My Uncle Napoleon

by Iraj Pezeshkzad

  Dear Uncle nodded his head in a satisfied manner and said, “Attend to your own business. It’s natural that problems like this will arise.”

  Without raising his head the shoeshine man said, “Yes, sir, if I can’t handle this Indian I’m in a really bad way; those other bastards’ll eat me alive.”

  With a satisfied smile Dear Uncle repeated, “Yes those other bastards . . . they’re important . . . Ah, Mash Qasem! Fetch a glass of cordial for our friend Hushang, to refresh his throat!”

  Mash Qasem was near me. I heard him mutter, “And I hope it’s the last he ever drinks!”

  SEVENTEEN

  AT SUNSET THAT DAY uncle colonel and a few relatives went by horse drawn carriage to welcome Puri, who was supposed to arrive at about nine o’clock at the railroad station. Uncle colonel was upset that the whole family hadn’t gone to welcome him, but this was unavoidable. Dear Uncle Napoleon and Asadollah Mirza, and especially Aziz al-Saltaneh, had no alternative but to stay and entertain the cadet officer and his mother and sister who were coming to ask for Qamar’s hand.

  Asadollah Mirza came a little after uncle colonel had set off. He was very cheerful. As soon as he arrived he said, “I went with the cadet officer and bought him a really beautiful wig. He looks just like Rudolph Valentino . . . he’s coming now and you’ll see.”

  Aziz al-Saltaneh was giving her final instructions to Qamar, “God, my dear, what I wouldn’t do for you, you’re such a lovely girl . . . sit properly like a lady. Don’t say a word . . . whatever they ask I’ll answer for you.”

  Asadollah Mirza pinched Qamar’s cheek and said, “That’s right, my girl, don’t say a word. People like it when a girl doesn’t say anything. They like shy girls better. If you talk then your husband will go, and then your baby won’t have a daddy. Have you got that, my dear?”

  Qamar was wearing a pretty green dress; with an innocent smile she said, “Yes, I’ve got it. I really love my baby. I want to knit him a jacket.”

  “But my dear if you talk about your baby in front of the people who are coming, they’ll go. Then you’ll have to stay by yourself . . . don’t say a word about your baby. They mustn’t realize you’re going to have a baby. Now you’ve really got that?”

  “Yes, I’ve got it, Uncle Asadollah. I won’t say anything at all about my baby in front of them.”

  Then Qamar, Aziz al-Saltaneh and Dear Uncle went into the sitting room. Dustali Khan also hobbled in and lay down on his side on a sofa. Asadollah Mirza and I were in the yard when suddenly Mash Qasem ran toward Asadollah Mirza and said, “Eh m’dears, they’re comin’. But my neighbor’s not wearin’ his wig.”

  “What? He’s not wearing his wig? Then what’s on his head?”

  “That same old porkpie hat thing.”

  “What a donkey he is! Mash Qasem, run and keep the women occupied for a minute and send the cadet officer on ahead so I can see what the hell he thinks he’s doing.”

  “His mom’s really a fright. I’m afraid she’ll scare Qamar!”

  “What do you mean? She doesn’t look too good?”

  “She’s got her veil on. . . . But she’s fearsome all right . . .”

  “How fearsome?”

  “Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . what I’ve seen with my own eyes, savin’ your grace, savin’ your grace, is that she’s got a beard and mustache as long as preacher Seyed Abolqasem has.”

  Asadollah Mirza struck his fist against his forehead and said, “And I suppose it couldn’t have been managed if he hadn’t brought this beauty queen along . . . Mash Qasem, run and send the donkey here so I can see why the hell he hasn’t covered his bald head up.”

  Mash Qasem ran outside and a moment later the cadet officer entered. His hat was pulled down over his ears. Asadollah glanced toward the sitting room window. He took the cadet officer by the arm, led him into a hallway, and said, “Officer, what kind of a turnout is this? Where’s the wig?”

  The cadet officer hung his head and said, “Sir, you’ll really have to forgive me. My mom said that if I wore the wig she’d disown me.”

  “And now this one will disown you. Where’s the wig?”

  The cadet officer gestured toward his inside jacket pocket and said, “It’s here.”

