My Uncle Napoleon

by Iraj Pezeshkzad

  “Tell me what’s happened, Mash Qasem!”

  “Well, my lad . . . after lunch I saw that the colonel was outside the house whisperin’ to that Akhtar woman . . . an hour later when I saw the colonel and his wife goin’ out and gettin’ rid of everyone from the house I realized something was up . . . half an hour ago I saw the little slut all dolled up like a dog’s dinner. I says to myself, today there’s something goin’ on. So straightaway I came runnin’ for you. Because I’d promised I’d come. But on your father’s soul . . . on Miss Layli’s soul, if you do somethin’ so that I get in trouble . . .”

  “Mash Qasem, I promise you on my honor . . . whatever happens, it’s impossible that I’ll say I heard anything from you . . .”

  “But lad, don’t you be kickin’ him again . . . because then your family won’t calm down till they’ve spilt your blood.”

  “No, you can be sure of that. I promise I won’t lay a finger on Puri . . . But Mash Qasem, why have they done this now?”

  “Because the house is quiet now . . . the children are at school . . . the pencil-pushers are all in their offices . . .”

  “Puri goes to his office, too . . .”

  “Well, I don’t know how it’s happened but the colonel didn’t let him go to the office today. And that made me more sure somethin’ was up.”

  Fortunately it was not far from the school to our house and we were there very quickly. I had pedaled so hard I was panting with the effort. I set Mash Qasem down at the end of the street and said, “Mash Qasem, first we have to know whether Akhtar’s gone to uncle colonel’s house or not.”

  “But lad, tell me what you want to do . . . I’m really worried.”

  “Mash Qasem, I promise you I’m not going to harm Puri. If I see things getting to a critical point I’m just going to make a racket so he won’t be able to do his dirty work . . .”

  “Good for you, lad . . . I like it that you’re a clean thinkin’ lad. In all the world there’s nothin’ finer than clean thinkin’. There was a man in our town who . . .”

  “Mash Qasem, tell me about it later . . . for now go and see what’s happening . . . and I’ll go up to the roof and see what’s going on in uncle colonel’s house.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  AS I ENTERED the house my father and mother were just about to leave.

  “Why are you back so early?”

  “Our teacher was sick today and we didn’t have any class. Where are you going?”

  My mother said, “Mrs. Farrokh Laqa is ill and we’re going to see how she’s getting on; if you want to, you come, too.”

  “No, I’ve a lot of studying to do.”

  “I’ve put some grapes in the larder; have some if you like.”

  My father and mother went out, which was lucky for me. From the window of my room I could get onto the roof of the bathroom, and from there, by going along a narrow ledge, I could get to where I could see the yard to uncle colonel’s house.

  Contrary to my expectations I couldn’t see Akhtar there. Puri was in the pool with a towel around his waist, splashing himself. I went back to my room.

  On the previous day I had procured four firecrackers from one of my classmates. These firecrackers were the size of walnuts. I don’t know what they were made with; to make them explode you had to fling them down hard on the ground. So that it would make more of a noise I wrapped all four of the firecrackers in one piece of cloth and wound thread around them; then I set off for the garden. I could hear Mash Qasem calling me through the trees. When I got closer he said quietly, “Eh lad, I was comin’ to tell you. I was just by the door, near the shoeshine feller, keepin’ an eye on that door down at the end. Akhtar went into the garden, smothered in makeup and wearin’ her prayer veil . . . I went after her and I saw her go over to the colonel’s house . . .”

  “Thanks, Mash Qasem . . . thanks . . .”

  I wanted to go back to my room but Mash Qasem kept hold of my arm and said, “Lad, you be real careful now; if the colonel realizes, he’ll be out for your blood.”

  “I’m being careful, Mash Qasem. I’ve one thing to ask you, though; go to Asadollah Mirza’s house and get him to come here so that if there’s a fuss he can look out for me.”

  “I don’t think he’ll have got back from the office.”

  “When he gets back.”

  Having said this I hurried back to my room. I put the firecrackers in my pocket and went back to my hiding place by the same route.

