My Uncle Napoleon

by Iraj Pezeshkzad

  “How’s that, Mash Qasem?”

  “Well, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . The Master said the English had done it, I didn’t believe him. But now I’m certain them blind devils did it . . . I asked the coffeeshop owner if he hadn’t seen someone blond with squinty eyes in these parts today; he said that in the evenin’ he’d seen a fish-seller goin’ past the coffeeshop and his eyes and hair had a wild fierce look, and his eyes had a bit of a squint in them.”

  Trying to suppress his laughter Asadollah Mirza said, “The description exactly fits the English General Wavell.”

  In a stern tone Dear Uncle said, “For now, good night until the morning.”

  On the morning of the next day, which was a Friday, I didn’t dare come out of my room; my father didn’t come looking for me. But my mother brought me breakfast. From her I heard that the whole family had gone to the hospital with Puri. An hour later Asadollah turned up. I’d spent the whole night afraid and worrying, and I calmed down somewhat when I heard his voice. He came up to see me and said, “The situation’s not good; I’ve talked with your father and we’ve agreed to send you to stay with Rahim Khan’s family in Dezashib, until things quiet down.”

  Anxiously I asked, “How’s that, Uncle Asadollah?”

  “The colonel has sworn that he’ll empty a couple of bullets into your skull . . . because they have to operate on Puri and take out one of his what’s-its-names.”

  “One of his what?”

  “How thick you are! How can I say . . . one of the foundation stones of his tower of San Francisco . . . or, as Mash Qasem would say, one of the pair of his private equipment.”

  “Did you say uncle colonel wanted to empty a couple of bullets into my skull?”

  “Well, do you expect him to empty them into my skull?”

  Having no idea what to say I said, “Two handgun bullets . . .”

  “That was what surprised me, seeing as how they’re only going to take one of the foundation stones of his tower of San Francisco out, why two bullets . . .”

  At this point the entry of my father cut our conversation short. “You’re a really stupid fool, my boy!”

  Asadollah Mirza coolly said, “There’s no point in arguing . . . if it’d been you and someone had insulted your father, you’d have got angry, too. And for now, just as I suggested before, it’s better we send him to Rahim Khan’s house for a few days until things have quieted down.”

  “I’ve just phoned them; Rahim Khan said he’ll be happy to have him.”

  I pleaded with them, “No, let me stay . . . I want to stay near Layli.”

  My father lunged toward me and said in a tone of violent contempt, “Just shut up, will you? God damn you and your silly lovesick carrying-on!”

  Fortunately Asadollah Mirza was between us, otherwise I’d have suffered a blow or a kick.

  Asadollah Mirza said, “It so happens I’m invited out for lunch in Shemiran; I’ll just go and change my clothes and I’ll take him.”

  Then he turned to me, “Listen to what’s said, boy! We know how to manage this business of yours better than you do.”

  They were so heartless they wouldn’t even let me wait for Layli to get back from the hospital. An hour later I was in a bus with Asadollah Mirza, going toward Shemiran. After being silent for a while I said, “Uncle Asadollah, how do you think things will turn out now?”

  “How will what turn out now?”

  “With Puri.”

  “His body’s equilibrium will be upset.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when they take one of them out, one side of his body will be lighter and the other heavier.”

  “Please don’t joke about it. I’m very worried.”

  “Moment, really moment . . . why are you worried? That horse-faced creep should be worried that he’s been barred from al-San Francisco for life.”

  “Then is it true that he’ll never again be able to . . . ?”

  “To what?”

  “To . . . I mean . . . to San Francisco . . .”

  “Bravo, bravo, that’s the first time I’ve heard the name San Francisco from your lips. You get 100 percent in Geography. As to whether he’ll be able to travel to San Francisco or not, the various doctors and physicians are divided on the matter. Some are of the belief that . . .”

  “Uncle Asadollah! Please don’t joke about it. Last night I was so worried I didn’t sleep till morning.”