  Asadollah Mirza thought for a moment and then said, “Cadet Officer, sir, if you could keep your mother and sister busy in the garden for a moment, I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

  Then he turned to Mash Qasem, “Mash Qasem, bring some sweet tea for the ladies . . . have them sit in the arbor till I come.”

  As soon as the cadet officer and Mash Qasem had left the house Asadollah Mirza signalled Aziz al-Saltaneh to come into the yard; anxiously he said to her, “Ma’am, a new problem’s turned up; the bridegroom’s mother has told him that if he wears a wig she’ll disown him. Do you think if he comes in without a wig on Qamar will be very . . . ?”

  Aziz al-Saltaneh cut him off, “God, Asadollah, I’d die for you but think of something! The poor wretch has talked ten times about her husband’s head of hair . . . convince him any way you can at least for today to put the wig on that rotten ugly head of his.”

  “I’ll do my utmost . . . God willing, I’ll get him to agree.”

  “Well, you’re a fine man and what I wouldn’t do for you’s nobody’s business, but do something. You know how to talk to a woman. There’s no woman alive who won’t listen to you. Do something.”

  “But from what Mash Qasem says our groom’s mother isn’t a woman at all, she’s got as long a beard and mustache as the preacher Seyed Abolqasem has.”

  “I’ll drop down dead for you, Asadollah, but do something. You know how to twist old women round your little finger. You can corrupt a saint if you want to.”

  “Moment, moment, up to now I’ve never twisted a bearded lady round my little finger. Well, let’s go and see what’ll happen . . . but remember not to let Qamar stay in the room for long. When she’s been sitting there for two minutes have someone call her out and then don’t let her back in again. My main worry is that she’ll say one word too much.”

  Asadollah Mirza set off for the garden. I followed him. When he saw me behind him he said, “Dear boy, you come too and help . . . if my razor won’t shave her you must try with yours . . . usually these bearded women like young boys.”

  “What can I do, Uncle Asadollah?”

  “Make up to her a bit . . . say nice things about the delicacy of her skin.”

  “Uncle Asadollah, I’m to say nice things about the delicacy of a bearded woman’s skin? She’ll think I’m making fun of her.”

  “Moment, really moment, why are you so naive? So open your eyes and at least you’ll learn something.”

  When we caught sight of the cadet officer’s mother in the distance, for a moment the two of us stood rooted to the spot. Asadollah Mirza involuntarily muttered, “Eh, blessed Morteza Ali, where’s this seahorse sprung from? I’ve never seen such a creature in any zoo.”

  Although we could only see half her face from under her black veil, the two of us were horrified. He was telling the truth. We really couldn’t remember any creature as ugly as this one. Even calling her a seahorse was flattering her. The blackness of her mustache and beard were obvious from a distance, and her breathing, which sounded like an old-fashioned steam press, could be heard from a long way off. Despite all this Asadollah Mirza threw caution to the winds and went forward, “Good day to you, madam . . . you are very, very welcome.”

  Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi made the introductions, “This is my mother Naneh Rajab . . . and this is Akhtar, my sister.”

  Asadollah Mirza’s eyes glittered. The cadet officer’s sister was olive-skinned and had a pretty face. She was somewhat stout, had a very prominent bosom, and was wearing violently red lipstick.

 
As soon as we sat down on the benches in the arbor, the groom’s mother Naneh Rajab drained her glass of sherbet and said in a deep voice, “I have to tell you that I don’t at all approve of these games. I’ve brought my son up and he’s like a nosegay, he is, there’s not a fault or blemish in him, he has a profession, he has his dignity, he’s had six years of schooling, and now if his hair’s fallen out, that’s no fault or blemish . . . he has a hundred girls after him . . . so you can just forget about these wigs and such like silly games.”

  Her tone was so violent and emphatic that for a moment I thought the transaction was over and done with. But Asadollah Mirza mildly said, “Moment, madam. When you say ‘I brought my son up,’ it makes one laugh. I swear on your own soul, on my own soul, that I still can’t believe you’re the cadet officer’s mother . . . if you want to make a joke that’s another matter, of course.”

  Perhaps because this bearded woman had somewhat of a complex, owing to her masculine appearance, she rolled her eyes in their sockets and said violently, “What do you mean? Do you think I’m a freak with six fingers and shouldn’t have a son?”