  Akhtar was wearing a green dress with a low neckline. Her white veil, which had a pattern of roses on it, had slipped back from her head. She was sitting on a chair in the space between the separate gardens of each household. Puri was wearing striped flannel pajamas, and the striped material made his face and body look even more lanky and horselike. Their conversation was still at the formal stage.

  “I shall be very grateful, Mr. Puri, sir, if you could do this for me.”

  Puri spluttered and asked, “And what about last year? Did they take the same amount of tax from him last year?”

  “Oh no. Last year he had a friend who fixed it for him. He paid much less tax than this.”

  “Well, if you could come to me at the office, tomorrow or the day after, I’ll see what can be done. I’ll have to see his file.”

  Akhtar’s veil was on her shoulders; she grasped its edges in both hands and fanned herself with it, saying, “But it’s incredible the weather’s so hot.”

  It was obvious that she was trying to attract Puri’s attention to her bare arms and ample breasts.

  But Puri paid no attention and said, “Would you like me to bring you a glass of chilled cherry cordial?”

  “I really fancy a glass of beer or chilled wine . . . some of that wine of your father’s that we drank the other time.”

  “Unfortunately my dad puts the wine in storage and locks the door.”

  “I bet it’s because he’s afraid you’ll go and drink it all!”

  “Oh no, I never drink alcohol.”

  Akhtar laughed and said, “Well, if you say so I’ll have to believe you . . . and when you have little rendezvous with girls in cafés, I suppose you order cold melon juice?”

  Puri blushed. He gave an embarrassed laugh and hung his head, “I don’t do that kind of thing.”

  “Oh, get along with you, don’t tell such lies. A young man all tall and handsome like you not do such things? Even if you didn’t want to yourself, the girls wouldn’t leave you alone.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  “Now get up and see if some of your father’s wine hasn’t been left out.”

  Puri got up and as he was going toward the house said, “I know there won’t be any left out.”

  As soon as Puri left, Akhtar undid a button on the bodice of her dress. Mash Qasem had told the truth. She was a very seductive woman. Even in my dangerous situation perched on top of a wall I felt the saliva in my mouth dry up. I remembered what Asadollah Mirza had said and I thanked God it wasn’t me who was being tested. I forced myself to put all such thoughts from my mind. My hand was in my pocket, playing with the package of firecrackers, which was about the size of a tangerine. I’d no idea when I’d have to throw it down on the ground. Puri’s voice rang out, “It’s really strange but there happens to be a bottle of wine on the table.”

  Akhtar said with a laugh, “I knew it . . . so why don’t you come back here?”

  “I’m looking for the corkscrew . . . aha, I’ve found it.”

  Puri came back to Akhtar carrying a little tray on which there was a bottle of wine and one glass.

  “Eh? Well, God strike me dead! Why just the one glass?”

  “I told you I don’t drink alcohol.”

  Akhtar poured some wine in the glass. She tasted a little and said, “Mmm . . . mmm .
. . what lovely wine . . . how can you bear not to drink this wine? Just have a sip and see how it tastes!”

  “I can’t . . . I mean, once I tasted some . . . it’s not good for me . . . I get headaches.”

  “Just for me! Just for Akhtar!”

  She pushed the glass against Puri’s lips. Puri swallowed some and screwed up his equine face, “It tastes bad!”

  “You get the real taste later . . . have another swallow . . . just for Akhtar!”

  She forced virtually the whole glass down Puri’s throat then suddenly screamed, “Eh! God strike me dead! It’s spilt on my dress . . .”

  And she lifted up her skirt so that her white plump thighs were completely visible.

  Puri started to laugh, “Didn’t I say don’t insist! Now God’s paid you back!”

  He was such a feeble mama’s boy, such an idiot that—leaving all our personal quarrel aside—I was ready to set the firecrackers off on his head. He took a handkerchief out of his pajama pocket, soaked it in the pool and stretched out his hand with it to Akhtar, “Take this and clean it!”

  “The material’s georgette, it’ll spoil. I’ll hold it smooth and you sponge it down.”

