Mash Qasem jumped in, “I beg you, your excellency . . . if this Shir Ali hasn’t been able to control his wife up to now, it’s because no one dares tell him what she’s been up to! You remember master Gholam? . . . Have you forgotten about the dough-kneader at the baker’s? And as for those who pass the news on to him . . . he burns their houses down!”
Before Asadollah Mirza could reply, a groan came from Dear Uncle Napoleon’s closed mouth. Everyone gathered round him.
A few moments later Dear Uncle opened his eyes. For a while he stared around in a bewildered fashion, then said in a weak voice, “I don’t know why I should be like this!”
Then he seemed to remember what had been going on. “A corporal . . . an Indian corporal instead of a colonel!”
Asadollah Mirza quickly said, “Moment, sir . . . that matter’s all over and done with . . . I dealt with him very severely, and I sent him packing from the house . . . so now forget about him!”
Dear Uncle stayed silent for a few moments, gazing bewilderedly about; then he repeated under his breath, “You sent him packing . . . sent him packing . . . you did well . . . you did a good thing . . . I . . . I’m past it now, but you won’t agree to be shamed by them. We’ve fought together, shoulder to shoulder, back to back . . . and now we’ll be captured together.”
Uncle colonel shouted anxiously, “My brother . . . brother!”
But it was as if Dear Uncle Napoleon didn’t hear his voice. With the same bewildered look, and in the same tone he went on, “We’ll be captured together, but with honor . . . respected and with dignity! In the histories they’ll write ‘The great commander held out to the last of his strength . . . ’”
“Brother . . . brother . . . !”
Dear Uncle Napoleon turned toward him. He looked at him for a moment and then mildly asked, “Why have you smeared oil on your head and face?”
“Well, my face was scalded, brother.”
“Scalded? . . . scalded? . . . Good for you! Scalded with honor, not with shame and disgrace.”
Then his gaze travelled from one face to another of those present, “Did you see, Dustali? . . . Did you see how a great commander lives? . . . You too will go into captivity with me, but with honor!”
For a moment Dear Uncle was quiet. Everyone exchanged anxious looks. Dustali Khan’s voice broke the silence, “Sir, I’m a captive right now, sir! A captive to this human devil . . . I’ve stayed here to know where I stand with this man! With this esteemed Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi!”
“Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi? . . . the cadet officer’s in captivity with us, too? My dear Cadet Officer!”
Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi, who was staring at Dear Uncle in astonishment, muttered, “No, he’s completely off his head.”
At this Dustali Khan hit him smartly on the head and said, “You’re dad’s off his head, you rotten little good-for-nothing.”
The cadet officer gave Dustali Khan a good slap on the neck and the two went for each other, but the simultaneous cries of my father and uncle colonel separated them. Just then Dear Uncle Napoleon raised himself with difficulty, as if he could hear nothing of their row, and began to stagger toward the door.
“Let us go and prepare for our departure!”
Everyone ran to his side. “Moment, moment, the Master’s leaving . . . sir, allow us to help you!”
Without turning his head Dear Uncle Napoleon said in the same mild, calm tone, “Asadollah, is that you? . . . We’ll go and get the luggage ready, but with honor, Asadollah! Captivity is our inheritance . . . but captivity with honor!”
With Asadollah Mirza and Mash Qasem supporting his arms, Dear Uncle Napoleon set off. Everyone followed after him; they looked like people escorting a corpse to the grave. After getting Dear Uncle to his house, Asadollah Mirza came back to my father’s. He was sad and silent.
My father began the conversation, “It’s all the fault of that stupid fool Dustali Khan who upset our plans.”
“Moment, moment, you can be sure that the Master, perhaps even without realizing it himself, actually wants to be taken into captivity . . . He’s made up his mind that destiny is going to give him the same fate as was given to Napoleon . . . You could even say thank goodness Dustali Khan came when he did and brought the matter to a conclusion in this way . . . I’m certain that if the Indian had made every possible concession to him, still at the last minute he’d have found some excuse to set Shir Ali the butcher on him so that the negotiations would collapse.”