  “My dear lady, of course you should have a son, but not a son as old as this . . . however is it possible that you, at such a young age, can have such a grown up son?”

  The old woman’s few yellowing teeth showed in among the hair of her mustache and beard. She fluttered her eyes and turned her head.

  “Well now, what things you men say . . . Of course I was very young when I married. I was thirteen or fourteen when I had Rajabali. And this poor boy Rajabali isn’t so old, he’s had so many worries that it’s aged him, as you can see . . .”

  “Even so . . . even if the cadet officer is twenty, still it’s very hard to believe . . . And you don’t even use face-powder or lipstick.”

  The old woman had opened up like a blossom in springtime; she gave Asadollah Mirza a push in the chest and said, “Eh, what a sweet-talking tongue you’ve got in your head . . . by the way, what relation are you to the bride?”

  Without taking his eyes off the cadet officer’s sister’s breasts, Asadollah Mirza said, “We’re cousins.”

  A few minutes later the situation had totally changed. We entered the inner apartments with Naneh Rajab in front, followed by her son and daughter, and with Asadollah Mirza and myself bringing up the rear. The cadet officer had his wig on his head and was holding his porkpie hat in his hand.

  When the suitor’s family entered the sitting room Dear Uncle, and more especially Dustali Khan, remained motionless for a moment. Dustali Khan closed his eyes. The old woman’s ugliness was more than they could tolerate.

  But Qamar stared at the cadet officer’s face and didn’t pay much attention to his mother and sister.

  Hardly had the guests sat down when my father and mother came in; it was clear that Dear Uncle had sent for them to come.

  In response to the cadet officer’s mother’s first question concerning Qamar, Aziz al-Saltaneh began a long speech about her daughter’s good qualities. Dear Uncle and Dustali Khan were silent. Dustali Khan’s eyes were staring at the cadet officer’s sister’s body. He seemed to be weighing in his mind on the one side the horrors of living with the mother and on the other side the pleasures of the sister’s company. But for her part the mother didn’t take her hungry eyes for one minute from his form, which was stretched out on the sofa.

  Then Dear Uncle began to talk about the special and quite exceptional status of his family as far as its social rank was concerned. But he had only uttered a few sentences when Mash Qasem ran in panting and said, “Sir, that Mrs. Farrokh Laqa lady’s comin’ here.”

  The complexions of those present—especially Dear Uncle and Aziz al-Saltaneh—noticeably paled. The unexpected appearance of this bad-mouthed gossip, who always wore black, left them paralyzed with shock for a moment. In a voice that he tried to keep calm, so that the guests would not suspect anything, Dear Uncle said, “Qasem, we have guests . . . say there’s no one at home.”

  My father said, “This woman can’t keep her mouth shut. To come visiting at such a time when we’re discussing private family matters like this . . . however did she get wind of it?”

  This bluster showed me my father’s hand. I was certain that he himself had told Mrs. Farrokh Laqa. In this way my father could be sure that within twenty-four hours the whole town would know about both the details of the wedding and the particulars of the groom’s family.

  Dear Uncle turned to the cadet officer, “She’s a relative of ours, but she always brings bad luck wherever she goes.”

  At this moment we could hear Mash Qasem’s voice coming from the door to the inner apartments, “Missus, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . They’ve all gone to meet Mr. Puri . . . it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to go down to the station, too . . .”

  This was immediately followed by the sound of Mrs. Farrokh Laqa’s voice, “Out of my way and let me see . . . I just heard them talking . . .”

  I looked out of the window at the door to the inner apartments. Mash Qasem was flung aside and Mrs. Farrokh Laqa, her face glowing and dressed in her usual black clothes and with a black scarf over her head, marched in.

  As she entered the sitting room a deathly silence prevailed. Mrs. Farrokh Laqa popped a wedding candy into her mouth and said, “God willing, I hope they’ll be very happy. I’ve heard that we’ve a joyful event in the near future . . . this lady must be the mother of the groom?”

  Dear Uncle had no choice but to reply, “Yes, yes, the lady is his mother. How fortunate that you should come as well; these ladies and the groom turned up unexpectedly. And we said to Mash Qasem that . . . I mean, we thought it was a stranger . . . we told Mash Qasem that if it was a stranger . . .”

