Relations between Dear Uncle Napoleon and my father were in a peculiar state. Apparently all was sweetness and light, and Dear Uncle was even closer to my father than before and admitted no one into his confidence as much as him, but my doubts and suspicions concerning my father’s good intentions and sincerity increased daily, to such an extent that I was positive that in reality, in the depths of his heart, my father intended to destroy Dear Uncle. And the reason, as far as it could be fathomed by a fourteen or fifteen year old boy, was the setbacks my father had suffered as a result of the events of the previous year. My father’s pharmacy—which before all this happened was one of the most important and respected not only in our neighborhood but throughout a whole area of the town, and which was always filled to overflowing with customers—had completely lost all its business after Seyed Abolqasem’s accusations (which had been made at the instigation of Dear Uncle) against the pharmacist who managed the shop, and even after my father had replaced the pharmacist, no one would go there for medicine. Things had reached such a state that my father had taken on the son of the preacher Seyed Abolqasem as an apprentice in the shop, in order to restore its prosperity, but the things which Seyed Abolqasem had said about the medicines of the pharmacy being made with alcohol had become so firmly implanted in the minds of the people of the neighborhood that even the presence of the preacher’s son among the employees had no effect.
When after two or three months of pointless struggling the pharmacy had gone bankrupt, and the empty shelves and bottles of sodium sulphate and boric acid had been brought and dumped outside our house, my father was in a strange state; sometimes I heard the curses and profanities he muttered under his breath and I saw other signs of the revenge he was plotting against those who had brought this on him. I was quite sure that Dear Uncle Napoleon was going to be the target of some terrible disaster. But my father was not a person to make a show of his malice and hatred. He was extremely friendly to Dear Uncle. The one thing I knew was that for a year now he had been flattering Dear Uncle more and more from one day to the next and beating the drum about his bravery and glory and might. I couldn’t guess at what all this was leading toward, but someone who up to a year ago had even treated Dear Uncle’s skirmishes with the insurgents when he had been in charge of a gendarmerie post as a ridiculous joke, was now elevating him to the status of a military leader on a par with Genghis Khan and Hitler.
With such helpful backing Dear Uncle ascended every day further up the ladder which my father had placed beneath his feet. The clashes with the insurgents in the south of the country (which before the events of a year ago had reached the stage that the “Battle of Kazerun” and the “Battle of Mamasani” possessed all the features of Austerlitz and Marengo) had gradually, under the influence of my father’s promptings, changed to larger and more terrible battles in which Dear Uncle and his men had been face to face with the military might of the British Empire.
Of course in their hearts members of the family laughed at these fantasies, but no one dared express doubts about them, and if someone did dare to say to Dear Uncle that previously the battle of Kazerun had been a skirmish with Khodadad Khan Yaghi, Dear Uncle’s furious protests would be heard and a fierce malice against the speaker would take hold of him.
Once when Dr. Naser al-Hokama had finished building a new addition to his house and had thrown a party to celebrate this, an interruption by Shamsali Mirza almost produced a major disaster.
In the midst of talking about the Battle of Kazerun Dear Uncle said, “I was there with about three thousand exhausted, hungry, poorly armed men, and against us there were four British regiments fully armed, with infantry, cavalry and all their artillery . . . the only thing that saved us was that famous tactic of Napoleon’s at the battle of Marengo . . . I entrusted the right flank to Soltanali Khan, God rest his soul . . . and the left flank to Aliqoli Khan, God rest his soul . . . and I took responsibility for commanding the cavalry . . . mind you, what kind of cavalry . . . in Mohammad Ali Shah’s time they called it the ‘cavalry’ but it was just a name . . . four lame hungry old nags . . .”
Mash Qasem interrupted, “But sir, God rest its soul, that bay horse of yours was worth forty ordinary horses, you’d have thought it was the great hero Rostam’s horse Rakhsh. One tug on the reins and it was like an eagle flying down from the mountain to the valley . . .”
“All right, there was that one that was a real horse . . . can you remember what his name was, Mash Qasem?”
“Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . ’sfar as I can remember you’d called him Sohrab.”
“Well done . . . yes . . . your memory’s stayed better than mine. His name was Sohrab.” During these days Dear Uncle’s behavior toward Mash Qasem had greatly improved. Because apart from my father who listened to these stories carefully and with apparent interest and pretended to believe every word of them, none of the rest of his audience showed any signs of believing him, and Dear Uncle felt the need—even more strongly than before—for a witness who could confirm his claims. This witness couldn’t be anyone else but Mash Qasem, and this new role of his had transported Mash Qasem into a seventh heaven of happiness.
Dear Uncle went on as before. “It was sunset when we saw a rifle barrel with a white flag on it stuck up from behind a hill. I ordered them to stop firing. An English sergeant came toward us on horseback wanting to discuss a truce. The first thing I asked him was his rank; when he said he was a sergeant I said he couldn’t discuss matters with me and that he should discuss things with one of my men who was of his own rank, I can’t remember which of our fellows I delegated to talk to him.”
“How can’t you remember, sir? It’s very strange how, God save the mark, you’re forgettin’ everythin’ . . . it was me you gave the order to.”