“What do you think we should do now?”
“God knows, my mind isn’t capable of thinking up anything else. We’ll have to wait and see what happens.”
Three days after Dear Uncle’s meeting with the Indian corporal, very early in the morning, Mash Qasem signalled me to come into the garden, and said that Layli wanted to see me.
I saw Layli in the sweetbrier arbor. She was wearing the grey dress of her school uniform. What made me catch my breath was that her eyes were red and swollen. She seemed to have been crying all night until the morning, and when I knew the reason for her emotional distress I felt even more breathless. The previous night her father had called her and Puri to him and told them he was certain that in the next two days the English would arrest him. They would take him to a place from which there was virtually no hope he would ever return, and his last request of them was that they be ready to be married, so that as soon as the English appeared the marriage ceremony could take place in the presence of their doomed commander.
It was difficult for me to speak, “What did you say, Layli?”
The poor child burst into tears again; sobbing, she said, “What could I say? Daddy’s sick; if I’d said no, I’m sure that with his bad heart his life would’ve been in danger.”
“But Layli, if they’re going to leave your wedding until the English officials come for him, I’m not worried. Because you’re a grown girl and you know that’s all just a fantasy. The English have no interest in Dear Uncle at all.”
“I know . . . if he was going to wait till the English officials came, that would be all right. But he said that next month it’s the birth of one of the Imams, and they should get on with the wedding by then. But he said that we should be ready so that if the English came to take him away before the month was up, they could send for the Seyed straightaway and have the ceremony . . . you tell me what I should do.”
“Layli, if you get married, I won’t stay alive after that . . . tell your dad that you want to wait and marry me!”
With tears pouring down her face, Layli said, “If he was well, if he wasn’t ill, I’d tell him; but I’m really afraid. I’m sure that if I contradict him, God strike me dumb for saying it, it’ll all be over . . . You think of something!”
Bewildered and upset, and feeling as if my heart would burst from my chest, I promised her I would think of something.
But what could I think of?
Once again I thought of the only person in the family whose clear-sightedness and human sympathy I trusted, Asadollah Mirza. Without realizing what I was doing, instead of going to school I set off for his house. I was sure that he would repeat the same old jokes and not give me a straight answer, but I had no other recourse.
I imagined how my conversation with him would go: “Uncle Asadollah, I don’t know what to do.”
“Why can’t you get it into your silly head? I’ve said over and over, don’t forget San Francisco . . .”
This was the only road Asadollah Mirza ever suggested to me. But I loved Layli so much that, even if at his promptings I occasionally imagined such things, I hated myself for it and drove the thought of them furiously from my mind.
Asadollah Mirza was preparing to leave for the office. I had guessed correctly. As he was shaving in front of the mirror he said, “Oh, get away with you . . . I’ve told you over and ov
er, take a trip to San Francisco . . .”
The noise of my objections couldn’t stop his talking. “I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t forget San Francisco . . . if you’re not going to go to San Francisco, try Los Angeles . . . that’s a very nice little trip . . . these days I myself am supposed to go on a trip . . . but I have bad luck. Instead of San Francisco I’m supposed to go to Beirut . . . don’t forget to take a trip . . . as the poet of Shiraz, Sheikh Sa’di, says:
‘Why suffer like a barnyard fowl at home
When you can fly on journeys like a dove?’
Have you read it or not? It’s a famous poem by Sa’di:
‘Don’t give your heart to any friend, to any place,
For lands and seas are broad, and vast the human race.’”
Asadollah Mirza suddenly fell silent and looked at me,.“Moment, moment, moment, let me see . . . Look at me, let me see . . . Are you really crying? . . . You great big silly donkey! Instead of packing your bags and setting off tonight for San Francisco, you’re crying like a little girl.”
