The House of the Mosque Page 11

  Aqa Jaan went over to the pulpit, mounted the first step and said, ‘Listen, everyone. Imam Khalkhal had to go to Qom suddenly, so we’re without an imam. I know it’s unusual, but I’ll take his place today. The morning prayer is short. Follow me!’

  There was a buzz of consternation, but at Muezzin’s cry of ‘Hayye ale as-salat’, everyone fell silent and turned towards Mecca.

  The morning prayer is the shortest of the day. It consists of standing up two times, bowing two times and touching your forehead to the ground two times.

  At the end of the prayer, the merchants solemnly walked over to Aqa Jaan and escorted him to the courtyard, where they were joined by Shahbal and Khalkhal, who had emerged from the cellar and were mingling with the crowd. Aqa Jaan had invited only a few of the men to walk with him to the bazaar, but others had apparently sensed the air of urgency and were now walking silently behind Aqa Jaan.

  Everywhere you looked there were policemen who had no idea why such a large group of people were strolling so casually down the street towards the bazaar.

  The caretaker’s cousin was waiting with his motorcycle by the streetlight at one corner of the square. Khalkhal slipped away from the crowd and seated himself on the back of the motorcycle. The cousin revved the engine and off they drove, without so much as a backward glance. Shahbal watched until the motorcycle was safely out of sight. Then he rejoined the crowd, sidled up to Aqa Jaan and whispered, ‘He’s gone.’

  The Birds

  Ha Mim. Autumn was drawing to a close, and Sadiq had gone to Qom to be with her husband before winter set in. The first snow of the season had already covered the mountaintops. Everywhere you looked, you could see white peaks jutting up from the villages.

  In the house of the mosque Khalkhal’s name was rarely mentioned any more. They all had other things on their minds. Soon the migratory birds would be arriving, and maybe this time one of them would be special.

  Aqa Jaan woke up one day and said to his wife, ‘Fakhri, I had another one of my wonderful dreams. You know I’m always in touch with the dead, and, believe it or not, last night I saw my father. I don’t remember the exact date of his death, but he still comes to me in my dreams. They’re hard to explain. In last night’s dream my father had died and we’d buried him in the cemetery, but when I got home I found him lying in his bed with a white sheet over his body. I knew it was my father, even though we’d just put him in the ground. I knelt by the bed. Somehow I knew that he wasn’t dead, that he was about to get up. After a while he moved, stuck his head out from under the sheet and tried to sit up. I went over and helped him stand, then handed him his hat and stick. He left the room and walked over to the hauz, where he sat on the bench and stared at the fish.’

  ‘You were thinking about him,’ said Fakhri Sadat. ‘You’re always thinking about the dead. That’s why you dream about them so often.’

  ‘I don’t think about them all the time. I do think about my father sometimes, but I dream about dead people I’ve never even met, like my father’s father, or my father’s grandfather. It’s strange. During the day, I’m in the world of the living and at night I’m in the world of the dead.’

  ‘Maybe it’s because of those mosque reports you’re always writing in your journal.’

  He got out of bed and went over to the window. ‘Fakhri!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Tamuz sun has just come up!’

  Fakhri Sadat looked at the sun – a red circle peeping out above the top of Mount Zardkuh, Yellow Mountain.

  ‘I’ve been looking at Mount Zardkuh every day,’ said Fakhri Sadat, ‘hoping to see the Tamuz sun. I was afraid we weren’t going to have one this year.’

  ‘I’ve been so wrapped up in that business with Khalkhal that the Tamuz sun completely slipped my mind.’

  Winter had arrived. Sometimes on the last day of autumn or the first day of winter a bright red sun appeared above Mount Zardkuh. It was called a Tamuz sun because it was like the suns you see in Tamuz, July.

  This unexpectedly mild day was always awaited with great anticipation in Senejan. The migrating birds, who knew it was coming before the people did, made use of it to fly over the snow-capped mountains. They began their migration in the cold regions of Asiatic Russia. For as long as anyone could remember, the birds had followed the old Silk Road, where the air was the warmest, and crossed the huge stretch of desert in one go. By the time they arrived in Senejan, they’d finished the most difficult part of their journey. They continued on towards warmer climes until they finally reached their nests in the palm trees of the Persian Gulf.

