My Uncle Napoleon

by Iraj Pezeshkzad

  “I . . . I . . . I mean . . . in fact . . . maybe you’re right . . . I wanted to say that, though I’m not at all at fault in this matter, I’m ready to pay any price to . . . in any way . . .”

  “Listen, Dustali, as Napoleon said, it’s only one step from being a traitor to being a loyal subject, if the step is taken at the right time. If you’re looking for some kind of payback, I’ll help you so you don’t stay stuck in this mess. Recently I’ve realized that you support certain political interests . . .”

  At this point the racket made by Aziz al-Saltaneh in the yard outside cut off the thread of their conversation, “How is my poor little Dustali? After you, doctor.”

  Aziz al-Saltaneh entered Dustali Khan’s room, followed by Dr. Naser al-Hokama. After examining the patient, he pronounced himself satisfied with his condition and left the room, saying “Your good health” as he did so. Layli returned to where I was and the two of us sat in silence listening through the open door to the conversation of Dear Uncle, Aziz al-Saltaneh and Dustali Khan, who spoke in a weak voice interspersed with moans.

  Dear Uncle said, “It looks as though the danger’s receding, thank goodness.”

  “I hope the good Lord takes your word for it. I’ve made a vow, if Dustali gets better I’ll go to the Davud shrine and sacrifice a sheep to distribute the meat to the poor.”

  “But have you thought what to do about Qamar? . . . What did that doctor say to you finally?”

  “He said it’s way too late for an abortion, it might be dangerous for her.”

  Dear Uncle said violently, “Doctors always say that kind of rubbish. Why don’t you go and find one of those backstreet midwives?”

  “Well sir, I’m afraid to. I’m afraid that—God forbid—they might do the poor girl some awful injury.”

  “You should also be thinking of the family honor. If the girl’s poor father had been alive he’d have died of the disgrace. Lucky for him he’s dead and never had to witness this shame . . . tomorrow the news’ll be all over town.”

  “I’m afraid of that, too. By now lots of folk must have heard about it . . . the little wretch can’t keep her mouth shut . . . I bet you that today that gossip Farrokh Laqa’ll turn up.”

  At this moment uncle colonel’s and his wife’s voices were suddenly audible from the yard, calling for Dear Uncle with obvious agitation. Everyone, including Layli and I, ran into the yard.

  Uncle colonel and his wife were both extremely upset, and both of them tried to tell Dear Uncle why at the same time. Finally uncle colonel quieted his wife down and said, “As the oldest brother, please say something to this woman. She’s been crying for an hour . . .”

  “What’s happened?”

  “If you remember, we were so worried about Puri that before his letter arrived I wrote to a friend of mine in Ahvaz asking him to find out how Puri was doing and to let us know. He wrote that Puri was sick. Now no matter how much I tell my wife that Puri wrote to us after that letter, it doesn’t do any good.”

  “But aren’t the letters dated?”

  “No, they’re not, but I’m quite sure that Puri wrote to us after he did . . .”

  Weeping, uncle colonel’s wife said, “I beg you, I’ll do anything for you . . . Sir, please think of something. Send a telegram.”

  Dear Uncle asked, “How is he sick now? I mean, how was he sick?”

  Uncle colonel’s wife didn’t give her husband a chance to answer. She said, “They wrote that my boy heard a gun go off and went into shock . . . God strike me dead for letting the boy go off to the war, it’s so noisy! ”

  Uncle colonel said with some asperity, “Why are you talking such rubbish, woman? That man writes rubbish and you have to repeat it? He must have eaten some contaminated food and collapsed, and if he didn’t, Puri’s my son, after all. You won’t find one in a thousand young men with the courage and daring and bravery of my Puri.”

  Layli and I exchanged glances and smothered our laughter. Asadollah Mirza had just come out of Dear Uncle’s reception room a moment or so before and had heard the last part of the conversation. As he approached the group he said, “The colonel’s right . . . there isn’t even one in a million young men as brave as Puri. The boy’s appearance reminds me of Julius Caesar.”

