The House of the Mosque

by Kader Abdolah

  Hira Mountain is the most sacred mountain in the Islamic world – the mountain that Muhammad used to climb every night to speak to Allah. It’s also the mountain where the archangel Gabriel first came down from Heaven to reveal Muhammad as the prophet.

  There was a small cave in Hira Mountain. Muhammad had hid in this cave when he’d been forced to flee from Mecca to Medina in the middle of the night, because his enemies had sworn to kill him in his bed.

  Ever since then the cave and that night have played a crucial role in the history of Islam. The Islamic calendar dates back to that night, or that day, on which Muhammad had fled to Medina.

  Later the cave became known as the ‘spider cave’, because every time Muhammad went in, a spider spun a web across the entrance so no one could see that he was inside.

  The grandmothers had hidden in that cave. It didn’t seem possible, but they had. The police had found their wills beside their bodies.

  It was an incredible story. Every year millions of pilgrims went to see the cave. Visitors weren’t allowed to enter, but only to view it from a distance. If the story was true, the grandmothers must have had an amazing adventure.

  Aqa Jaan felt sad. Yet at the same time, his mind was taken up with an entirely different matter: his son Jawad was due home that night after an absence of six months. Now a student at the University of Isfahan, he had never been away from home for so long. He was studying applied physics, so he could become a petroleum engineer.

  A huge deposit of natural gas had been discovered near Senejan, and an American oil company had acquired the drilling rights. The university was therefore offering a new course of study. Hundreds of students had applied and taken the rigorous entrance exam, but only twelve had been admitted. Jawad had been one of the lucky ones. They were going to be taught special courses by American oil engineers. Although they were registered as students at the University of Isfahan, they were soon going to be transferred to the Shahzand oil refinery, twenty-five miles outside of Senejan, where they would continue their course work under the supervision of the oil company. They would be housed in a dormitory and speak only English.

  Jawad was guaranteed a job after graduation, and would now be closer to home as well. Things couldn’t be better. When they heard that Jawad had been accepted, Fakhri Sadat had been so happy she couldn’t sleep that night, and Aqa Jaan had glowed with pride.

  Aqa Jaan and Fakhri had been getting ready to go to the station to collect Jawad when the coachman knocked.

  ‘Why did you bring the coffins here?’ he asked the coachman. ‘You should have taken them to the mosque. And you should have phoned me beforehand and let me know you were coming. You can’t just show up on someone’s doorstep with two coffins. What am I supposed to do with them?’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said the driver. ‘I’m not bringing you two corpses, but two sacks.’

  ‘Two sacks? What’s that supposed to mean?’ Aqa Jaan answered testily.

  The coachman hopped onto his wagon, opened the lid of one of the coffins and took out a small sack. Then he opened the second coffin and took out another one. Holding them up, he said, ‘You see? The Saudis sent only these two small sacks! Do you want them, or should I send them back?’

  ‘Why are you transporting two small sacks in two full-size coffins? Why have you brought them in a horse-drawn wagon? And why have you come so late in the afternoon?’

  ‘I understand how you feel, but I’m only the coachman.’

  Aqa Jaan quickly stuffed a few banknotes in the man’s pocket, took the sacks from him, went into the courtyard and shut the gate.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Fakhri Sadat called from upstairs.

  Aqa Jaan hid the sacks in the garden under a few large pumpkin vines. ‘Nothing!’ he told her. ‘Nothing important. Are you ready? We’ve got to leave now or we’ll be late.’

  The red sun was sinking below the desert horizon when Aqa Jaan got behind the wheel of his Ford and drove to the station with his wife.

  Fakhri Sadat wept with joy when she saw her son emerge from the train. He had always been her favourite. Only six months ago, before he’d left for Isfahan, she used to give him a goodnight kiss every evening before he went to bed. Now he had a black moustache and long hair.

  Fakhri Sadat had raised Jawad herself. She hadn’t wanted him to get too involved in the mosque, the bazaar or politics. She had raised him to think for himself, so he could choose his own path. Now she could reap the rewards. Her son didn’t look like a religious fanatic, and she was pleased that he’d let his hair grow a bit longer. He seemed to take after his uncle Nosrat more than his father.