“No, now . . . why are you talking nonsense, Qasem? I think it was . . .”
“Why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . it’s like it was yesterday. You were walkin’ up and down in front of the tent . . . field-glasses round your neck too. You said, ‘Mash Qasem, I won’t talk to this sergeant. See what he wants.’ Then they brings the sergeant in front of me and he falls to the ground, all beggin’ and pleadin’ he was, and I couldn’t understand his lingo, there was that Indian boy with him that was his interpreter . . . and he said how the sergeant says to tell the Master that their army’s been destroyed . . . that we was to be generous and give ’em safe conduct . . . so I says tell him ‘why hasn’t his commandin’ officer come? It’s beneath the dignity of my master to be talkin’ to a sergeant.’ He says somethin’ in his foreign lingo to the Indian. The Indian says he says how he swears by Morteza Ali he’s wounded and can’t move . . .”
Dear Uncle cut him off. “I didn’t follow all these details . . . the conversation went on for a long time. When it was over and I’d given their men promise of safe conduct, I myself went and saw the colonel in charge, who’d been wounded. I stood to attention in front of that shattered enemy commander and greeted him . . . poor devil, a bullet had gone right through his larynx, but he couldn’t stop himself, weak as he was he said, ‘Monsieur, you from noble family, you aristocrat . . . you great commander . . . we English giving great importance to these matters . . .’”
It was at this moment that Shamsali Mirza, who had perhaps had a couple more glasses of wine than usual, interrupted and said, “God bless the man, what a pair of lungs he had! For someone whose larynx had been split from end to end, what a lot of talking he did!”
Dear Uncle burst out in such a way that everyone held their breath, “Politeness and intelligence and human decency are gradually deserting this family, and their place is being taken by vulgarity and shamelessness and disrespect toward one’s elders and betters.”
Having said this Dear Uncle stood up to leave, but the whole family flocked around him, and my father in his capacity as a pharmacist gave an
eloquent speech on the scientific possibility of a man talking with his larynx split open and so was able to persuade Dear Uncle to come down off his high horse.
Without the slightest demur my father confirmed all of Dear Uncle’s fantasies, and in particular he never forgot to add the sentence “It’s impossible the English will forget this” at the end of Dear Uncle’s adventures.
My father egged Dear Uncle on so much and made such dire predictions of the English seeking revenge that Dear Uncle gradually became suspicious of everyone and everything. He saw the English after him everywhere, to the extent that Mash Qasem said that for the past two or three months Dear Uncle had placed his revolver under his pillow every night, and we ourselves had heard him repeatedly say in a resigned, submissive voice, “I know they’ll get me in the end. I’m not someone who’s going to die a natural death.”
After a while this manner of thinking affected Mash Qasem too, and I had personally many times heard him state his worries about the revenge of the English. “Well m’dear, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . of course it’s not as much as the Master’s done, but in my own way I’ve really given them English a run for their money. And they won’t be forgettin’ it, not for another hundred years!”
The only thing which throughout this year somewhat disturbed the outward amity and harmony between my father and Dear Uncle was the matter of Brigadier Maharat Khan.
I think his real name was Baharat or Baharot but in our area they always called him Brigadier Maharat Khan. Three or four months previously this Indian businessman had rented a little house which belonged to my father and was situated opposite our garden.
The day that Dear Uncle found out that my father had rented his house to an Indian he was even more disturbed than usual, but my father swore by all the saints in heaven that he hadn’t known that the tenant who had rented his house was Indian. And this was despite the fact that I was present right from the beginning of my father’s discussions with this Indian gentleman about renting the house, and that I well knew that my father had rented the house to him with full knowledge of his background and nationality.
On that day, faced by Dear Uncle’s furious objections, my father—who had always tried to insinuate to him that the English were after him, either personally or through their Indian agents—brought a thousand reasons forward to prove that Brigadier Maharat Khan was entirely innocent and was not to be suspected under any circumstances. Dear Uncle apparently acquiesced, but it was clear that he believed the English had deliberately sent this Indian to rent somewhere near his house in order to keep an eye on what he was doing.
Later, of course, I realized that my father had done this deliberately, and he had even given the Indian a considerable discount on his rent. For a while Dear Uncle insisted that my father must get rid of the brigadier by any means possible, but another factor came to my father’s help and this resulted in the brigadier’s staying in the house. This factor was Asadollah Mirza. The reason that Asadollah Mirza intervened on the Indian’s behalf was that Brigadier Maharat Khan had an English wife who was quite attractive and Asadollah had determinedly set his sights on her.
Asadollah Mirza had even made overtures of friendship to the Indian and two or three times invited him and his wife, to whom he referred as “Lady Maharat Khan,” round to his house. Dear Uncle was extremely annoyed with Asadollah over this. Once he had even threatened him, in front of the rest of the family, saying that if he had anything further to do with this Indian, he had no right to set foot in his—Dear Uncle’s—house, but with a face that was all innocence Asadollah Mirza sprang to the Indian’s defense. “Moment, and aren’t we supposed to be Iranians . . . and aren’t Iranians supposed to be famous for their hospitality? This poor man’s our guest, he’s alone, a stranger . . . once I translated for him that poem of Hafez’s about the stranger’s evening prayer and, would you believe it, he burst into tears like a cloud in the springtime . . . you can kill me, you can throw me out of your house, but I can’t not comfort a man who’s a stranger and a guest . . . especially now there’s a war on . . . it’s an age since the poor thing’s had news of his family, of his mother, of his father . . .”