  Uncle colonel turned his head angrily in his direction. But Asadollah Mirza had such an innocent look on his face that uncle’s furious glance turned to one filled with gratitude, and he calmly said, “I thank you, Asadollah, with all your faults you’ve one virtue, that you see people for what they are.” Then he turned to Dear Uncle Napoleon and went on, “But in your opinion how would it be if I went to Ahvaz to see for myself . . .”

  Dear Uncle Napoleon interrupted him, “What kind of time is this for taking trips, my dear sir? Send a telegram to this friend of yours. This is no time for taking trips. We can’t leave the front undefended. For all you know this is some trick of theirs to get you away from me. To clear everyone away from me the better to achieve their goals . . . And now they’re approaching Tehran.”

  Once again Asadollah Mirza couldn’t remain silent, “The Master’s right . . . it’s not at all unlikely that there are wheels within wheels here . . . you’d better send a telegram.”

  The sound of two people shouting and quarreling in the alleyway became audible. Dear Uncle Napoleon pricked up his ears and after a moment turned to me, “Go and see what’s going on, lad. What all the fuss and shouting’s about.”

  I ran into the alleyway.

  Mash Qasem was standing with a broom in his hand arguing with the shoeshine man, who apparently intended to set up his little stall opposite the entrance to our garden.

  “This here ain’t your aunty’s house for some feller to come along every day and set up shop.”

  “Cut the cackle. What are you shouting so much for?”

  “Never mind my shoutin’. If you spread out your stuff here, I’ll chuck all your tins of polish and rags and leather in the gutter.”

  For a moment I stood stock-still, but rather than interfere, I preferred to go and tell Dear Uncle what was going on, before the shoeshine man saw me.

  I ran quickly back to the house. As soon as Dear Uncle Napoleon saw me he asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Well, uncle, a shoeshine man has come and wants to set out his stuff in front of the door to our garden, and Mash Qasem is trying to get rid of him.”

  Dear Uncle was like a man who has been given an electric shock. He stood rooted to the spot; for a moment he froze, his eyes staring and his mouth hanging open. Then he shouted, “What? . . . Mash Qasem? . . . A shoeshine man? . . . What the hell does he think he’s doing!”

  And he hurried off toward the street. Asadollah Mirza winked at me, but he stayed where he was and didn’t move.

  I set off after Dear Uncle Napoleon.

  When we reached the alleyway Mash Qasem was grappling with the shoeshine man and shouting, “I’ll beat the livin’ daylights out of you, you callin’ me a donkey?”

  Dear Uncle came to a standstill and shouted, “Qasem!”

  Mash Qasem went on grappling with the shoeshine man and shouted out, “I’m no son of Ghiasabad if I don’t teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!”

  Dear Uncle stepped forward and gave Mash Qasem a blow on the neck. “Qasem! Idiot, I said calm down! What’s going on?”

  “This feller came and wanted to spread out his cobblin’ stuff here. I told him to go, and he started arguin’ with me . . .”

  I tried to keep myself out of the shoeshine man’s line of vision. Panting for breath, the shoeshine man said, “Sir, I came here to work, he came and swore at me . . . look man, can’t you keep a civil tongue in your head?”

  And as he was gathering up his the materials of his trade he added, “I’m out of here, this alleyway’s reserved for the sons
of Ghiasabad.”

  His face flushed, Mash Qasem shouted, “What do I hear you sayin’? If you mention Ghiasabad again I’ll give you such a belt on the snout it’ll knock your teeth out in your mouth.”

  Trembling with rage, Dear Uncle said in strangled tones, “Qasem, shut up! And if you don’t I’ll shut you up with my own hands! What right do you have to prevent people from going about their business? It’s not as if he’s eating you out of house and home!”

  The shoeshine man’s face lit up, but Mash Qasem stared at Dear Uncle with round, astonished eyes.

  “But sir, didn’t you yourself tell me not to let these here guttersnipes spread their stuff out here? Didn’t you say as how they come to case the houses and then come at night, thievin’?”

  “Idiot, I said suspicious people, not some poor tradesman who’s trying to keep body and soul together!”

  “Why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . Up till now I’ve not seen a more supspicious feller than this ’un. His eyes are just drippin’ with thievin’ and oglin’ folks and supspiciousness.”

