My Uncle Napoleon

by Iraj Pezeshkzad

  I closed my eyes for a moment and saw the terrible scene in my mind—someone else taking Layli away from me. But I didn’t have much opportunity to think about this appalling notion. Fati caught up with us, panting and out of breath, “Mr. Asadollah Mirza, I still had your change.”

  Asadollah Mirza pretended to be upset, “For goodness sake, a girl doesn’t give money back to her uncle!”

  And after a moment’s pause he took another bank note out of his pocket, “To tell you the truth, Fati dear . . . the woman who looks after me’s got no taste at all. You take this money, and whenever you’ve time buy me a few glasses of that lemonade that you bought today. According to your own taste.”

  Fati said warmly, “Do you want me to go and buy it now?”

  “No, my dear. Tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, whenever you’ve time. If I’m not at home, just leave it with the maid. Bye-bye dear.”

  When Fati had gone I said, “Uncle Asadollah, do you have to have taste to buy lemonade?”

  “Moment, really moment; you’re such a big lad and you’ve no idea what’s going on yet. Well, I’ll have to give you your second lesson. The second lesson: always provide her with an excuse which she can make use of in order to deliver the goods.”

  “But what if she brings the lemonade when you’re not there and leaves it with the maid, then what?”

  “Moment, then I have to accept that I didn’t get it across to her properly that I was in the market . . . Shall I give you your third lesson or will it be too much for you? The third lesson is never put on a grave serious face. As soon as women see you’ve a grave face and you hang your head, even if you were Cicero they’d say, ‘Ugh, he can’t talk to save his life!’ If you were Clark Gable they’d say, ‘Ugh, handsome maybe but pathetic.’ If you were Avicenna they’d say, ‘What does he know about anything?’ You don’t seem to be following. I’ll leave the lesson for another time.”

  “You’re right. I’m very worried. I’m afraid that all this is going to land me in the soup again.”

  “And you’ll lose your dear Layli! . . . Learn this one thing from me, that with your big innocent eyes they’ll take Miss Layli away from you and you’ll have to spend the rest of your life sighing.”

  “So what should I do, Uncle Asadollah?”

  “San Francisco!”

  “Please don’t say those things.”

  “If you’re not going to San Francisco itself, at least tour the suburbs a bit, show that you basically know your way around the city.”

  Asadollah’s cheekiness made my blood boil. If I hadn’t needed him so much I’d have said whatever came into my head and gone on my way. But I didn’t want to do this, and I couldn’t afford to lose him as he was perhaps my only friend and support. I changed the subject. “Uncle Asadollah, are you sure that my father won’t do anything with Dear Uncle’s letter?”

  “Yes, unless he’s really soft in the head. Say he sends this letter to Hitler or to Churchill. At least they’ll know that there never was a Battle of Kazerun so they’ll say, ‘One more nut, one more fruitcake.’ If they’re in a good mood they might get a bit of a laugh out of it; in any case if you can lay your hands on that letter, grab it and run. Before you tear it up bring it here and we’ll read it together and we can have the laugh instead of Hitler and Churchill . . . but you know where the real danger lies? The real danger is that this poor old man . . .”

  Asadollah laughed and said, “. . . will go crazy from fear of the English.”

  “By the way, Uncle Asadollah, who do you think is responsible for Qamar’s baby?”

  “How should I know? It must be some water carrier, some porter . . .”

  “What will they do now? I suppose they’ll have to force this man to marry Qamar?”

  “Moment, moment, it’s clear you don’t know this crowd. They’d rather cut the poor crazy girl’s head off than hear that a great-grandchild of his Royal Leopardship has become the wife of some commoner . . . tonight when I’m having supper at the colonel’s house I must keep my eyes and ears open to see what’s going on . . . I’m afraid they’ll do something awful to this poor child.”

  When I separated from Asadollah Mirza I went home and saw that everything was peaceful and quiet in the big garden. At lunch I tried to read what was in my father’s face, but he was silent and uncommunicative.

