‘No.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, in this house, in this city.’
‘Not much. I go to school and to mosque.’
Khalkhal shook his head. ‘I knew it. Nothing’s going to happen in this city. It’s weak. All over the country people are gradually turning against the shah, but Senejan is blissfully asleep. What else can you expect from a city with such a weak Friday Mosque? What does Alsaberi do all day in his library? Nothing, except let the grandmothers wash his balls! It’s a shameful waste of this big, beautiful mosque. It’s had a brilliant past. A history. It’s time it had a fiery speaker. Do you know what I’m saying?’
Shahbal lapped up Khalkhal’s words. He thought of Khalkhal as great and himself as small. He wanted to ask questions, but didn’t dare. He was afraid of sounding stupid.
One time he’d hardly said a word all evening. Then, suddenly, just as he was about to leave, he blurted out, ‘I’d like to show you something.’
‘What?’
‘My stories,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I write.’
‘How interesting! Show them to me. Have you got them here? Read one out loud.’
‘I don’t know if they’re any good.’
‘I wouldn’t know either, but it’s good that you write. Go and get your stories!’
Shahbal went to his room and quickly returned with three notebooks, which he modestly handed to Khalkhal.
‘You’ve written quite a lot,’ Khalkhal said in surprise as he thumbed through them. ‘I knew you were clever from the moment I laid eyes on you! Pick one of your stories and read it to me.’
‘I’ve never shown them to anyone before,’ Shahbal said. He flipped through a notebook until he found the page he wanted. ‘I hardly dare to read it, but I’ll do my best.’ And he began to read: ‘Early one morning, when I was going to the hauz to wash my hands before the prayer, I noticed that the light wasn’t on in my father’s room. It was the first time this had ever happened. He was always awake before I was and always went to the hauz before I did, but that morning everything was different. The mahiha – the fish – which usually darted through the water when they saw me, weren’t moving, and their tails were all pointing in my direction. Brightly coloured scales floated on the surface, and there was blood on one of the tiles. I realised immediately that something was wrong. I ran to my father’s room, pushed open the door, switched on the light and—’
‘Very good!’ Khalkhal said. ‘You can stop now, I’ll read the rest on my own. You have talent. Leave your notebooks with me. I’ll look at them later.’
He went down to the courtyard and walked over to the hauz, where he stared at the sleeping fish in the glow of the lantern. A light was on in the library. The shadow of the imam fell on the curtain. He quietly opened the gate and went outside, towards the river.
Aba
It was five o’clock in the afternoon. The courtyard was covered in snow. Darkness was gradually closing in, and there was an icy wind. As usual the grandmothers were carrying towels and clean clothes into the bathroom so Alsaberi could bathe before the evening prayer.
Even though they’d lit the stove early in the morning, the bathroom was still cold. ‘This has got to stop,’ Golbanu grumbled. ‘It’s no longer healthy. He should bathe in the municipal bathhouse. If he goes on like this, he’ll make himself ill.’
It was a special night – the anniversary of the night on which Imam Ali had been killed.
Ali was Islam’s fourth caliph. On that night he had been in the mosque, leading the prayer with hundreds of believers lined up behind him, when Ibn Muljam came in, took a place behind Ali and started praying along with him. He waited until Ali got to the end of his prayer, then took out his sword and killed him with a single blow to the head. From that moment on, Islam was divided into two factions: Shiites and Sunnis.
The Shiites wanted Hassan, Ali’s oldest son, to be his successor; the Sunnis backed a candidate of their own. The Shiites and the Sunnis have been at each other’s throats ever since. Ali became the most beloved of the caliphs. Fourteen centuries after his death, the Shiites still mourned him as if he had just been slain.
Tonight the mosque would be filled to capacity. Alsaberi, who had memorised his sermon, was planning to talk at length about Ali. He had come up with a novel approach: after fourteen centuries of enmity between Shiites and Sunnis, he was going to suggest reconciliation.
He’d been practising his sermon all day in front of the mirror. ‘There has been enough enmity! We are brothers! Let us be friends. Let us shake hands in the name of friendship and Islamic unity!’
