear God, what a heavy duty it is, too!”
From his voice it was clear that he’d already heard about Shir Ali’s going to prison and that he was play acting.
Aziz al-Saltaneh brought her head closer to the door and softly said, “Asadollah, please, for me, come out of there. Don’t show me up in front of them.”
Asadollah Mirza said, “Ma’am, I’m ready to give my life for you, but I’ve a duty my conscience won’t release me from. You couldn’t accept it if I left Shir Ali’s wife and children alone and without a protector when they’ve been given into my hands and he’s been taken off to prison.”
“Shir Ali doesn’t have any children, Asadollah!”
“Well, there’s his wife, my dear lady . . . and she’s just like a child . . . poor thing, now she’s crying like a cloud in springtime . . . I can’t see her face from under her veil but I can hear her sobbing. The poor innocent child!”
For a while Aziz al-Saltaneh kept trying, but without success. Finally, while showering the most indecent curses on Shir Ali and his wife, she set off for the garden like a walking volcano.
I set off after her, dogging her like a shadow, but I suddenly became aware that the pharmacist who managed my father’s pharmacy had entered our house. This was an important matter to me. I quietly went over to our house. My father and his pharmacist had gone to the room with French windows near the door to the yard. During all the recent goings on I had got used to eavesdropping, and I put my ear against the window.
As he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief the pharmacist said, “Sir, you can be saying the burial service for the pharmacy; it’s all over. Despite the fact that we closed for a day and put a notice up that the pharmacy’s closed for a pilgrimage, it hasn’t done any good.”
“But didn’t the Seyed say what we told him?”
“He did, sir. That poor Seyed Abolqasem has gone up in the pulpit twice to put things right, but it looks as though no one’s paid any attention to him. Once something gets into folks’ heads it’s hard to get it out again.”
“But what are people saying? What’s the matter with them?”
“Nothing, sir, they aren’t saying anything. But not even one person has come to buy so much as a couple of grams of Glauber’s salts. Today someone who was just passing by was about to step into the pharmacy but the tradespeople roundabout cursed him out so much he changed his mind and went . . .”
I saw my father’s face through the crack between the windows. He had turned white and was grinding his teeth. Finally, in a strangled voice, he said, “A way has to be found . . . we have to think of something.”
“There’s nothing to think of, sir, I know the people of this area very well; if they’re at the point of death they won’t buy drugs from us because it’s got into their heads that we make our drugs with alcohol . . . and I can’t stay in this area any more . . . because everywhere they’re saying that I’m a heathen with no religion . . . for now I’ve closed up shop until we think of something . . .”
Frowning, my father paced in the room for a few moments; then he stopped and, in a voice that was unrecognizable from the violence of his fury, he said, “This filthy shameless bastard has taken my livelihood away from me . . . I’m not a man if I don’t get my revenge, if I rest before I put his body in the grave . . . shameless! Obscene! I’ll give him Napoleon, I’ll Napoleon him till he doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going!”
“What should I do for now, sir?”
“Nothing, you can . . . you can . . . until we see what’s going to happen . . . for now turn the electricity off and the pharmacy can stay closed until later . . .”
With a worried face, the pharmacist said goodbye and left and my father started pacing back and forth in the room. He was in such a bad way that I stayed there fearing that he might collapse. When I could tell from his movements that he was a little calmer, I went to Dear Uncle’s house to see what was happening there. Everyone was still there. Aziz al-Saltaneh’s simpleminded daughter, Qamar, who had been sent to a relative’s house the day before, had arrived.
Discussion and argument were still raging. In particular, Aziz al-Saltaneh and Dustali Khan were extremely angry and agitated. During my absence Dustali Khan had phoned the police station to see if he could arrange the temporary release of Shir Ali, but they had answered that until the condition of the victim—meaning the baker’s dough-kneader—was known, they could not release Shir Ali.
As I arrived Aziz al-Saltaneh was saying, “I know that slut has put a spell on poor Asadollah; if she hadn’t, he’s not the kind of man to ignore what I say. Why don’t we send for Mr. Khorasani, to splash a vinegar mixture against spells on the door to Shir Ali’s house?”
Dustali Khan impatiently yelled, “What do you mean, spells, what kind of balderdash are you talking . . . that lout has stayed there so that he can play around with Shir Ali’s wife.”
“What! Damn your cheek! A man is going to leave real respectable women so that he can go and play around with that ugly fright! And a man like Asadollah into the bargain!”
Dustali couldn’t very well defend Shir Ali’s wife’s appearance but he let loose a flood of bad language and curses against Asadollah, and Aziz al-Saltaneh exploded in fury, “Dustali, I’m ready to slap you round that snout of yours so that all your false teeth shake out of your mouth! If you curse my uncle’s grandson it’s like you’re cursing me!”
Dear Uncle had no choice but to intervene; he shouted, “Silence! Why don’t you go and have this quarrel in your own house? What sin have I committed that I have to listen to your rubbish? Asadollah can stay in Shir Ali’s house till the grass grows green under his feet! What’s it to you? Are you Asadollah’s or Shir Ali’s guardian or lawyer?”
Uncle colonel said, “Brother, I beg you not to get angry again . . . you at least should stay calm. We came to . . .”
“You came to what? What do you want from me?”
“Don’t get so angry! We came to solve our existing differences . . . but, as you can see, a more important matter has come up . . . the honor and reputation of the family are in danger. We have to get Asadollah out of Shir Ali’s house in any way possible . . . I suggest we go and visit the dough-kneader who’s been wounded on the head, perhaps the wound isn’t a serious one, perhaps he’s only faking to get revenge on Shir Ali . . . in this case, with a bit of pecuniary encouragement, we might be able to persuade him to drop his complaint, and they’ll release Shir Ali today.”
Dear Uncle Napoleon yelled, “And now I, in my situation, in my condition, am to go and visit a dough-kneader to persuade him to drop his complaint against a butcher?”
“I didn’t mean you . . . one of us . . . or, for example, we could send Mash Qasem . . .”
Dustali Khan interrupted, “It’s a good idea. It’s very logical. Of course it’s beneath the dignity of the family to go and visit a dough-kneader. But we could send Mash Qasem.”
Dear Uncle Napoleon angrily yelled, “Why ever is it necessary that Shir Ali be released? It serves him right if he wants to hit people on the head with sheep’s carcasses. This man has harassed the whole neighborhood, and now that for once the state wants to punish him, why are you interfering?”
“We’re not interested in Shir Ali . . . it serves him right, he got what was coming to him. May he rot in jail . . . but we’re concerned about the family honor, we’re concerned about Asadollah. Just think of it, our Asadollah is in Shir Ali the butcher’s house! Tomorrow how are we going to be able to look the people of this neighborhood in the eye?”
Trying not to show his anger, Dear Uncle Napoleon said, “Gentlemen, is this the first time that Asadollah Mirza has gone into people’s houses . . . is it even the first time he’s been to Shir Ali’s house? Really, gentlemen, do anything you want to do . . . as for Mash Qasem, send him to visit the dough-kneader, the baker, the draper, the grocer . . .”
Aziz al-Saltaneh’s daughter, Qamar, who had been busy licking a barley-sugarcane up to that moment, asked, “Mummy dear? Have they taken Asadollah off to prison then?”
My Uncle Napoleon Page 21