  Mrs. Farrokh Laqa interrupted him, “It doesn’t matter now.”

  Then she turned to the cadet officer’s mother and said, “I wish you luck, dear. You couldn’t find another girl as good as this one in the whole city. Pretty, proper, a good housewife, serious . . . by the way, what does your son do?”

  Dear Uncle answered for the old lady, “The gentleman’s one of the directors of the police department.”

  “Very nice, too, I wish you luck . . . his face seems familiar to me . . . So, what’s his salary?”

  Dear Uncle said in a violent tone, “Ma’am, such talk is unworthy of us . . .”

  To change the subject of our conversation Asadollah Mirza said, “By the way, Mrs. Farrokh Laqa, I heard that that poor what’s-his-name . . . passed away . . .”

  He had found a good topic, since the one thing that interested this woman-in-black was the subject of deaths and funerals and the ceremonies that went with them. She assumed a mournful expression and said, “You don’t mean his excellency, do you? . . . Yes, he had a heart attack . . . You know he was a distant relative of ours . . . the ceremony’s tomorrow . . . it wouldn’t do any harm if you came yourself . . . and it wouldn’t do any harm if the Master came, too.”

  Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. But Mrs. Farrokh Laqa immediately went back to the subject of the marriage, and turning to the cadet officer’s mother said, “The groom’s father is no longer living?”

  “No, dear lady, they were still small when he passed away.”

  “What was his profession?”

  Dear Uncle answered for the old woman, “He was one of the landowners of Qom. He owned land in Ghiasabad . . .”

  But the cadet officer’s mother brusquely interrupted him, “No sir, I’ll tell the truth so that tomorrow there’ll be no argument about it. His dad—God rest his soul—used to cook sheep’s heads and sell them from a barrow . . .”

  Dear Uncle closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. Aziz al-Saltaneh snapped her jaws shut and an unintelligible noise issued from her throat.

  I stole a look at my father. A stran
ge light was shining in his eyes. I felt that he was experiencing a boundless happiness, but he gave no sign of it.

  No one had any idea what to do. They were looking for some remark that would shut Mrs. Farrokh Laqa’s mouth.

  But Mrs. Farrokh Laqa, having landed the first blow so expeditiously, wasn’t going to give them any respite. She nodded her head and said, “So he was a tradesman, not a bad profession . . . Why don’t you tell the truth? It’s not as though he was a thief!”

  Aziz al-Saltaneh threw Asadollah Mirza an imploring look. It seemed that with this look she was asking him to get rid of Farrokh Laqa in any way possible. But Mrs. Farrokh Laqa wasn’t giving any quarter. Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi was sitting quietly in a corner; she looked him up and down from head to toe and said, “I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

  The cadet officer was about to open his mouth but caught sight of Dear Uncle and Dustali Khan gesturing to him, and was silent again. But Mrs. Farrokh Laqa suddenly shouted, “Eh, just a minute, wasn’t it you that . . .”

  At this moment Asadollah Mirza suddenly threw himself on Mrs. Farrokh Laqa, and slapping her violently on the back with the palm of his hand yelled, “Mouse . . . mouse . . . the little devil . . .”

  Mrs. Farrokh Laqa screamed at the top of her voice, jumped up, and ran yelling into the hallway. Everyone started up. Aziz al-Saltaneh and the cadet officer’s sister ran out.

  And in this way the meeting broke up.

  While everyone was standing about and Mash Qasem was hunting for the mouse with a broom, Asadollah Mirza went into the hallway, took Mrs. Farrokh Laqa by the arm and whispered, “My dear lady, come this way please, I’ve something very urgent to say to you.”

  And he virtually pulled her into one of the ground floor rooms near the door out to the yard. I followed them. I was surprised to hear Asadollah Mirza violently protesting his devotion to various parts of Farrokh Laqa’s body and it seemed that he had placed his hand over the woman-in-black’s face because her cries could hardly escape from her throat, “You shameless, dirty . . . I’m old enough to be your mother! Help! . . . You wretch . . . Help! . . . Stop it! I hope I see the grave diggers get their hands on that gut of yours!”