He wanted his sermon to be a surprise, so he hadn’t discussed it with Aqa Jaan. Besides, if he’d mentioned it beforehand, Aqa Jaan would have said, ‘Why bother? There aren’t any Sunnis in Senejan.’
Although there might not be any Sunnis here, and although they might not hear him, tonight he was determined to say something new, something no other imam had ever said before.
The grandmothers had kettles of water heating on the stove and were waiting for Alsaberi.
He was lost in thought. He tested the water with his hand and cautiously stepped into the tub. Holding onto the rim with both hands, he immersed himself in the water. After resurfacing, he exclaimed, ‘Sunnis, let us shake hands! We are brothers! It’s cold! So cold!’
One of the grandmothers poured hot water over his head while the other began washing him with soap. Meanwhile Alsaberi practised his sermon, all the while shivering with cold. ‘Islam is in danger! We must forget our differences and fight side by side against our common enemy! Cold!’
He was still wondering whether he should change the last words to ‘a common enemy’? It was ambiguous, because what did he mean by ‘a common enemy’? The shah? The Americans? If he dared to utter those words, it would be the fieriest sermon he’d ever given, but he was in doubt.
‘We’re done!’ said one of the grandmothers.
Alsaberi stood up. He stepped out of the tub, placing his right foot on the towel that had been spread on the floor, but because he’d let go of the rim, he suddenly slipped and fell, his left leg still in the tub.
‘Dead!’ he blurted out in shock.
The grandmothers were upset, but they immediately pulled him up and tried to get him back into the tub because, having touched the ground, he was unclean and would have to be washed all over again. Just then one of the cats bolted out from behind the stove. Frightened by Alsaberi’s loud cry, it fell into the tub, brushed against his leg, leapt out of the tub and ran outside. The imam’s wet, bare leg had been touched by a cat! Just the thought of it made Alsaberi nauseous. Maybe there were mice too. Alsaberi shivered in horror. The bathroom was unclean, the water was unclean, the towels were unclean, the grandmothers were unclean – and all of this on the night of Ali’s death! The night on which he hoped to give the greatest sermon of his life. What was he to do? Where could he clean himself before the prayer? There was no time to waste; people were already waiting in the mosque.
‘Allah!’ he cried, with a lump in his throat. Then he stumbled outside, naked, and raced towards the hauz.
‘Come back!’ Golbanu screamed. ‘It’s been snowing. Come back!’
Alsaberi plunged into the hauz and disappeared under the water.
The fish fled to the far end, the crow screeched loudly and the grandmothers scurried down to the cellar and came back up with clean towels.
‘You’ve been in there long enough!’ Golebeh cried.
‘Please come out!’ Golbanu implored.
Alsaberi came up for air, then ducked back under the water again.
‘Come out of there this instant!’
Alsaberi stood up. He momentarily lost his balance, but managed to right himself. Then he stepped out of the hauz and went over to the grandmothers, who threw some towels around him. Golbanu raced ahead to turn up the heater in the library, while Golebeh went down to t
he cellar to get more towels.
The heater was red-hot and the extra towels had been warmed, but where was Alsaberi?
‘Maybe he went to his bedroom,’ Golebeh said.
‘Alsaberi!’ Golbanu called.
‘May God watch over him! Where on earth did he go? Alsaberi!’
The fish were huddled together in the hauz, the crow was screeching non-stop and the cats were peering over the edge of the roof as the grandmothers hurried over to the hauz. Alsaberi was stretched out in the snow, with the yellow glow of the lantern lighting up his face. His eyes were closed. On his lips was a frozen smile.
‘Alsaberi!’ the grandmothers shrieked.
But no one was home, everyone was in the mosque. The grandmothers ran up the stairs to the roof, scattering the cats as they went. Standing by the left minaret, which was Muezzin’s usual post, they shouted with all their might, ‘Alsaberi is gone!’
Inside the mosque, people heard their cry. Muezzin came charging up to the roof, followed by the caretaker and several men from the bazaar. They hurried down the stairs to the courtyard and went over to the hauz. The moment the caretaker saw Alsaberi’s lifeless body, he cried, ‘Enna lellah!’