  In all the years that he’d lived at home, he’d never shown the slightest interest in the affairs of the mosque. Fakhri Sadat was glad that Aqa Jaan considered Shahbal, and not Jawad, his successor. What she didn’t know, because Aqa Jaan hadn’t told her yet, was that he was disappointed in Shahbal and was now pinning his hopes on his son.

  It had been several months since Shahbal had phoned Aqa Jaan. He’d called him at the bazaar, but had dialled the number of the warehouse rather than that of his office. Someone from the warehouse had come running in to tell Aqa Jaan that he was wanted on the phone.

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘A businessman from Tehran.’

  ‘Why did he call the warehouse?’

  ‘He says he tried your number several times, but there was no answer.’

  Aqa Jaan went to the warehouse and picked up the phone.

  ‘I apologise for the inconvenience, Aqa Jaan, but I was afraid your phone might be tapped. I called to tell you not to worry if I don’t come home for a while. I’ve got a couple of things going at the moment. I just wanted to hear your voice. Will you give my love to everyone?’

  ‘I will. And may God watch over you!’

  There was no need for Shahbal to elaborate. Aqa Jaan understood why the call had to be kept short.

  Still, the last thing he wanted to do was to talk to Fakhri about it now. This was her evening, and he didn’t want to spoil it.

  It was a pleasant evening. They lingered at the table and everyone was in a good mood. Normally Zinat would have told them a story, but she wasn’t home tonight. What Aqa Jaan didn’t know was that she had secretly been in contact with the fundamentalists in Qom. Her instructions were to form the women’s devotional groups into a tight unit, under the guise of teaching them about the Koran.

  To keep the tradition going, Muezzin took over Zinat’s role and told them a story about the prophet Yunus:

  One day a disillusioned Yunus left his house for good. His followers were both saddened and surprised. Yunus reached the sea, saw a few travellers boarding a ship and decided to go with them.

  The ship sailed for three days and three nights. On the fourth day the sky suddenly turned dark and a huge fish rose up out of the water, blocking the ship’s way. The passengers didn’t know what to do: the fish wouldn’t move. Then an older traveller, a veteran of many sea voyages, spoke up. ‘One of us has sinned. The fish will not let us pass until we offer up the sinner.’

  ‘The fish has come for me,’ Yunus said. ‘Throw me into the sea and the rest of you can sail on.’

  ‘We know you,’ a few of the passengers said. ‘You’re a righteous man. You could never have blasphemed. We knew your father, too. He was also a God-fearing man. No, you are not the one the fish is seeking.’

  But Yunus knew that he was. ‘This is between me and my God,’ he said. ‘That is why the fish has come.’

  He climbed up on the railing and leapt into the water. The fish swallowed him whole and disappeared beneath the waves.

  They were still mulling over the story when they heard a strange sound coming from the courtyard. Aqa Jaan cupped his hand behind his ear.

  ‘What’s that I hear?’ Muezzin asked. ‘What’s that sound?’

  Aqa Jaan went outside and saw that the sky had become strangely dark.

  ‘I hear a horde of insects,’ s
aid Muezzin.

  ‘Locusts!’ Aqa Jaan shouted. ‘Close all the doors and windows!’

  But it was too late. Thousands of locusts flew into the house, and the air turned brown, as if the house had been hit by a desert storm.

  The women flung on their chadors and raced from room to room, closing doors and windows.

  Ahmad hurried into the library, while Aqa Jaan raced down to the cellar to close the shutters.

  The locusts landed on the roofs, the trees, the plants in the garden, even in the hauz, and began to devour everything in sight.

  Every once in a while locusts descended on Senejan from such faraway places as Mecca. Only after they’d stripped the city bare did they move on to the grapevines by the river and finally disappear behind the mountains. No one had ever seen such an enormous swarm of locusts as they did that day. Only the old people could recall hearing their parents talk about such devastation.