  The shoeshine man said angrily, “You should understand just what it is you’re saying.” Then he picked up his box of tools and went on, “I’m out of here, but it’s a pity that this gentleman has got such a donkey for a servant.”

  Mash Qasem made to attack him, but Dear Uncle struck him hard in the chest and pushed him back and said to the shoeshine man, “Sir . . . what’s your name?”

  “Hushang, at your service.”

  For a moment Dear Uncle stared at the shoeshine man’s face in astonishment and said under his breath, “Strange! Strange! Hushang . . .”

  The shoeshine man undid his apron and threw it over one shoulder, “If you ever need a job doing . . . shoeshine, new soles, sandals repaired . . . I’ll be two streets further down, by the coal seller’s place.”

  And he prepared to leave.

  Anxiously Dear Uncle said, “What’s this, sir? Where are you going? This is a very good place right here. From morning till evening we’ve a thousand jobs of polishing and shoe-repairs. If just my family gives you work you’ll have no need of any more.”

  “No sir, I’m going. It’s not worth the bother; a hundred pounds of meat got by hunting’s not worth one lousy hunting dog.”

  And he really started on his way. Dear Uncle threw himself in his path and took his arm, “Sir, please . . . I promise you that Mash Qasem will behave toward you as if he were your brother.”

  Under his breath, so that Dear Uncle couldn’t hear, Mash Qasem said, “Oh yeah, you and your bleedin’ ancestors, too . . . I’ll show you a lousy huntin’ dog, right enough.”

  Dear Uncle turned to Mash Qasem, “Isn’t that so, Mash Qasem? . . . Won’t you behave like a brother to Hushang?”

  Mash Qasem hung his head and said, “Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . whatever you say, sir . . . but if you remember that photographer feller . . .”

  Catching sight of Dear Uncle’s angry look, he stopped short. “Well, it seems like I mistook this feller for that shoeshine feller in the bazaar.”

  The shoeshine man put his bundle down. Dear Uncle breathed a sigh of relief and said, “At lunchtime Mash Qasem will bring you out some lunch . . . Qasem! Tell your mistress that if the food’s ready she’s to send a plate out for Hushang . . . and don’t forget to bring salad and bread and yoghurt, too.”

  With a relaxed, satisfied look on his face the shoeshine man spread his wares out and said, “Very kind of you and God keep you in your generosity, sir . . . but I’ll eat my own bread and grapes.”

  “No, no . . . out of the question . . . today you’re our guest. And come in the garden to have lunch.”

  As we were returning to the inner apartments Mash Qasem, who was extremely put out, tried to give Dear Uncle some guiding advice. But he was confronted by such a furious expression on Dear Uncle’s face that he swallowed his words and sealed his lips.

  When we reached the inner apartments Asadollah Mirza gave me an enquiring look. With a gesture I reassured him that all had gone as planned.

  The subject of Puri’s illness was reopened, but it didn’t get anywhere because Layli came running out of the living room saying that someone from the office of criminal affairs wanted to talk to Aziz al-Saltaneh.

  Aziz al-Saltaneh went to the phone and everyone gathered about her, wondering what could be afoot.

  “Hello, yes . . . who? . . . Good day to you, sir, thank you very much, that’s very kind of you . . . and how did you get this number? . . . from our house? . . . Yes, yes, no, that’s Fati, Qamar’s aunt’s daughter . . . what? Whatever are you saying? God strike me dead! And did you believe it?”

  Dear Uncle kept mouthing that she was to explain what was going on. Aziz al-Saltaneh said to whoever was on the other end, “Hold on, will you please, there’s a lot of noise going on in the yard, I’ll just shut the door.”

  Then she put her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “It’s the head of the criminal office . . . the one I went to see that time, the friend of my late husband . . . he says that today some unknown person phoned him and said I’d shot Dustali and hidden the injured party in the house.”

  Dear Uncle’s eyes widened and his lips began to tremble. After a moment’s silence he said in a voice that could hardly drag itself from his throat, “It’s their work . . . answer him! . . . tell him he can talk to Dustali himself.”