At the familiar words, everyone knew that Alsaberi was dead.
The men carried him into the library. The grandmothers dried their tears, because they knew you were supposed to be restrained in the presence of death. Mindful of their duties, they went to an antique cupboard behind the bookcase, took out a white sheet – the shroud the imam had bought for himself in Mecca – and handed it to the caretaker. He unfolded it and draped it over Alsaberi, all the while chanting a sacred verse.
Aqa Jaan came running in.
‘Enna lellah!’ the men cried in unison.
‘Enna lellah,’ Aqa Jaan replied calmly.
He knelt by the body, gently pulled back the shroud and looked at Alsaberi’s face. Then he kissed him on the forehead and covered him up again.
Suddenly Zinat appeared in the doorway. Weeping, her face pale, she threw herself onto her husband’s body.
The grandmothers helped her up and led her away.
Voices could be heard from the courtyard. People had hurried out of the mosque to see what was happening.
Aqa Jaan left the library and went to the courtyard. The news had travelled fast. Some men were already there with a coffin, which they carried over to the hauz. The imam’s body was laid inside and taken to the mosque.
Seven men went up to the roof and cried in unison, ‘Hayye ale as-salat!’
Everyone who heard this call to prayer realised that the imam was dead. Every shopkeeper in the city, except for the bakers and the pharmacists, shut their doors and came to the mosque. A long line of police vehicles drove up, and the mayor’s car drew up outside the mosque.
It was a blessed death, everyone said, because Alsaberi died on the same day as the holy Ali.
At nine o’clock that evening the coffin was placed on a catafalque by the mosque’s hauz. It had been decided to leave the body there until the following day, so that people could pay their respects, and relatives who lived far away would have time to get to the funeral.
Aqa Jaan went back to the house. Before morning, he had to find an imam to lead the prayer for the dead. The most logical choice was Ahmad, Alsaberi’s son and intended successor, but Ahmad hadn’t completed his training. The other obvious person was the imam’s son-in-law, but Aqa Jaan didn’t have Khalkhal’s address or phone number. Nor could he be sure that Khalkhal would arrive on time.
‘We need him early tomorrow morning,’ Aqa Jaan told Shahbal.
‘We also need to find Sadiq. She should be told of her father’s death,’ Shahbal replied.
‘I’ll do what I can. I’ll phone Ayatollah Almakki in Qom. This is Khalkhal’s chance to show himself in a good light. The whole town will be here, and they’re all anxious to meet him. I’ll call everyone I know in Qom.’
The next morning Aqa Jaan went to the mosque to finalise the details. Thousands of people would soon be pouring in from the surrounding villages, so it was essential to have an imam of some standing to lead the prayer. To be on the safe side he’d sent a message to the imam in the village of Jirya, who normally substituted for Alsaberi, and warned him to be prepared.
Aqa Jaan was talking to the caretaker when a taxi pulled up in front of the mosque. Straightaway he recognised Khalkhal’s black turban and saw Sadiq.
Khalkhal got out, came over to Aqa Jaan, offered his condolences and briefly bowed his head.
Aqa Jaan interpreted his bow as a gesture of reconciliation and an acknowledgement of Aqa Jaan’s loyalty to the mosque. Ever since Khalkhal had shown up at the wedding without the necessary documents and Aqa Jaan had made him go to Qom to fetch them, Khalkhal had avoided him. Now he had bowed his head. Aqa Jaan therefore replied, ‘I’m proud of you, and I’d like you to be the imam of this mosque until Ahmad is ready to follow in his father’s footsteps. Do you accept this offer?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Khalkhal.
Aqa Jaan kissed Khalkhal’s turban, and Khalkhal kissed Aqa Jaan’s shoulder in return.
‘Go inside and get some rest. The men from the bazaar will come for you shortly. Shahbal will let you know when it’s time.’