  Akhtar was holding the two sides of her skirt in such a way that most of her thighs remained uncovered. And Puri’s horselike face was almost buried in her breasts. I could guess that inside his lanky frame he could feel a revolution going on.

  Akhtar tried to fan the flames. She said flirtatiously, “Now if I were to say that Mr. Puri had stained my skirt I wouldn’t be lying.”

  Puri gave a repulsive laugh that bore no resemblance whatsoever to an ordinary laugh. Then he said, “It’s good my father isn’t here, otherwise it would look really bad.”

  “And if it wasn’t that your father’s away, I wouldn’t have been alone with his handsome son . . . Ouch! Ouch! What mosquitoes there are round here. Behind my knee’s really swollen up . . . what a big lump it’s made . . . put your hand there, see what a lump it’s made!”

  Akhtar took Puri’s hand, placed it behind her naked knee, and immediately said, “Don’t you have any eau de cologne in the house?”

  “We do. Wait and I’ll bring it.”

  Puri set off for the house. Akhtar followed him. I couldn’t see them anymore, but as the window was open I could hear their voices coming from a ground-floor room.

  Akhtar was saying, “Ouch. It really stings. Rub it in a bit more but don’t give me those naughty looks . . . now just a minute, was it you that was saying you don’t make rendezvous with girls?”

  “Hey! Don’t do that . . . my father and mama might come back.”

  “No, they won’t come for ages yet. I saw the colonel by the door and he said they wouldn’t be back till tonight.”

  “But our servant might suddenly . . .”

  “Don’t talk so much, darling . . . no one’s going to come.”

  From Puri’s sudden silence, which was followed by a sentence that was incomprehensible because his mouth was closed, I guessed that Akhtar had stopped his mouth in the appropriate manner. O God, should I set the firecrackers off or not? I wished that Asadollah Mirza had been there and could give me the order to fire! . . . From the sound of the bedsprings I guessed that they had flung themselves on the bed together. One, two three . . . I hurled the firecrackers with all my strength at the closest spot I could manage to the door to the room.

  The noise of the explosion much exceeded what I had imagined or expected. And it wasn’t just the noise of the firecrackers. It was as if someone had thrown a huge rock into the middle of a storeroom filled with glass. I was so terrified by the glittering fragments of glass that rose high into the air that I lost my balance and my legs slipped from the edge of the bricks where I was standing. But I didn’t fall to the ground because I made an instinctive grab at the ledge and managed to hang on. Fortunately I had turned my face toward the wall in order to set the firecrackers off, otherwise I’d have fallen and at least broken both my legs that day. I hung there for a moment until I was able to find a toehold for my feet, too. Even so there was about a six-foot drop from my feet to the ground.

  Akhtar’s scream was mingled with a weird sound that issued from Puri’s throat. “Puri Khan . . . Puri Khan . . . how are you? What was that? For God’s sake, say something!”

  Puri spoke through clenched teeth in a trembling, stuttering voice, “No . . . I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m all right . . . that noise . . . the noise . . . artillery . . . a rifle . . .”

  Akhtar screamed, “I’m out of here!”

  And she pulled her veil over her head and dashed toward the side door. The sound of fists pounding on the main door and various people shouting could be heard. But Puri seemed not to have the strength to get up, because he called out in the same choked, stuttering voice, “I . . . I’m . . . I’m coming . . . I . . .”

  I was in a tricky situation. My feet had no firm hold and my arms could no longer support the weight of my body, but before I could lift my hands from the ledge one of the bricks came away and I fell to the ground. I felt a severe pain go through me, but I managed to stand up.

  But before I could think of escape, I saw Puri’s lanky form emerging from the room; he was as pallid as a corpse. When he saw me perhaps his anger somewhat overcame his terror. He seemed to find his tongue to some extent, and he yelled, “So it was you that did it . . . that noise . . . you caused that noise?”

  “No, no, Puri, I swear on my father’s soul . . . God strike uncle dead if I did it.”