  One of the books in the library described a plague of locusts that had taken place fifty years ago:

  The locusts came in droves, millions of them, and the world went dark. Even though they were as big as your finger, you couldn’t see them when they were on the ground, because they were the same colour as the soil, but when they moved, it looked as though the ground itself was moving.

  People went up to their roofs and banged on pots and pans in hopes of scaring them off, but the locusts didn’t seem to hear them. So they lit fires and hoped the smoke would drive them away, but that didn’t work either. So then they took out their Korans and read the surah about the Valley of the Ants.

  Solomon, it was said, once came upon such a mass of ants that the valley floor looked as if it were covered with a black carpet. Solomon’s messenger, the hoopoe bird, flew over the valley and cried, ‘Ants! Didn’t you hear? The man who just spoke to you is Solomon. He speaks the language of animals. He is on his way to the queen of Sheba. Haven’t you heard of this beautiful queen? Step aside! Clear the road so the troops can pass! Step aside for Solomon and the beautiful queen of Sheba! You are about to witness a great event. Step aside!’

  At first nothing happened, but then the mass of ants began to move. They crept back into the earth and were never seen again.

  Only when daylight came did the locusts fly off towards the mountains. Every plant and tree in the garden had been stripped bare, and there were fish bones floating in the hauz. Even the grandmothers had been spirited away by the locusts.

  It’s a sign that something terrible is about to happen, thought Aqa Jaan as he viewed the damage from his window. Locusts come for a reason.

  He slipped his hand into his pocket and wrapped his fingers firmly round his Koran.

  Zaman

  As Muezzin lay in bed, he chanted a surah to himself:

  By the sun and its morning glow!

  By the moon that follows in its wake!

  By the day when it shows its glory!

  By the night when it conceals the light!

  By the sky and He who made it!

  Seven days had gone by since the locusts had descended on the city. But Muezzin was still in bed.

  ‘Why have you shut yourself up in your room, Muezzin?’ Aqa Jaan enquired from behind the closed door. ‘Why won’t you come out?’

  ‘I don’t dare.’

  ‘Why not? What are you afraid of? What’s happened?’ Aqa Jaan asked, and he entered the room warily.

  ‘The clock in my head has stopped ticking. I’ve lost my sense of time, of zaman.’

  ‘You’re just tired, Muezzin,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘It’s your work. You’re upset because your pottery isn’t selling well.’

  ‘No, it’s not the pottery; it’s the locusts. My clock stopped ticking when the swarm arrived. I don’t dare go out any more. I panic whenever anyone asks me what time it is.’

  The shopkeeper who used to sell Muezzin’s pottery on consignment had cancelled his contract. The market had been flooded with so many cheap plastic goods that there was no longer any demand for his ceramics. And yet Muezzin couldn’t stop making things. He kept churning out plates, bowls, water jugs and vases, and stacking them in the cellar. When the cellar was full, he started piling them between the plants in the garden. And when the garden was full, Lizard helped him to stack them on the roof of the mosque.

  Muezzin stayed in bed for three more days. On the tenth night, his clock suddenly started ticking again.

  ‘Three minutes past twelve,’ he muttered. He was so relieved that he immediately sat up in bed.

  He heard a noise: the clang of the front gate. Then footsteps crossing the courtyard to Aqa Jaan’s study.

  ‘Shahbal,’ he realised instantly.

  He stood up and was about to shout a greeting, but then thought better of it. Shahbal must have his reasons for going to see Aqa Jaan so late at night. He would have to be patient. Shahbal would come and see him soon enough.

  Aqa Jaan’s first thought when he saw Shahbal in the doorway was: he’s changed. All traces of the boy who had once lived in the house were gone. There was now a man standing before him.

  Aqa Jaan stood up, embraced Shahbal and offered him a chair. ‘How are you, my son? You’ve forgotten us. I haven’t heard from you in months.’

  ‘It’s a long story, Aqa Jaan, but I’ll make it short. I’m happy and everything’s all right.’

  Aqa Jaan knew that he mustn’t insist, so he kept his reply simple. ‘Good, that’s all I need to know,’ he said, and he paused, to allow Shahbal to continue if he wanted to.