  “You mean you were that worried that Puri wouldn’t be able to go to San Francisco?”

  “No, but I’m worried that he’s been done a permanent injury, and then my conscience will say I’m responsible.”

  “It’s not just your conscience that’ll say you’re responsible, the law will say so, too . . . but don’t think about it. They’re not the people to lodge a complaint. An aristocratic family never sets foot in the law courts.”

  “What will happen to Layli, Uncle Asadollah?”

  “For the moment Layli’s safe, but when old slobber-chops comes out of the hospital, after three or four months the subject’s going to come up again.”

  “How many months from now?”

  Asadollah Mirza interrupted me, “How many months from now do you imagine they’re going to give Layli to you? If Puri’s only just been barred from al-San Francisco, you were born barred!”

  “Finally it’ll work out in some way or other. I want to ask you to tell Layli that I had to leave her. Tell her if she can to phone me at two o’clock in the afternoon, when Dear Uncle’s asleep; and you’ll let me know everything that happens. Do you promise?”

  “Solemn promise.”

  Asadollah Mirza gave me his office telephone number and said, “But don’t talk too much on the phone, all right?”

  An hour later I said goodbye to Asadollah Mirza and so began my first period of absence from Layli.

  I was friends with Rahim Khan’s son; my stay in their house lasted nearly two weeks. During this period I regularly telephoned Asadollah Mirza and asked him for news. Puri had been operated on. They had taken out one of the two relevant organs, and they were worried they might have to take out the second. When I telephoned Asadollah Mirza on about the tenth day he said, “You owe me something for the good news I’m to give you. The matter rests at the two bullets the colonel’s supposed to empty into your skull, and it’s not been increased to four.”

  “What, Uncle Asadollah?”

  “It seems that San Francisco’s second foundation stone is out of danger. Now on condition that the city can survive on this one foundation, we can start work on getting them to let bygones be bygones and forgive you.”

  “Can he get married now?”

  “Not now, but perhaps in a few months, and even then it’ll be, as the Indian Brigadier would say, with his natural forces bahot wilted . . . for now, you stay where you are . . . and Layli is fine. Don’t worry about her.”

  On the Friday evening fifteen days after Puri’s injury I was forgiven, on the occasion of a celebratory party for Qamar and Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi held by my father, and Asadollah Mirza personally came to fetch me.

  In the bus he gave me some fresh news, “I think it’s going to be a very noisy party tonight. Because apparently either last night or this morning Dustali Khan and Aziz al-Saltaneh realized that when Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi said he’d lost his noble member in the wars and that he’d no worldly goods to his name, he was lying through his teeth, and as far as I can tell from the women’s gossip, he’s very well off. Noticeably well off.”

  “And so why did he say . . . ?”

  “It seems that he’d reckoned that if he said he wasn’t in any trouble they wouldn’t pay him as much.”

  “What a sly old so-and-so.”

  “He’s not so sly at al
l, he’s bit of a fool. But I see the hidden hand of We-All-Know-Who in all this.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Yes, I mean your father . . . I realized he had a hand in it from the way it looked.”

  “What does Qamar say about all this?”

  “She seems very cheerful. She wanted a baby and she’s got one. She’d no expectations of wealth or money and God’s given her someone who’s wealthy, very wealthy at that. So, in short, tonight we should have a good laugh . . . that’s if the night doesn’t end in fights and recriminations, of course.”

  “Uncle Asadollah, what’s Dear Uncle doing?”

  “It seems that so far Puri hasn’t said anything to him about your writing letters to Layli . . . or if he has said anything Dear Uncle’s so preoccupied with the English that he hasn’t given it a thought.”

  “Still the English?”

  “Yes, the shoeshine man’s completely disappeared. Dear Uncle says the English have killed him and he’s wearing his revolver in his belt again; at night Mash Qasem sleeps outside his door with a rifle. And your father keeps piling kindling on the fire.”

  “What does my father say?”

