Ahmad’s inexperience was obvious to Aqa Jaan. But he was a handsome young imam who dressed neatly, carried himself erectly, doused himself with cologne and wore a modish turban.
He also had a powerful voice, a good delivery and a natural gift for reciting the melodious Koran passages by heart. Time would tell how competent he was in other matters.
Ahmad arrived with his suitcase the night before the festivities. Aqa Jaan immediately took him into the library to discuss his speech, but Ahmad had other priorities. He laid his suitcase on the table, unlocked it, took out his beautiful new imam robe and looked around for a place to hang it up. ‘Why isn’t there a coat-hook?’ he asked, annoyed.
‘You can hang it in your bedroom,’ Aqa Jaan replied.
Ahmad jammed a pencil between two bookcases and hung his robe on that. Then he began to unpack his suitcase. ‘Where can I put my clothes?’ he said. ‘I’ll need a chest of drawers in the library.’
‘You can keep your personal belongings in your bedroom,’ Aqa Jaan patiently reiterated.
‘I want my things in here,’ Ahmad said.
Aqa Jaan realised that this wasn’t a good time to go over Ahmad’s speech.
‘I think you need to rest. I’ll talk to you tomorrow in my study,’ he said and left.
Late that night he wrote in his journal: ‘The new imam begins tomorrow. Ahmad has arrived, and I can see from the way he behaves that times have changed. He’s very different from his father and the other imams I’ve known. I mustn’t doubt his abilities. After all, he’s young and has a lot to learn. One thing I can say with absolute certainty, however, is that we now have a charming imam in our house. I like him and I am curious to see where he’ll lead us.’
On Friday the bazaar closed at ten o’clock, and thousands of people flocked to the mosque for the special prayer service. The installation of a new imam was a simple, yet festive, occasion. The prayer was to be held outdoors, so dozens of rugs had already been spread on the ground.
Policemen were patrolling the area, and vans filled with armed soldiers were parked in the side streets. This level of security was unusual for Senejan, but during the last two or three years the situation in Iran had changed drastically. Students at the University of Tehran were demonstrating against the shah and chanting ‘Down with America!’ The regime was afraid that riots could break out at any moment.
Aqa Jaan went through the details with Ahmad for the last time, put on his hat and left for the mosque.
‘May your day be blessed!’ exclaimed his neighbour, Hajji Shishegar, who was also going to the mosque with his twins.
‘God willing!’ Aqa Jaan cheerily replied.
‘If there’s anything I can do for you today, I’m at your service,’ said the hajji.
‘Thanks, but everything’s been taken care of. How are the twins?’
‘Children grow up so fast these days!’ he said. ‘Your son too.’
‘That’s true. Jawad is now a young man.’
Aqa Jaan caught sight of Crazy Qodsi. ‘It’s good to see you again, Qodsi,’ he said. ‘Is your mother coming today?’
‘She bought a new black chador especially for the occasion.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing her,’ Aqa Jaan said.
‘But she’s not coming.’
‘Why not?’
‘She can’t find her new chador,’ Qodsi said.
‘Has she lost it already? Or did you hide it from her?’ he asked, smiling.
‘No, I didn’t hide it.’
‘Then where is it?’
‘I don’t know. She was up all night looking for it, but she couldn’t find it anywhere.’
‘I’m sure it will turn up and she’ll be able to come,’ Aqa Jaan said, and he started to walk off.
‘That crazy Moshiri girl likes to go down the street with her bare bottom hanging out,’ Qodsi whispered. ‘She did it again last night.’
‘I tell you what. Why don’t you go into the house?’ Aqa Jaan said to her. ‘Ahmad has just put on his new robe. He’ll give you a few copper coins. Go on, go!’
Qodsi walked off towards the house and Aqa Jaan went into the street, where a large crowd was waiting for the ceremony to begin.
A man shouldering a film camera broke away from the crowd and aimed his lens at Aqa Jaan. ‘You’re looking elegant in your hat and navy-blue pinstripe suit,’ the cameraman remarked.
‘Nosrat, is that you?’ Aqa Jaan exclaimed delightedly. ‘I’m so happy! I didn’t think you’d make it. When did you get here?’