  ‘The university is currently in an uproar,’ Shahbal began. ‘The American vice-president was in Tehran today for a visit. Students blocked the road from the airport to the palace, but the riot police broke up the demonstration. Then the students regrouped and tried to storm the American Embassy, but they were stopped by a special task force. There were a few scuffles, and a couple of Molotov cocktails were thrown through the windows. The embassy burst into flames. Then a helicopter came down and started to fire randomly into the crowd. Two students were killed and dozens more were wounded. The police are now looking for the students who led the demonstration. They’ve all fled. So have I. I’d like to hide in the mosque for a few days until things have calmed down, unless you object.’

  ‘Why would I object?’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘You were right to come home. You’re safer here than anywhere else. I can help you better here than in Tehran.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I don’t live here any more, but whenever I feel unsafe or insecure, you’re the first person I think of. This house has always been my haven. Thank you for giving me a sense of security. And for raising me. When I was living here, I didn’t really know who I was. Now I do. You’ve made me into the strong person I am today.’

  Aqa Jaan was touched by Shahbal’s remarks. ‘Not only do you have a good head on your shoulders,’ he replied, ‘but you can also express your feelings.’

  ‘There’s something else I’d like to tell you,’ Shahbal said. ‘This afternoon, when the train pulled into Qom, I saw an incredible scene. Hundreds of young imams were holding a demonstration in the train station. They were standing on the tracks, blocking the trains, and shouting, “La ilaha illa Allah! There is no God but Allah!”

  ‘I’ve never seen such a demonstration! Their voices were so strong and powerful! What I saw in Qom today was a totally new kind of resistance. The ayatollahs have changed their tactics. Imams who used to turn their backs on modern inventions like trains were now standing on the railway tracks. One young imam scaled the wall in the waiting room and pasted a picture of Khomeini over the shah’s portrait. Someday the great event we’ve all been waiting for is bound to happen . . . Have you been in touch with anyone in Qom?’

  It was an unexpected question. No, he was no longer in touch with anyone in Qom, and no ayatollah had phoned him during the past year. Now that Shahbal had told him about the demonstration, he felt as if a train full of ayatollahs had left the sta
tion, and he had missed the train.

  It was thirteen minutes to one when Muezzin heard footsteps in the alley. The footsteps sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place them. Then he heard someone fumbling at the lock on the front gate. He got out of bed, padded barefoot into Aqa Jaan’s study and whispered, ‘I heard a noise in the alley. Someone’s at the gate!’

  Aqa Jaan immediately turned to Shahbal. ‘Go and hide in one of the minarets!’

  Shahbal gave his father a quick kiss, went up to the roof, took a blanket out of the shed, opened the trapdoor in the left minaret, crawled inside and closed the door behind him.

  Aqa Jaan saw a bewildered-looking Lizard standing in the middle of the courtyard. His clothes were soaking wet. ‘You can’t stay here!’ he whispered to him. ‘Go upstairs!’

  Outwardly calm, Aqa Jaan strode to the gate and opened it. A man wearing a hat and a pair of dark glasses was standing on the pavement with a key in his hand. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Aqa Jaan couldn’t remember where he might have seen him.

  ‘I think we’ve met before,’ Aqa Jaan said, ‘but I don’t see very well in the dark. Can I help you?’

  The man took off his hat. Only then did Aqa Jaan recognise him, though it took a moment for it to sink in. It was Khalkhal! He had aged.

  ‘Salaam aleikum,’ Khalkhal said.

  For a moment Aqa Jaan wasn’t sure how to react. After all, Khalkhal had destroyed Sadiq’s life. He had abandoned her when she was pregnant with Lizard and had gone to Iraq to be with Khomeini. Now, after all these years, suddenly here he was again.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Aqa Jaan said coolly, stepping outside and shutting the gate behind him.

  ‘I’ve been travelling round the country, spreading Khomeini’s message. This afternoon, I met with a group of merchants here in Senejan. I thought I’d see you there, and was surprised when you didn’t turn up. I’m leaving later tonight for Iraq, but I have one request: may I speak to my wife?’