Asadollah Mirza tried not to show it, but it was clear he was very moved . . . he wiped the soap from his face with a face-cloth and sat down next to me. In a serious, concerned voice he said, “My dear boy, don’t be upset. I’ll think of something for you . . .”
Then he went over to a sideboard, filled two small glasses from a bottle, and came back to me. “Drink this first, before we talk! . . . I said, Drink it! . . . For goodness sake, are you going to or not?”
Without thinking I took the glass from his hand and drank. I felt a burning sensation down to the pit of my stomach.
“And take this cigarette as well! . . . I’m warning you! . . . Take it! . . . Bravo!”
Asadollah Mirza lit a cigarette for himself too. He leant back in an easy chair. After a few moments’ silence he said, “Please, listen to what I’m going to say very seriously . . . I’m not joking, not at all. Since, my good man, you’ve shown again and again that you’re not up to San Francisco, and since the only way of solving the problem revolves around San Francisco . . . I think that you should at least agree to pretend to go to San Francisco! Or pretend to go to Los Angeles . . . though, no . . . that’s no good.”
“Uncle Asadollah . . .”
“Moment, don’t talk when I’m talking! . . . Imagine a university or some educational institution where the conditions of success are that you are literate and that you study . . . now someone turns up who wants to be successful there, but he can’t be bothered to study. He has to pretend to study, to be a serious student. And in my opinion, if Layli is to be successful without you two making a trip to San Francisco, she has to assume the face of a tired traveller who has just come back from San Francisco . . . and then Dear Uncle will be forced either to marry you off right now, or to wait two or three years and then give you to one another.”
“Uncle Asadollah, this is a really hard task. Even if I agree to it, I don’t think Layli will.”
“Then she’ll go and become the wife of that spluttering Arab horse.”
“Doesn’t any other way occur to you now?”
“Well, maybe the only other way is for you to marry me . . . In any case you’d better hurry up because something else has happened which I told your father about yesterday. And now I’ll tell you about it; if Dear Uncle hears of this event he’ll call Seyed Abolqasem over this very night and marry Layli off to Puri.”
“What event, Uncle Asadollah?”
“Of course the news hasn’t been officially announced yet, but it’s true. The Allies have arrested a large number of people who they believe to be against the English and supporters of the Germans, and sent them off to Arak . . . if Dear Uncle gets wind of this, he’ll pack his bags and the first thing he’ll do will be to send Layli over to her husband’s house.”
“Uncle Asadollah, do you think you could give me another glass of cognac?”
“Bravo! Bit by bit you’re becoming a man! . . . These are the signs of reaching puberty . . . cigarettes, cognac and San Francisco . . . God willing, you’ll get to the third yet!”
“Uncle Asadollah, couldn’t you talk to Dear Uncle and tell him about our situation?”
“Moment, moment, momentissimo . . . You can be sure that if Dear Uncle realizes that something like this is going on, he’ll have Seyed Abolqasem round here in five minutes to marry Layli off to Puri, even if he has to drag him down from the pulpit to do so.”
Since I knew I wasn’t able to carry out Asadollah Mirza’s advice, and even, as he would put it, pretending to have gone to San Francisco was beyond me, I started pleading with him. Finally he softened and said gently, “Like a doctor who knows that water is bad for a patient that’s just had an operation, but who gives way when confronted with his begging and pleading, I too—although it will make the situation worse . . . although maybe . . . just wait while I think about it today, I’ll see if something can’t be done.”
That evening Asadollah Mirza came to find me.
“Did you think about it, Uncle Asadollah? Did a way occur to you?”
“Unfortunately it’s impossible to talk to Dear Uncle about you and Layli. As I said, if he gets wind of this, it’s all over . . . I went to see him especially, and found an excuse to mention you, and I saw that the situation is very bad indeed.”
“What did he say, Uncle Asadollah? Tell me . . . please!”
Asadollah Mirza hesitated for a few moments and then said, “It’s not a bad idea for you to hear what he said, so that you’ll give up all hopes in that direction. When you were mentioned he only said:
‘A wolf is what a wolf-cub grows to finally
Although it might grow up in human company.’”