‘I just got in. I took the night train.’
The deputy mayor shook Aqa Jaan’s hand and offered his congratulations.
‘What are those military vehicles doing here?’ Aqa Jaan demanded.
‘They lend importance to the ceremony,’ the deputy mayor replied. Together he and Aqa Jaan walked over to the door of the mosque, to greet the chief constable, the head of the gendarmerie, the provincial officials, the director of the hospital and the headmasters of the local schools.
Nosrat trailed behind Aqa Jaan, filming everything. Aqa Jaan was pleased to see that the city officials had turned out in full force, though he was a bit surprised. In the old days they would have shown up as a matter of course, but in recent years they rarely bothered to attend functions at the mosque. Oddly enough, he didn’t recognise a single one of them; all of the faces were new.
Nosrat filmed Aqa Jaan talking to the chief constable. Suddenly Crazy Qodsi tugged at his sleeve. ‘My mother can’t come,’ she whispered in Aqa Jaan’s ear. ‘Someone stole her black chador, and the Moshiri girl likes to go down the street with her bare bottom hanging out.’
Aqa Jaan motioned to his nephew. ‘Shahbal, will you see to it that Qodsi joins the other women?’
In the distance he spotted a procession of black Mercedes-Benzes. He signalled to Muezzin, letting him know that the elderly Ayatollah Golpaygani would be arriving shortly.
‘Allahu akbar!’ Muezzin sang out. And the crowd responded: ‘Salla ala Mohammad wa ale Mohammad! Blessed be Muhammad and the House of Muhammad!’
Nosrat went up to the roof so he could film the welcoming ceremony from above.
Ayatollah Golpaygani was one of the most influential ayatollahs in the nation. He had come specially from Qom to solemnise Ahmad’s installation as the imam of the mosque.
Aqa Jaan, the municipal representatives and a group of schoolchildren stepped forward and officially welcomed the ayatollah. Aqa Jaan helped him out of the car, handed him his walking stick, kissed him and offered him his arm, to escort him to the special chair reserved for him.
Suddenly Qodsi was standing beside him.
‘Shahbal!’ Aqa Jaan called, annoyed. Qodsi, protesting loudly, was once more led away by Shahbal.
Now that the ayatollah had arrived, the ceremony could begin. Ahmad, accompanied by six young imams, came out and stood on the doorstep.
‘Allahu akbar!’ Muezzin shouted.
‘Allahu akbar!’ the crowd repeated after him.
Ahmad and his escorts went up to the ayatollah, knelt before him and solemnly kissed his hand. The ayatollah placed his hand on Ahmad’s black turban and chanted:
Qol, a‘uuthu be-rabb-elfalaq,
Men sharre ma khalaqa . . .
I seek refuge with the maker of the dawn,
From the evil of the night,
As darkness falls,
And from the evil of the women
Who blow on knots.
Aqa Jaan handed him the ceremonial robe, which he had brought up from the treasure room. It was covered with precious gems. For centuries it had been worn at the installation of every imam in the family.
After donning the robe, Ahmad strode over to an ancient prayer rug. Aqa Jaan and Ayatollah Golpaygani went over and stood behind him, and the crowd moved along with them.
‘Allahu akbar!’ Muezzin repeated.
Ahmad turned towards Mecca and began his first official prayer.
At that exact moment a young woman wearing a brand-new black chador and a pair of red high heels emerged from the alley. She made a beeline for Ahmad and stopped a few feet in front of him.
Aqa Jaan saw her and wished he could shoo her away, but it wouldn’t be right for him to interrupt his prayer.
The woman lifted up her chador and stuck out her right leg. It was bare.
Ahmad closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his prayer.
‘Allahu akbar!’ Aqa Jaan said loudly, hoping it would scare her into leaving. It didn’t. Instead, she suddenly twirled around, so that her black chador flew up and revealed not only her bare legs, but also her bare bottom!
‘Allahu akbar!’ Aqa Jaan exclaimed.
Ayatollah Golpaygani had his eyes closed and was so wrapped up in his prayer that he didn’t see it. Only when Aqa Jaan cried ‘Allahu akbar!’ for the third time did he open his eyes. But since he wasn’t wearing his glasses, he saw little more than a black blur.