  But my confusion and anxiety were sufficient to stop him believing my oaths of innocence. I took advantage of his momentary hesitation to look over at the corner of the yard where I had thrown the firecrackers; it seemed that they had landed in the midst of a very large wide-mouthed glass carboy, that happened to be in the yard, and shattered it. Half of its rounded base was still there but fragments of glass had carpeted the whole yard. In the midst of the racket that was coming from outside Puri ran at me and began hitting me. For a moment my instinct for self-preservation overcame me and my leg was about to launch a kick at his leg, but then it was as if the promises I had made to Asadollah Mirza and Mash Qasem that I would not hurt Puri froze me to the spot. The pressure on the door from the street became so intense that the latch gave way. Uncle colonel came into the yard, followed by various members of our family.

  Uncle colonel’s yelling rose above all other sounds, “What’s happened, Puri? . . . What was that noise?”

  “This son of a bitch threw a hand-grenade into our house.”

  I kept doing my utmost to exonerate myself, “I swear by my father . . . uncle, I swear by your soul that I didn’t do it.”

  Uncle colonel released my collar from Puri’s grasp and began squeezing my neck, “Confess, you miserable little bastard!”

  “I swear, on your own death . . . on my father’s soul . . . I heard the noise, too, and went up on the roof to see what was going on . . . then my foot slipped.”

  I looked despairingly toward the door to the street. I hoped Mash Qasem or Asadollah Mirza would arrive and save me, but there was no sign of them. Uncle colonel kept up the pressure on my neck and yelled, “And I’ll tie your feet to a pole and beat them so hard your toenails will drop out and then I’ll fling you in jail . . . Puri, get me a switch!”

  Puri quickly broke a switch off from a tree and put it into his hand. I kept struggling to save myself. Before the first blow from the switch could strike me a voice rang out from the direction of the door, “Hold your hand!”

  Everyone froze, but I was petrified with terror. Dear Uncle Napoleon appeared on the threshold. Among the folds of his cloak I saw a glitter from the drawn revolver he was holding. Fortunately Mash Qasem’s calm face could be seen beside him; he had the double-barreled shotgun sloped over his shoulder.

  Uncle colonel an
d Puri were about to open their mouths but Dear Uncle Napoleon’s shout cut them off, “Have you taken leave of your senses? At such a dangerous moment, instead of seeing to our defenses, you pounce on this boy!”

  “Uncle, this good-for-nothing guttersnipe has blown the house apart, he threw a hand grenade . . . he wanted to kill us!”

  “Silence! Even stupidity has its limits! You’ve wasted so much time that the real perpetrator of this attack has got back to his house by now!”

  During all this Mash Qasem was striding back and forth with the shotgun on his shoulder, keeping a sharp eye on the wall that ran past uncle colonel’s house, on the other side of which there was a narrow alleyway. “God blind ’em, they either attacked from that there alleyway . . . or it was from a balloon . . .”

  All heads turned in his direction. Mash Qasem went on in a loud voice, as if talking to himself, “Seems like I did hear the noise of a balloon . . . may God ruin them English . . .”

  Everyone voiced objections simultaneously, but especially uncle colonel and Puri, “So it’s the English again? Mash Qasem’s started talking rubbish again . . .”

  For a moment Dear Uncle Napoleon was silent. It was intolerable to him that something the English had done should be attributed to someone else. He exploded like a volcano, “Yes, the English . . . the English . . . you think the hostility of the English against me is a joke . . . so I’m crazy . . . so all this talk is just a fantasy . . . so I talk rubbish . . . I’m sick to death of all of you . . . morning, noon and night I stay awake to save you from the evils of the English, I’m here risking my life, my honor and my reputation. Could there be any better evidence? Isn’t it enough that they throw a bomb into our house from the alleyway or from a plane or from God knows what damned place? How can I explain it to you idiots? God strike me dead so I’ll be free of such relatives.”

  Dear Uncle’s appearance had become quite terrifying. His whole body began to shake. He brought his hand up to his forehead, leant against the wall, and then slid slowly and gently to the ground.His eyes were closed and the revolver fell from his hand.