  THIRTEEN

  THAT AFTERNOON we found Layli and her brother in the garden. My sister and Layli’s brother suggested various games, but since Layli and I had fallen in love we had felt no real interest in children’s games. It was as if love had suddenly aged us a few years, but so that no one would realize our feelings we took part in their games, meaning that in reality we let Layli’s brother and my sister play while we chatted together in the sweetbrier arbor.

  It wasn’t long before we heard the cry of an itinerant photographer coming from the alleyway. My sister ran over to us shouting, “Come on, it’s Mirza Habib the photographer . . . let’s have a photo done.”

  We had often brought this itinerant photographer into the garden before. With his old box camera, complete with its black hood, he had frequently taken photographs of us children, charging only a tiny fee.

  When we called out to the photographer we were surprised to see that it wasn’t Mirza Habib. We recognized the camera, that was just the same, with the same photographs stuck on its casing. But its owner had changed.

  When the photographer saw our surprise he seemed to realize what had caused it, because before we could ask him anything he said in an Armenian accent, “Mirza Habib sold me his camera. If you like I’ll take your picture. You know that in fact Mirza Habib was my apprentice. I take much nicer photos than him.”

  We all looked at one another, and since the price was unchanged we asked him to come and take a picture of us.

  I still have the photograph we had done that day. I’m wearing my striped pajamas, standing next to Layli; my sister and her brother are sitting on a chair in front of us. When the photographer had colored the cardboard negative red and placed it upside down in front of the camera’s lens in order to produce the final print, I suddenly realized that Dear Uncle Napoleon had come out of the door to the inner apartments of his house. Then he whispered something to Mash Qasem, who had followed him out. As he was speaking he didn’t take his eyes off the photographer. He stared at him as if he were a police officer staring at someone suspected of theft or murder.

  Dear Uncle Napoleon started walking up and down with a preoccupied look on his face, and Mash Qasem, who it was clear had been entrusted with some task or other, walked over toward us.

  He beckoned me aside and quietly said, “That’s not the usual photographer, m’dear. Where did he turn up from?”

  “Mirza Habib has sold his camera to this photographer.”

  Mash Qasem walked back to Dear Uncle and whispered something in his ear. Dear Uncle stared at the photographer, his face preoccupied and filled with suspicion; then he seemed to give Mash Qasem another order.

  This time Mash Qasem walked over, with apparent unconcern, toward the photographer.

  “Well hello, sir, how are you keepin’, you’re well, God willin’?”

  And after a few greetings and pleasantries he asked him his name.

  “Bughus, at your service.”

  With his head twisted round so that he could look at the upside down negative Mash Qasem said, “But why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah! It looks like you really know what you’re doin’. You’ve taken a grand photograph! The photographer before you didn’t take ’em this good.”

  The photographer visibly swelled with pride and said, “Mirza Habib learned photography from me. I’ve been a photographer twenty years. I had a photographer’s studio. First here, then in Ahvaz . . . but I had bad luck, I was forced to sell up . . .”


  “Then you’ve been to them places down south then?”

  “You bet your life I’ve been there. Why, all the important folks came to me to have their photos done. All the oil company people came and had their photos done with me.”

  Mash Qasem’s eyes momentarily widened, but he tried to hide his astonishment and terror. He said in a calm voice, “And them English must’ve had their photos took with you, too?”

  “In fact most of my customers were English.”

  The photographer took the photograph out of his camera and showed it to Mash Qasem, “Take a look! That’s what they call a real photograph.”

  We didn’t give Mash Qasem the chance to look, but snatched the photograph from his hand. Layli took the photograph and ran toward her father, “Daddy, look, isn’t it a beautiful photo?”

  Dear Uncle was looking at the photographer in an openly suspicious way. At this moment Mash Qasem whispered something in his ear. The photographer came over toward us too. He greeted Dear Uncle and said, “If you’ll allow me, I’ll take a photograph of you too.”