“What did you say?”
“Moment, after he’d shown what he felt, did you expect me to say ‘I came to ask for your daughter’s hand for the wolf-cub’? . . . And now I’m afraid of something else. As he was saying those verses that donkey Dustali arrived and heard him. I’m afraid he’ll pass what he heard on to your father and there’ll be another problem to add to those we already have. In short, be prepared for things to get very much worse.”
“But is it possible for things to get worse than this, Uncle Asadollah?”
“You bet it is! . . . If that remark reaches your father’s ears, within two hours he’ll find some way to see that Dear Uncle hears about people being sent off to Arak . . . And then he’ll immediately start the ‘Here comes the bride’ proceedings!”
“Tell Dustali Khan not to make any fuss.”
“Either you’re still a child or you don’t know what a malicious nature that donkey Dustali has . . . if I were to say such a thing it would make matters worse; as things stand, perhaps God will put it into his mind to guard his disgusting tongue . . . In any case you study how to pretend you’ve been to San Francisco till I see how things are turning out.”
I parted from Asadollah Mirza in a very distressed and confused state of mind. The new terror he had planted in my thoughts was an unbearable torment to me. If Dear Uncle’s remark were really to reach my father’s ears, and my father saw to it that Dear Uncle heard about people being arrested and sent off to Arak, then what would happen?
My terror was not groundless. I think Dustali Khan took it upon himself to gossip, because on the following evening, in uncle colonel’s house, where Dear Uncle Napoleon and a few relatives had gathered for supper, Farrokh Laqa suddenly turned up quite unexpectedly. As usual she was dressed in black from head to toe. “Very nice to see you all . . . well, well, what a party! . . . In the afternoon I went to the funeral ceremony for Monir’s husband . . . I was coming back this way, and I said to myself, I’ll just say hello.”
A profound silence settled on the group. Shamsali Mirza had just come back from a trip to Hamadan and, simply to make his presence
known, asked, “Which Monir?”
“Monir who’s Etemad al-Mamalek’s daughter . . . the poor thing’s had a lot of bad luck recently . . . her husband was no age at all, he came home from the office at noon and went to wash his hands and face and had a heart attack in the outhouse . . . by the time they’d got a doctor it was all over with him, God rest his soul . . . today at the ceremony they said he’d had the heart attack because he was so upset about his sister’s husband . . .”
“What’s happened to his sister’s husband, then?”
“But you must have heard . . . the English arrested his sister’s husband a few days ago, along with some other people, and had them all sent off . . . people say they sent them to Arak . . .”
Suddenly Dear Uncle Napoleon’s choked voice broke in, “The English? Why?”
Asadollah Mirza tried to change the subject by making noise and generally stirring up the meeting, but Dear Uncle shouted, “Wait, Asadollah, I need to know! Ma’am, you said the English have arrested some people?”
“Yes, and Etemad’s sister’s husband was one of them, the poor thing . . . poor thing, he had no idea of what was going on.”
Terrified, I looked at Dear Uncle’s pallid face. Perhaps many there did not know why Dear Uncle was so worried, but at least two or three people were well aware of the reason and a few others guessed.
There were a few moments of silence. Dear Uncle muttered, “The English . . . the English . . . they’ve set to work.”
Suddenly he stood up and yelled, “Qasem . . . Qasem . . . we’re going home.”
And he left the room, paying no attention to the guests’ noisy protests.
TWENTY-FIVE
AFTER DEAR UNCLE NAPOLEON had left the room, uncle colonel ran after him. Everyone exchanged puzzled looks. Asadollah Mirza stared pointedly at my father, but my father avoided his eye.
Finally Farrokh Laqa said, “I don’t understand why the Master was so upset. The Master isn’t any relation of Monir’s husband, or of his sister’s husband!”
My Uncle Napoleon Page 55