The woman lowered her chador to her bare breasts and twirled again, looking incredibly proud. Aqa Jaan, now forced to break off his prayer, went over to her and was about to pull her chador back over her head when she suddenly flung it to the ground and ran naked into the crowd. Aqa Jaan bounded after her and grabbed her round the waist. Shahbal picked up her chador and threw it to him. He caught it in mid-air and wrapped it around her in one smooth motion. Then he called his wife: ‘Fakhri!’
Fakhri Sadat, already hurrying to his side, led the woman over to the women’s section.
Thanks to Ahmad, who had maintained his composure throughout, the prayer continued, and the crowd followed him.
But now that Aqa Jaan had touched a naked woman, he wasn’t allowed to finish his prayer. He went into the courtyard and over to the hauz. He, who had never even looked at another woman, had held that naked woman round the waist. He could still feel the warmth of her soft breasts on his hand. He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, knelt by the hauz and plunged his hands up to his elbows in the cool water.
It wasn’t enough. He leaned forward, stuck his head under the water and held it there for a long time. Then he came back up, took a deep breath, got to his feet, dried his face on a handkerchief, put on his coat and calmly rejoined the crowd.
Nosrat had filmed the entire incident.
Opium
Once again light shone in the library windows.
From time to time there were the usual confrontations with the imam, especially when it came to meeting his demands.
Now that the house had a permanent imam again, everyone realised how much the grandmothers had always done. The house had functioned like clockwork, and now even five women couldn’t get it ticking the way it used to.
Several times Zinat Khanom had suggested hiring Azam Azam, the woman who had threatened her husband with a knife, but Fakhri Sadat wouldn’t hear of it. And yet Sadiq, who now had Lizard to take care of, couldn’t do as much work as she used to. Fakhri Sadat finally sent to Jirya for a maid.
The maid’s name was Zarah. She was very capable and immediately took charge of the household, though the kitchen was still Sadiq’s domain. Sadiq felt comfortable there; she found it peaceful, and spent most of her time cooking for the family.
Now that they had Zarah, the house was again running like clockwork. She was a hard worker, but she was reserved and shy. So shy that she never looked you directly in the eye when you talked to her.
‘It’s just as well,’ Zinat observed, ‘or we might have a problem on our hands, what with all the young men in this house.’
Zarah was a beautiful girl – or rather young woman, since she was nearly twenty-one. She had married an older man when she was sixteen, but after four years, when she had failed to produce a child, her husband had sent her back to her parents. They were glad their daughter had found a job as a maid in the house of the mosque and hoped she’d be able to work there for a long time.
In the past the grandmothers had spent much of their time looking after Imam Alsaberi, but Ahmad didn’t need that kind of help.
Zarah quietly went about her business. No one noticed her, she never disturbed anyone. She entered the rooms unobtrusively, tidied them up, collected the dirty dishes, helped Sadiq with Lizard, washed the windows, fed the fish, swept up the dead leaves and went down to the cellar to see if Muezzin needed anything.
She dusted Ahmad’s desk, changed the sheets on his bed and ironed his shirts.
After the morning prayer, Ahmad usually crawled back into bed and slept until noon, or sometimes even until two o’clock, something no other imam in the house had ever done. Actually, he stayed in bed until Zarah knocked on the door and said, ‘Your lunch is ready, Imam.’
Every morning before he got up to lead the prayer, she would bring him bread, butter and honey. She would knock on the door and whisper, ‘Are you awake?’
‘Come in,’ Ahmad would call sleepily, and she would shyly set the tray on the bedside table and leave.
It wasn’t her job to serve Ahmad, but it had quickly turned into a routine. And Ahmad was pleased with her.
One morning Zarah woke him up in time for the prayer, but he rolled over and went back to sleep. The second time she woke him, he threw on his clothes and raced outside, only to stop suddenly by the hauz and pee into the drain. Zarah stared at him in horror. It was strictly forbidden; nobody ever did such a thing. She knew she mustn’t tell anyone what he’d done.