  “Every day he fabricates some story about the disappearance of someone he says was an enemy of the English, and tells it to the poor old man . . . fortunately the Indian brigadier went away on a trip a few days ago.”

  “Uncle Asadollah, you have to try and convince Dear Uncle that the English have no interest in him.”

  “Moment, as if it would be any use. Everyone who says that the English have better things to do than come after him, he says have been his family’s enemies for seven generations back. My poor brother Shamsali came a few days ago to have a chat with him, and he flew at him like nobody’s business . . . And Mash Qasem is constantly making up stories about English murders and atrocities.”

  “Then things are really in a mess, Uncle Asadollah?”

  “Really . . . but the most important thing of all is the matter of Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi, the liar, who not only lost nothing whatsoever in the war but seems to have managed to pass himself off as the owner of the wealth of two or three people who were killed then, and now he’s busy disguising where it came from.”

  “What’s Dustali Khan doing?”

  “He’s having a heart attack. Because Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi, for all his bald head, has stolen Qamar’s heart away, and now Dustali is terrified that Qamar’s property will slip out of his hands. And then, on the other hand, there’s the cadet officer’s sister, who Dustali really fancies, and she has a friend who considers himself a big-shot and goes by the name of Asghar the Diesel and he’s the spitting image of Shir Ali the butcher.”

  “Has she brought her friend to Dustali Khan’s house?”

  “No, but every other night he gets drunk and comes and shouts that if they don’t open the door to him he’ll batter the walls down.”

  “Uncle Asadollah, you seem to be really enjoying what’s going on.”

  “I haven’t been this happy in my whole life. Let their noses be rubbed in the dirt a bit. These aristocratic grandchildren of his excellency the royal leopard and his highness the tiger of the state would say to their own shadows ‘Don’t come near me, you stink’ —now they’re going to have to rub shoulders with the likes of Asghar the Diesel and Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi.”

  “Will there be a lot of people at our house tonight?”

  “Yes, your father’s laid on a regular feast . . . all in all, I think your father’s the director of the whole show. Because last night I heard him saying to the cadet officer that if his sister wanted to invite a friend along she would be very welcome and she was to treat it like her own house. It’s a good guess that if the sister invites anyone it’ll be Asghar the Diesel . . . and so, in short, your father’s not going to forget Puri’s insult in a hurry.”

  “You couldn’t manage things so that Asghar the Diesel doesn’t come?”

  “Moment, moment, it so happens that I’m thinking of giving the cadet officer’s sister every encouragement to bring Mr. Asghar along. Dustali owes me much more than this, and if I torment him till the Last Judgment dawns it’s no more than he deserves.”

  When we reached the house Asadollah Mirza left me and said with a laugh, “See you tonight, God willing . . . now I have to go and find the cadet officer and his sister . . . without Asghar the Diesel our gathering will be quite joyless.”

  My mother took me to uncle colonel. I kissed his hand and asked his pardon. Then she told me I absolutely had to go and pay my respects to Dear Uncle Napoleon.

  I went to Dear Uncle’s house, my heart thumping as if it would tear my chest apart. I came face to face with Layli in the yard. I finally saw her, after those days of separation that had seemed to last a lifetime. The excitement and inner turmoil I felt as I set eyes on her rendered me speechless; I just said “Hello.” For a few moments Layli stared at me without moving and then, her eyes filled with tears, ran off to her room. I didn’t dare follow her.

  Dear Uncle sat me down next to himself and gave me a moral lecture for a while. Most of his lecture revolved around the notion that the older generation had lived their lives out and that now it was up to us young folk to preserve the sacred unity and harmony of the family. Then he said that, God be praised, Puri was out of danger and that they would be bringing him home from the hospital in a few days; he instructed me to go and see him in the hospital on the following day and ask his pardon.

  NINETEEN

  THERE WAS AN EXTRAORDINARY amount of activity going on in our house. Chairs and tables had been arranged all around the yard. Although it still wasn’t dark, incandescent lamps lit up the whole of our yard and a large part of the main garden. The school teacher, Ahmad Khan, with his tar and accompanied by the blind drummer, had come before the guests arrived and the two of them were busy consuming vodka and little snacks.