  In a smothered voice Dear Uncle said, “No, thanks all the same, that won’t be necessary.”

  “Just say the word. I’d like to take a photograph of you, sir, as a souvenir. If you like it give me whatever you want, and if you don’t then it’s on me.”

  Dear Uncle was silent for a moment but he couldn’t hide his discomfort and he burst out angrily, “Why do you want to take a photograph of me? Who told you to take a photograph of me?” The photographer looked at him in amazement and said, “What are you upset about? I only wanted to be of service.”

  Dear Uncle lost all control of himself and screamed out, “They’ve a thousand photographs of me in their dossier. Go to hell, and tell your masters that even if they take a hundred more photographs of me they won’t be able to take me alive.”

  Then he suddenly thrust aside the front of his cloak, pulled his revolver from its holster and went on in the same trembling voice, “Six of these bullets are for you and their lackeys and the last is for myself.”

  The hapless photographer, his eyes bursting from their sockets, stared wildly at the gun for a moment and then suddenly took to his heels. In full flight he whisked the camera tripod under his arm and left the garden in such a hurry that our mouths hung open in surprise.

  We stared at Dear Uncle in astonishment. He put the revolver back in its holster. There were large beads of sweat on his forehead. He struggled over to the stone bench and sank down on it. Unlike me, Layli and the other children had understood nothing of what Dear Uncle had said or the reason for his sudden wild behavior.

  Massaging Dear Uncle’s hands, Mash Qasem said, “Well done, sir! For the sake of all the saints may God keep you so the people of this here country can live protected by you. You gave him just what he deserved. A man can only die once. Let him go and tell that to his bastard masters!”

  I ran quickly home and told my father that Dear Uncle had collapsed.

  My father hurriedly made his way over to Dear Uncle.

  “What’s happened, sir? What’s going on?”

  Mash Qasem answered for Dear Uncle, “Them bastards had sent a spy here to take a photo of the Master . . . the Master sprang at him like a lion . . . he near as anythin’ emptied a bullet into his belly, and I wish he had.”

  In a voice quite devoid of sincerity my father sympathized with Dear Uncle for a while and then quietly said to him, “You can be sure that news of the arrival of the letter has reached them.”

  Mash Qasem helped Dear Uncle return to the inner apartments and, more worried than ever, I followed my father back to our house.

  Supper at uncle colonel’s house was not a very elaborate affair. In addition to my father and mother and Dear Uncle Napoleon and the children, Asadollah Mirza and Shamsali Mirza were there.

  A little later Dustali Khan came and said that Aziz al-Saltaneh wouldn’t be coming because Qamar felt unwell. At first the conversation revolved around Shapur, aka Puri, uncle colonel’s son. Shamsali Mirza said, “Now that Mr. Puri’s coming home safe and sound, the colonel should roll his sleeves up as soon as possible and get preparations for the wedding underway.”

  Uncle colonel said, “Thank God a thousand times over, you don’t know what a state I’ve been in these days what with all this trouble and confusion, what I’ve been through till the right papers came. If the Master agrees, God willing we can fix the engagement date for the Qorban holiday.”

  Dear Uncle Napoleon was silent and withdrawn. I peeked at Layli who was looking down, and then gave Asadollah Mirza a helpless, imploring glance.

  Asadollah pretended he’d no idea what was going on.

  “Very nice, too, have you got someone in mind for him?”

  Uncle colonel said, “You mean you don’t know, Asadollah?”

  “Moment, how am I supposed to know? And then I wouldn’t have thought you could find a girl willing to take on someone who’s just got through with his military service and hasn’t a proper job to his name.”

  “What nonsense you’re talking! With the education Puri’s had, any office would take him sight unseen. It’s no joke, the boy’s had fifteen years of education and got his degree, all my friends in government offices are begging to have Puri work with them . . . the boy’s a real genius.”

  Asadollah laughed and said, “That’s clear from his face. But who have you got in mind for him?”