  The day of the Tamuz sun was an important day for the family. It was also of importance to the bazaar and the carpet trade as a whole, for on that day Fakhri Sadat and the grandmothers stayed at home to trap birds.

  The house drew its inspiration for the patterns and colours of their carpets from the feathers of migrating birds. Years of experience had taught the residents of the house that there were always a few birds in the flocks with unusual markings or striking colours on their feathers.

  No one knew how Aqa Jaan dreamed up such inimitable patterns for his carpets or such an exquisite blend of colours. And through the ages it had been the women of the house who had made it possible.

  Today, as in previous years, the grandmothers got to work quickly. They fetched the wicker snares from the cellar and set them out in the courtyard, on the same side of the garden as the library and the Opium Room.

  The migrating birds who left the desert and headed towards Senejan usually set their sights on the minarets of the Friday Mosque. There were always four storks on the mosque, two on each minaret. No one knew exactly when the old storks died and the new ones took their place, but there were always four storks. They were a defining feature of Senejan. When the migrating birds saw them from afar, they knew they were nearing the city.

  Once the birds reached Senejan, they circled noisily for a while, then landed on the roof of the mosque. The old crow perched on top of the dome and watched their every move.

  The caretaker had already scattered some grain on the roof and set out bowls of water for the birds. All of Senejan knew about the grain and the water, but no one knew that Fakhri Sadat set traps for them.

  Fakhri Sadat sat in a chair by the hauz, holding the ropes attached to the snares. The grandmothers hid in the library and peered through the gap in the curtains.

  A flock of birds landed by the snares and started to eat the scattered grain, and as they ate, they were lured into the baskets by the raisins that had been placed there to tempt them further. The moment they stepped into the baskets, Fakhri Sadat yanked the ropes, and the snares snapped shut, trapping the birds inside.

  The grandmothers hurried into the courtyard and knelt by the first basket. Golebeh lifted the lid, took out a bird and handed it to Fakhri Sadat, who studied its feathers.

  This time the catch consisted of seven new types of birds. They put them in seven cages and carried them into the house.

  Aqa Jaan came home after dark and went directly to his study, where Fakhri Sadat was waiting for him. ‘How did it go?’ he asked. ‘Did you catch anything special?’

  ‘The birds are beautiful! We saw lots of them up close,’ Fakhri Sadat replied.

  ‘I can’t wait to see them,’ he said. ‘Where are the grandmothers?’

  ‘They’re bringing in the cages,’ said Fakhri Sadat.

  The four of them worked until the early hours of the morning.

  Golbanu took one of the birds out of its cage and put a black hood over its head, so it would sit quietly on the table and not be frightened by the bright light.

  Aqa Jaan examined its wings and feathers. ‘This one has beautiful markings, though they’re not all that unusual,’ he said, and he lifted one of the feathers with the tip of his pencil so Fakhri Sadat could see it too. Then he turned to the grandmothers. ‘Would you like to take a look?’

  They put on their glasses, came cl
oser and inspected the feathers. ‘The colours are a bit different, but we’ve seen markings like this before,’ said Golbanu. They took the bird out of Aqa Jaan’s hands and put it back in its cage, then they took out another bird and handed it to him.

  ‘Oh, these feathers are magnificent! See the pattern on the tip of this one? It’s a crisscross of red and green lines. I’m sure our designers can do something with this.’

  Fakhri Sadat studied the feathers under a magnifying glass. ‘They’re definitely special. The shine on them makes them even more beautiful. Why do the birds in this species have such totally different feathers? Each one has a unique pattern.’

  Aqa Jaan looked through Fakhri Sadat’s magnifying glass and nodded. ‘Put this one aside.’

  They examined two more birds, but the feathers were quite ordinary. When the grandmothers took out the next bird, they knew right away that it was a special case. The bird refused to sit still and struggled to get free. ‘This one’s strong!’ said Golebeh. ‘Look, its feathers are also thicker than usual.’