One time when Zarah brought Ahmad his breakfast, she set the tray on the bedside table as usual, but Ahmad grabbed her hand and drew her gently towards the bed. She resisted for a moment, then surrendered.
Ahmad put his arms around her and pulled her into bed with him. She instantly clamped her thighs together.
‘Ankahtu wa zawagto,’ Ahmad whispered in her ear.
There was no reply.
‘Ankahtu wa zawagto,’ Ahmad whispered again.
Still no reply.
‘Ankahtu wa zawagto,’ Ahmad whispered for the third time.
‘Qabilto,’ Zarah said, and she welcomed him into her arms.
A while later she got up and put on her chador. ‘It’s late,’ she murmured. ‘You have to go to the mosque.’
Many young women came to the Friday prayer especially to see Ahmad.
His sermons were not at all like those of his father or Khalkhal. He had an interesting way of sneaking politics into his sermons, and he preferred to stimulate the minds of his listeners rather than threaten them with the wrath of God.
As far as the secret police could tell, he wasn’t in touch with any dangerous religious movement in Qom. He was more of a pleasure-seeker than a rebel, but it was still not clear what kind of person he would become or how his character would be shaped by his position as the city’s imam.
In one of his sermons he talked about an Islamic state in which the Koran would be the cornerstone of society. But he didn’t elaborate on the idea or explain exactly what he meant by it. It seemed more as though he’d thrown a stone in the water to fathom its depths.
On another occasion he made a masterful move: he unexpectedly dropped the name of Ayatollah Khomeini into his sermon. It had been done so innocently that no one knew whether he’d said it accidentally or on purpose. Even so, Aqa Jaan could tell that he was sympathetic to Khomeini.
Ayatollah Khomeini was a fierce opponent of the shah. In his last public sermon he’d said that the shah had humiliated everyone in the country. ‘We’re ashamed of him,’ he said. ‘He’s not a shah, but a lackey of the Americans.’
A riot had broken out in Qom afterwards. People had gone into the streets, shouting anti-shah slogans. The army had been called in, and soldiers surrounded the mosque where Khomeini had delivered his speech.
Hundreds of young imams had snatched up the rifles stockpiled beneath the mosque and climbed onto the roof. Street fighting had broken out. Dozens of imams had been killed and countless others arrested. After the rebellion had been put down, one of the genera
ls went in person to the ayatollah’s house to arrest him.
The group of imams guarding the ayatollah stopped the general at the door and ordered him to remove his boots before entering the ayatollah’s study. The general, who knew that even the US army couldn’t have helped him in this situation, took off his boots.
‘And your cap!’ one of the guards snapped.
The general tucked his cap under his arm and went into the room. He bowed his head and said, ‘I’ve been ordered to arrest you!’
Khomeini was exiled that same day. He moved to Iraq and bided his time, waiting for the right moment to spark off a revolution against America and overturn the kingdom of the shah.
After the uprising, no one dared to mention his name. For years it was as if he didn’t exist. Now his name had started to crop up here and there. Pamphlets written by him were making the rounds, and in Qom pictures of him were once more hung surreptitiously on the walls of the mosques.
Khomeini had been exiled, but the young imams had kept the flame alive, honouring his name at every opportunity and by any means possible.
Ahmad’s fame gradually spread, even to other cities. He was invited more and more often to speak in other places. Recently he’d given a speech in Khomein, the birthplace of Khomeini.
He used his trips to spice up his sermons, innocently telling his listeners about his jaunts. ‘I was in Isfahan recently,’ he said. ‘What a magnificent city! I send my greetings to the Isfanhani. My next destination was Kashan, a city much loved by its inhabitants. I send my greetings to the Kashani. Last week I was in Khomein. This was my first visit to that most fortunate of villages. Khomein is a unique place, with wonderful people. I send my greetings to Khomeini.’
And by ‘Khomeini’ he meant the inhabitants of Khomein, but the allusion was not lost on his listeners, who immediately shouted, ‘Salaam bar Khomeini!’
Aqa Jaan beamed with joy.
He knew that Ahmad’s remark had not been accidental, but the result of careful planning. Ahmad was no doubt following orders from Qom.
The House of the Mosque Page 19