  Uncle colonel gave Layli a fatherly look and said, “The marriages of first cousins are made in heaven.”

  Asadollah Mirza wrinkled his brow and said, “Moment, moment, I’m very against this. Little Layli isn’t any more than fourteen or fifteen and she has to finish her schooling.”

  Before uncle colonel had the opportunity to answer, Dustali Khan said, “I’d like to know if when his lordship got married his bride had finished her schooling. And anyway this kind of talk doesn’t mean anything when it comes to girls.”

  Asadollah Mirza immediately bristled and said, “Now, Dustali . . .”

  But it seemed that a thought suddenly occurred to him and he stopped talking. After a moment he said, “By the way, did you read in the paper how the Germans have sunk some more Allied ships?”

  Dustali Khan never had the least idea of what was going on in the world, but in order to annoy Asadollah Mirza he started to make provocative remarks, “Even if they sink a thousand of their ships, in the end the English will smash them to bits. In the first World War didn’t the Germans almost get to Paris, and then they were made mincemeat of?”

  In a loud voice Asadollah Mirza said, “I don’t know why you back the English up so much. It looks like there’s some kind of payoff involved.”

  Involuntarily I glanced across at Dear Uncle Napoleon; from the tensed swollen muscles on his face I realized he was thinking about the English.

  After bursting out in a loud artificial laugh Dustali Khan said, “You take money from the Germans, why shouldn’t I take it from the English?”

  His eyes glittering, Asadollah glanced at me. He drained his glass of wine and said, “And much good I hope it does you. You get a consultancy fee then. If it wasn’t for your great brilliant brain, who would Churchill have to advise him?”

  Dustali Khan had no chance to answer him, because at this moment the sounds of a commotion in the hall became audible. A moment later Qamar threw herself into the room, panting and out of breath, and said, “Daddy Dustali, help me, mummy wants to kill me.”

  Everyone jumped up. Dustali went over to Qamar and said, “Why are you talking nonsense, child? Where’s mummy?”

  “She’s coming, she’s after me . . .”

  And at that instant Aziz al-Saltaneh burst in on the company like a smouldering volcano. She screamed out, “As God’s my witness, child, I hope I see you in the grave, you’
re making me old before my time.”

  Dear Uncle Napoleon had stood up and said to her, “Madam, stop yelling, what kind of a racket is this you’re making?”

  Without paying any attention to his objections Aziz al-Saltaneh addressed her daughter, “Get out and back to the house with you before I break something over your head.”

  Qamar, who was hiding behind Dustali Khan, screamed out, “I’m not going home. I’m afraid of you.”

  “You’re not coming home? Then just you wait.”

  She looked around, snatched up a cane that was lying on the arm of a chair, and raised it over her head, “Get going!”

  With an angry expression on his face Dear Uncle Napoleon drew himself up to his full height in front of her.

  “Madam, put that cane down.”

  Asadollah Mirza interrupted, “Moment, madam, this innocent child . . .”

  Dear Uncle cut him off, “You be quiet!”

  In a mournful voice Aziz al-Saltaneh said, “But sir, you don’t know what I have to put up with. Let me take her.”

  “I said put that cane down!”

  Faced by the firmness of Dear Uncle’s tone, Aziz al-Saltaneh lowered the cane. When he saw that Aziz al-Saltaneh had calmed down Dear Uncle turned to Qamar and said, “Now, my dear child, off you go to your house with your mother.”

  The fat simple girl said in a trembling voice, “No, no, I’m not going, I’m not going.”

  “I said be off with you now and go back home with your mother. In our family disobeying one’s elders is a big sin.”

  “I’m not going. I’m not going.”

  Suddenly in a voice shaking with anger Dear Uncle yelled, “I said go home . . . home!”

  A deathly silence succeeded Dear Uncle’s terrifying outburst. For a moment Qamar stared at him dumbfounded; suddenly she burst into tears and sobbed out, “I’m not going, I’m not going; mummy wants to kill my baby.”