  ‘This bird is indeed different,’ Golbanu agreed. ‘It has little blue dots that glitter like jewels.’

  ‘I looked at it briefly in the daylight,’ Fakhri Sadat said, ‘but now that I see it here on the table under a strong lamp, it looks even more beautiful.’

  ‘A masterpiece!’ Aqa Jaan exclaimed. ‘Where does so much beauty come from?’

  Fakhri Sadat picked up a pencil and began to draw one of the feather patterns, peering at it from time to time through the magnifying glass. When she finished the sketch, the grandmothers got out an old palette and some paintbrushes.

  The women didn’t realise that they were artists. In their eyes they were simply carrying on a family tradition, one that involved the carpet trade. They wanted to create the most beautiful carpets in the country, the most beautiful in all of the Middle East. They considered it their duty, and didn’t give it a second thought.

  Fakhri Sadat sketched the patterns and tried to capture the magical colours of the feathers on paper. She painted with thin brushes, with her fingers and with the helpful advice of the grandmothers ringing in her ears. ‘Try this colour, Fakhri, that dark blue by this pale green. Don’t mix them, but draw a thin green line over the blue,’ Golebeh said.

  Fakhri did as the grandmothers suggested.

  ‘But I want to capture that purple sheen. How can we turn it into strands of wool that can be woven into a carpet?’ she asked.

  ‘It won’t be easy,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘You can’t achieve the same effect with wool that you can with paint.’

  ‘Bring me some wool,’ Fakhri Sadat said to the grandmothers.

  They trotted off to the Carpet Room, came back with several spools of wool and laid them on the table.

  ‘Would you hand me a strand of blue?’

  ‘I don’t think a single strand is going to do the trick,’ Aqa Jaan observed. ‘You need to use a handful of blue and combine it with a few thin strands of red.’

  He laid a handful of blue wool on the table and wove a few strands of red through it. ‘See what I mean?’

  ‘No,’ Fakhri Sadat said.

  ‘Wait,’ Golbanu said, and she wove a few more strands of red through the blue wool.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ Fakhri said.

  ‘We’ll never be able to get the effect we want here on the table. Only when it’s made into a carpet will we know if we’ve succeeded. Once thousands of red strands have been woven into the blue, a purple sheen will emerge from the carpet. That’s how it always works,’ Aqa Jaan remarked. ‘Take another look at the feather through the magnifying glass. When you examine it closely, you see a splash of blue, dozens of tiny red lines and a few green ones. That automatically creates the effect we’re trying to achieve.’

  They stared at each other in silence.

  ‘It’s too early to celebrate,’ he said, ‘but I think we may have a winner.’

  Fakhri Sadat finished her sketches, Aqa Jaan assembled his notes and the grandmothers returned the spools to the Carpet Room and tidied up the study.

  Early the next morning, as the first rays of dawn struck the house, the grandmothers swept the courtyard and brought the birds outside. They fed them, let them drink out of the hauz, gave them each a kiss and set them free.

  The birds circled halfway round the mosque and flew off towards the south, hurrying to catch up with the flock. If they flew without stopping, before nightfall they would reach the Persian Gulf, where it was warm and huge sharks sliced through the water like submarines.

  Janeshin

  My thirsty lips

  Search yours.

  Take off my clothes,

  Embrace me.

  Here are my lips,

  My neck and burning breasts.

  Here is my soft body!

  After carrying the poem around in his pocket for weeks, Aqa Jaan had hidden it in the drawer of his desk at the bazaar. More than once he’d been tempted to toss it into the wastepaper basket, but something had held him back. It was a sinful poem, and yet he felt the urge to read it over and over again. The poem had lodged itself in his memory without his wanting it to. He could even recite it by heart.

  He could rattle off dozens of classical poems, but this one was different. This poem wouldn’t let go of him; the words were always on his lips. How dare a woman commit such thoughts to paper? Who was she?