It was busy in the house. Many of the guests had already arrived. The grandmothers were bustling about, making sure everything was in order. The moment they saw Khalkhal, they rushed into the kitchen to fetch the traditional symbols – a mirror, red apples and a fire – so he could be properly welcomed to the house as an imam.
At noon carpets were laid on the street in front of the mosque so people could pray. Alsaberi’s coffin was carried out and placed on a silk rug. Thousands of people were gathered outside, waiting for Khalkhal to appear. A group of the bazaar’s most influential men escorted Khalkhal to the coffin, where he would lead the prayer.
From the roof of the mosque, blind Muezzin shouted, ‘Allahu akbar!’
At this signal, everyone lined up in rows behind Khalkhal.
Imam Khalkhal loosened his black turban so that the end dangled against his chest – a sign of mourning – then turned towards Mecca and chanted:
Oh, you shrouded in your garments!
Stay awake, but not all night,
Half of it or a bit less,
Or a bit more.
By the night when it retreats!
We have sent you a messenger,
As we once sent a messenger to Pharaoh.
Oh, you cloaked in your mantle!
Stand up and deliver your warning!
By the moon,
And by the morning when it dawns.
Family
According to tradition, Alsaberi’s death was to be followed by forty days of mourning. During this period, relatives who lived far away and had been unable to attend the funeral would come and stay for a week. These family gatherings were special. Everyone ate together and stayed up until the small hours, talking in groups and moving about from room to room.
One of the guests was Kazem Khan, Aqa Jaan’s ageing uncle and the oldest male member of the family. He was treated by everyone with love and respect.
Kazem Khan never came by himself, but was always accompanied by a group of villagers. Nor did he ever take a bus or taxi. In the old days he and his contingent of villagers arrived on horseback. Later, when he was too old to ride, he was driven to Senejan in a jeep.
He always got out of the jeep in front of the mosque, went into the courtyard, brushed the dust from his clothes and washed his hands and face in the hauz. Then he climbed the stairs to the roof, paused to get his breath, took off his hat, said salaam to the crow and to the storks nesting on the minarets, put his hat back on his head and went down the stairs to the courtyard.
When the mourners saw Kazem Khan on the roof, they raced over to the stairs to greet him. Then, surrounded by the group of men as if he were an ancient king, he made his way to the Opium Room, where an opium kit and a bra
zier had been made ready for him.
Women and children adored Kazem Khan. His pockets were always full of poems for the women and banknotes for the children. He was a famous village poet, an eccentric who lived in the mountains. He’d been married once, but his wife had died young. Since then he’d lived alone, though plenty of women welcomed him to their beds.
He ate sparingly, looked healthy and enjoyed life. He had seen everything, done everything and lost a great deal, but there were three things in his life that never changed: his love of poetry, his love of opium and his love of women.
The moment he arrived, the grandmothers dropped whatever they were doing and catered to his every whim. They had an uncanny ability to sense when he was coming, and the first thing they did was to air out the Opium Room.
Next they got out a special teapot and placed it on a tray so they could serve him a glass of freshly brewed tea. As soon as he crossed the threshold, they heated his opium pipe, sliced the opium, arranged the slices on a porcelain plate and set the plate beside the brazier, in which a pile of cherry twigs burned with a soft, blue flame.
When Kazem Khan came for a visit, the grandmothers put on their best clothes and daubed themselves with scent. Everyone knew they did it specially for him. Then they waited to be summoned. When they heard him call out ‘Khanom!’ – the Persian word for ‘lady’ – the grandmothers went to his room. Not at the same time, but one by one. Golebeh stood guard outside the door when Golbanu was inside and vice versa.
It had been that way from the beginning. They had known Kazem Khan since they were girls, and had been brought down from the mountains to work in the house as maids. Kazem Khan had promptly claimed them both. In those days how could any girl have resisted his charms? The first time they’d met – when he entered the house in the company of his horsemen – he had laid his hands on the two maids and received them, in turn, at night in his bed.
The hours they spent with Kazem Khan were the happiest the grandmothers had ever known in that house. In their younger years, they sparkled when he was there, skipping across the courtyard and singing as they worked in the kitchen.
The House of the Mosque Page 6