  Suddenly I caught sight of Asadollah, who had entered dressed in a well-cut multicolored suit and a red bow tie. His eyes were glittering. I ran toward him. As soon as he saw me he lowered his voice and said, “Moment, moment, momentissimo! . . . rejoice, for tonight our happiness is complete. The cadet officer’s sister is not only bringing along Asghar the Diesel but she’s also invited Asghar the Diesel’s brother, his excellency Akbar the Brains; I wish there were a camera here so I could take a photo of Dustali.”

  Not many moments passed before Dustali Khan put in an appearance. His face was frowning and preoccupied.

  He looked round for my father and went straight over to him. Asadollah Mirza busied himself eating little red grapes and murmured, “I think he’s realized what’s going on . . . see if you can’t overhear what he’s saying.”

  Dustali Khan had found my father in the hallway and was saying to him in a choked, trembling voice, “What kind of a party is this, my good sir? I’ve just heard that that good-for-nothing bitch has invited her ogre of a friend over here.”

  My father coolly answered, “And what do you suggest I do, Mr. Dustali Khan?”

  “You mustn’t allow such trash, such louts, to come to your party.”

  “Just consider now, I can’t stop a friend of a relative of yours from coming. If your son-in-law’s sister’s friend comes here, can I shut the door in his face? Just think about it for a moment.”

  With anger in his voice Dustali Khan said, “Then shall I go and invite every passing Tom, Dick and Harry to your party? Would you like that?”

  In the same unruffled tone my father replied, “They’d be very welcome . . . no human being is worth less than another. As the Prophet has said, ‘The most honorable of you in the sight of God is the most pious of you.’”

  “All right then! All right then! I’ll bring one of those honorable pious types along to you, then . . . Why shouldn’t I invite someone any place that Asghar the
Diesel goes?”

  I went back to Asadollah and told him about Dustali Khan’s quarrel with my father. Then I asked, “What do you think Dustali Khan meant when he said ‘I can invite anyone I want’? Who does he want to invite now?”

  Busily eating the little red grapes, Asadollah Mirza shook his head and said, “I’ve no idea. Anything you say about shameless fellows like him is going to fall short. We’ll just have to wait and see how he tries to pay your father back.”

  “What do you mean, ‘pay him back’?”

  “Moment! It’s clear you haven’t understood the reason for this party tonight!”

  “You mean there’s a special reason for it, Uncle Asadollah?”

  “So you’re so naive that you think your father’s put on an elaborate spread like this just out of love for Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi’s beautiful hairdo? Just think, when not a single one of the closest relatives, not even your Dear Uncle, who’s head of the family, has arranged to have a party for them, why should your father throw a party?”

  “Well, so many different weird things have been going on and my head’s been so full of it all that I can’t think. You tell me what he’s aiming at.”

  “Why doesn’t your father get on with Dear Uncle?”

  “Because he’s always putting him down and saying he’s not from a noble family.”

  “Bravo! And now your father wants to bring Cadet Officer Rajabali, son of a man who sold sheep’s heads and brother of Akhtar who dances in a nightclub, in front of his face and the faces of all the others who say they’re so high and mighty, and make them suffer. He wanted to do this at Qamar’s wedding, but he was unsuccessful, now . . .”

  “But the whole family knows that Qamar’s become the wife of Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi.”

  “But tonight, as well as the family, he’s invited some of the city’s most prominent citizens. For example, he’s invited Mr. Salar.”

  “Mr. Salar?”

  “Yes, this gentleman is one of the city’s real bigwigs. He’s a man with unequalled power and influence . . . by having Salar as a guest he’s killed two birds with one stone. First, Dear Uncle and Dustali Khan and the family will go right down in Salar’s estimation, and second, he’ll terrify the wits out of Dear Uncle because Salar is famous for supporting the English.”