The upshot of it was that, although Dear Uncle, with some difficulty, put up with the presence of Brigadier Maharat Khan near his house, he did not relax his suspicions about him for an instant, and from time to time when he was talking about the vindictiveness of the English, he would refer to the Indian gentleman.
That morning when Dear Uncle and my father went into the room with the French windows and closed the door behind them, I was seized with curiosity, and I somehow felt that what was about to happen was something that would profoundly affect me.
I ate my breakfast and walked from the garden over to the storeroom behind the room with the French windows; its window opened onto the garden. I was dying to hear their conversation.
I climbed through the little window into the storeroom and peered through the crack in the door into the sitting room. Dear Uncle was standing tall and erect, his cloak over his shoulders, in front of my father. Under the cloak, there was a long-barreled revolver at his belt.
“I don’t even trust my own brothers and sisters. I’ve decided to confide only in you, and I hope that in that same way that you’ve always been like a brother to me, you won’t deny me your kindness and help at such a critical moment.”
With a thoughtful expression on his face my father answered,“Well, whatever I do, I can see that on the one hand you’re right. But on the other hand . . . it’s a tricky business. And then what are you going to do with your wife and children?”
“I’ll set off this very night, and you arrange for them to come along in a few days, in a way that won’t attract attention.”
“But you should consider that the driver who takes you is going to come back eventually, and how can you be sure he won’t reveal your hiding place?”
“On that point you can set your mind at rest. I’ll go with Dabir Khaqan’s car . . . for years during the war his driver was under my command, he’d sacrifice his life for me. I mean he’s like Mash Qasem in his feelings for me . . .”
“But I’m of the opinion that you should wait one or two days while I study all sides of the question.”
In a voice that he tried to keep from being too loud Dear Uncle screamed, “But they won’t wait. The British army is marching on Tehran . . . it’s not at all unlikely that today or tomorrow they’ll enter Tehran . . . believe me I’m not thinking of myself. I’ve lived with danger and I’m used to danger, as Napoleon says ‘great men are the children of danger,’ but I’m thinking of my little children. You can be sure that as soon as the English have entered Tehran the first thing they’ll do is settle their old accounts with me.”
My father once again shook his head and said, “Of course I know the English don’t forget these old accounts but . . . how can we trick them? Do you imagine that in Nayshapur you’ll be safe?”
At that moment it occurred to me that my father was reluctant to lose his backgammon partner.
Dear Uncle thrust his cloak aside, laid his hand on the holster of his revolver, and said, “First, six bullets in this are for them and the last is for me. It’s impossible they take me alive. Second, when I leave here it’ll look as though I’m going to Qom. No one—you hear, no one, not even my faithful driver—knows where I’m going. I’ll even tell him I’m going to Qom. And then when we get out of the city gates I’ll turn off toward Nayshapur.”
“But when you’ve got there, then what will you do? You think they don’t have one of their men in Nayshapur?”
“Dabir Khaqan’s village isn’t in Nayshapur itself. And I’ve thought that for now I’ll arrive under an assumed name.”
I didn’t hear any more of their conversation. The horrifying prospect of being separated from Layli took shape before my eyes. The
English were approaching Tehran and Dear Uncle wanted to get away from Tehran. O God, how could I live separated from Layli? Who knows how long this trip would last. This was the first time that I really felt the ugliness of war and the foreign occupation of our country. For twenty days now the allies had been overrunning the country, but this had had little effect on the lives of young people, apart from the fact that it had been announced the schools would open a few days later and that we had heard that food supplies had become scarce and expensive. But we ate as well as before and laughed as loudly as we used to.
On August 26, 1941, Dear Uncle, with his cloak over his shoulders and his revolver on his hip, together with Mash Qasem who had slung the strap of Dear Uncle’s double-barreled shotgun over his shoulder, had assumed command of the garden and for a few days they did not allow us to come out of our rooms. Even during those days we hadn’t taken the war very seriously, but now it became the most important thing of all for me. I wished I could have jumped into the midst of their discussions and shouted that the whole family was making fun of Dear Uncle’s terror of the English; I wished I could have told him that, if my father had put this notion into his head, it was only to make him appear ridiculous in their eyes and that the English were not going to waste their time bothering to take revenge on some simple Cossack who had shot off a few bullets at a couple of footloose bandits during Mohammad Ali Shah’s reign. But I knew that not only would my words have no effect but that I’d probably be scolded by my father and get a slap into the bargain.
I didn’t stay there any longer. I went off to a quiet room and tried to think of a solution to this whole complicated dangerous business. In some way or another I had to stop Dear Uncle from going on this trip, but how? I don’t know how long I thought about it without getting anywhere.
My Uncle Napoleon Page 25