  Her name was Forugh Farrokhzad, and she was well known in Tehran as a contemporary poet. She was a beautiful young woman whose first volume of poetry had caused quite a stir. One of her poems had shaken the traditional world of men’s poetry to its foundations:

  I looked into his eyes,

  Which concealed a secret.

  My heart pounded

  At his questioning look.

  Allah, oh Allah!

  His lips sparked desire

  On my lips.

  And I said:

  I want you.

  Oh, my God, I’m sinning.

  My naked body,

  In that soft bed

  Arched above his chest,

  Colliding flesh.

  Some saw her as a shiny new star in the firmament of Persian poetry. Others considered her a whore, who sold her body both in bed and on paper.

  An ayatollah in Qom berated her publisher for printing such blasphemy. In one of his sermons he offered it as proof that the henchmen of the regime were out to undermine Islam. ‘They’re insulting our women,’ he roared. ‘Our daughters are no longer safe in this sinful country!’

  Tehran was immune to such barbs. Tehran had its own agenda. The papers were full of blasphemous writings, and the cinema screens were filled with scantily clad women with enormous breasts.

  Every day Farah Diba opened a new cultural centre, where bare-legged girls danced for her and young women recited poems about their bodies.

  Aqa Jaan, having just hidden Forugh’s poem under a sheaf of papers in his drawer, fished it out again. This poem should be part of my mosque reports, he thought. I’ll add it to my journal.

  There was a knock on the door and in came his office boy. ‘The imam is here. Shall I show him in?’ he asked.

  Aqa Jaan remembered that he had an appointment with Janeshin, the substitute imam. ‘Send him in,’ he said, and he hastily slipped the poem back into the drawer. This was the first time Aqa Jaan had ever asked the imam to his office.

  Janeshin was in his early fifties, with greying temples and streaks of grey in his beard. You could tell from his awkward demeanour that he was a rural imam.

  ‘Do sit down,’ Aqa Jaan said, pointing to the chair in front of his desk.

  The imam seated himself with great modesty and tucked his arms in his robe. The office boy brought them tea on a silver tray and offered the imam chocolate from an elegant, brightly coloured box.

  The imam selected a chocolate, stuck it in his mouth and began to chew.

  He was visibly impressed by the regal
-looking office, with its antique furniture, leather chairs, crystal chandelier and mammoth desk, behind which sat Aqa Jaan, the head of dozens of carpet workshops in Senejan and the outlying villages.

  Janeshin was the regular imam of the mosque in the mountain village of Jirya.

  Aqa Jaan trusted him.

  In the past, whenever Imam Alsaberi was ill or away on a trip, Janeshin had filled in for him. It was always for short periods, but now that Khalkhal had fled, he would probably stay on longer. After Khalkhal’s escape, Aqa Jaan had immediately sent his jeep to collect Janeshin, who had arrived in time to lead the evening prayer.

  Normally Janeshin slept in the mosque’s guest room, but now that he would be staying on for a longer period, he would need more space, which is why Aqa Jaan had invited him to come in for a chat.

  ‘How are you?’ Aqa Jaan asked.

  ‘Fine, praise God.’

  ‘And how’s your family – your wife and children? Aren’t they upset that you’re going to be away longer?’

  ‘Women always complain, but I’ll go home for a day now and then.’

  ‘Are you satisfied with the mosque?’

  ‘I am, as long as you are.’

  ‘I’m satisfied—’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in!’

  Seven bespectacled old men in work clothes entered the room. Their hands and clothes were smeared with paint. The oldest unrolled a sheet of paper and laid it on the desk: an intricate carpet design. ‘Here are the initial results,’ he said. ‘There’s a purple sheen over the sketch, like a fine mist, and we think it will look even better in the carpet.’

  Aqa Jaan studied the drawing, and the seven men leaned over the desk to examine it with him.

  ‘Incredible!’ Aqa Jaan exclaimed. ‘I didn’t expect it to be this good. It’s exactly how I pictured it! I don’t want to wait any longer. If you can get it ready, I’d like to have it registered this afternoon. Do you think you can finish it today?’

  ‘We’ll do our best,’ the men promised, and they left.