  “Hello? . . . Yes, what were we talking about? . . . They must’ve been joking . . . just hold on, will you, and you can talk to Dustali himself . . . no, no, really, you have to talk to him. Please.”

  Aziz al-Saltaneh hurriedly took the phone into Dustali Khan’s room, explained the situation to her husband in a couple of words, and said, “Take it and talk, but no moaning, eh?”

  Dustali Khan had no choice but to obey; he greeted the head of the criminal affairs office in a strong cheerful voice, asked after his health and assured him that all was well. Then he gave the receiver back to Aziz al-Saltaneh. Meanwhile Dear Uncle had been instructing Aziz al-Saltaneh.

  “Hello, did you hear, sir? . . . So now you’ll realize they were just joking with you. Yesterday Dustali was filling cartridges and some of the gunpowder burnt his leg a bit . . . thank you very much . . . that’s very kind of you.”

  Dear Uncle signalled her to ask the head of the office what he, Dear Uncle, wanted to know. Aziz al-Saltaneh signalled back that she hadn’t forgotten. After an exchange of compliments and promises to see one another in the near future she said, “By the way, sir, I had one question . . . can I ask you what kind of person it was who phoned you . . . I mean didn’t he have a particular accent? Like for example an Indian accent? . . . No? Then . . . what kind? A Shiraz accent? . . . Are you sure? . . . That’s right, you lived in Shiraz for many years! . . . Well, I’m very grateful to you for your kindness . . . obviously . . . and of course if it had been anyone else except you this would certainly have meant problems for us . . . I can’t thank you enough.”

  I didn’t dare look at Dear Uncle. Although I was looking down I could guess at the expressions on the faces of those present in the room. Finally I stole a glance at Dear Uncle out of the corner of my eye. I saw from his purple color, and from the muscles starting from his face, that his cataclysmic inward state was even worse than I’d guessed. I was so terrified I almost gave up the ghost. I said to myself, “God help us now!” Because the only person in the whole family, and out of all our acquaintances, who had a Shiraz accent was my father.

  FIFTEEN

  DEAR UNCLE STOOD stock-still, his face rigid. Finally Asadollah Mirza said, “It must have been some friend or relative who did it as a joke . . . since they’ve had this automatic telephone system . . .”

  Dear Uncle cut him off and said in a choked voice, “Mrs. al-Saltaneh,
do you have this gentleman’s phone number?”

  Aziz al-Saltaneh answered in surprise, “The phone number of the head of the criminal office? Yes, I do, but why?”

  “Please call him right now and say that you have to go and see him today about something important.”

  “What should I go and see him for?”

  In a peremptory tone Dear Uncle said, “Please phone him right now. I’ll explain later.”

  Faced with an order from Dear Uncle, Aziz al-Saltaneh had no choice but to obey. She took the relevant number from her handbag and called the head of the office of criminal affairs. An appointment was made for four-thirty that afternoon.

  When she had put the receiver down Dear Uncle said, “You and I will go to his office together.”

  “You want to tell him something about Qamar? . . . look, I beg you . . .”

  Dear Uncle cut her off, “No, we’ll talk about Qamar later. This is a much more important matter. I have to know who made this phone call to him. Knowing this is a matter of life and death to me.”

  After pacing up and down in the room for a few moments Dear Uncle said, “Tonight, I’d like you all to come here . . . we have many matters to discuss, including Qamar’s difficulties and our dear Puri’s illness.”

  Uncle colonel’s wife moaned, “Sir, please do something, I’m afraid it’ll be too late . . . I’m afraid something awful’s going to happen to my poor little boy.”

  Dear Uncle said firmly, “No, it won’t be too late . . . we’ll talk about it tonight. Then whatever has to be done we’ll do.”

  Uncle colonel and his wife went back to their house. I followed Asadollah Mirza out because I wanted to talk to him about this new business of some unknown person phoning the criminal affairs office. Our troubles seemed endless. Every hour of every day some new obstacle came between me and Layli.

  When we had left the inner apartments of Dear Uncle’s house I said to him anxiously, “Uncle Asadollah, what was all that about a phone call? Do you think that . . .”