The House of the Mosque Page 17

  They were delighted. They were remarking on the grandmothers’ good taste and noisily discussing each other’s presents when they heard shouts coming from outside. One woman yelled something, and another one began to scold her like a fishwife. Women’s quarrels were never conducted outside, so this was unusual. The two women were apparently standing on the roof of the neighbour’s house, hurling insults at each other. ‘It’s the wives of Hajji Shishegar,’ Zinat Khanom said.

  Hajji Shishegar was a man in his early sixties. He had gone to Mecca at the same time as the grandmothers and had therefore returned only recently. He was a glass merchant who owned a large shop in the bazaar.

  Hajji Shishegar had two wives: an older one named Akram, and a younger one named Tala. Akram had borne him seven daughters, but he wanted a son and had spent a long time looking for another wife. At last he had found a young woman and married her, but so far she hadn’t produced any children.

  ‘Don’t!’ Tala begged. ‘Don’t hit me! I’m sorry! I didn’t know, I really didn’t.’

  Akram wasn’t about to stop. She screamed and pulled Tala’s hair and struck her again.

  ‘Don’t! I haven’t done anything wrong! Your children are my children too. I beg you, stop!’

  Zinat Khanom had gone up to the roof to see what she could do. ‘What’s going on here?’ she said. ‘What are you two fighting about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Tala, the hajji’s younger wife.

  ‘Then why is Akram hitting you? And why in God’s name are you quarrelling out here on the roof?’

  ‘Because Hajji is at home and has company,’ Tala said. ‘And I . . . I’m . . .’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘Pregnant,’ she said softly.

  Akram, Hajji’s older wife, burst into tears and ran off into the darkness.

  ‘Tala is pregnant!’ Zinat cried.

  ‘Mobarak! Congratulations!’ Nasrin and Ensi shouted from the dark courtyard.

  When Hajji Shishegar was at the Kaaba, he had asked God to grant him a son, and God had answered his prayer by giving him two sons – twin boys.

  In the house of the mosque the weeks and months slipped by. And there was still no sign of the grandmothers.

  The Return

  One morning, as Shahbal was going to the kitchen to eat breakfast, he saw a woman with a suitcase sitting on the bench by the hauz. Only when she lowered her chador to her shoulders did he recognise her.

  ‘Sadiq, is that you?’

  When Khalkhal had fled Senejan in the aftermath of the cinema riot, Sadiq had gone to Qom to be with her husband. She had not been home since.

  Zinat hugged and kissed her daughter, and asked her what had been going on and why she had come home looking so sad. Sadiq lay her head on Zinat’s shoulder and wept, but offered no explanation for her return.

  Zinat knew that her daughter was unhappy with Khalkhal. He had never given her a normal family life or let her have visitors in her own home. She lived in fear of him.

  He was away often, leaving her at home all by herself. He never told her what he was doing, and he forbade her to discuss anything with her family.

  The smile that had always graced Sadiq’s lips was now gone. A veil of sorrow had fallen over her face.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Sadiq was reluctant to speak.

  ‘Have you left him?’

  Silence.

  ‘Did you two have a row?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then tell me what’s happened.’

  But Sadiq’s lips were sealed.

  She walked around the courtyard, pondering her life.

  Khalkhal had been gone for several months. He had left her on her own, without saying where he was going or when he would return. One day she got a letter from him. ‘I won’t be coming home for a while,’ he wrote. ‘In fact I’ll probably be gone for a very long time. Go back to your family and don’t breathe a word of this to anyone!’

  Sadiq didn’t, but they all knew she’d come home to think about her troubled marriage. She was struggling with a difficult question: if he did come home, did she want to go back to him? Back to that horrible house in Qom? Did she want to live with him again? To share her bed with him? But she knew that, as a woman, she had no choice. If he asked her to come home, she had to go back.

  No, I won’t go, she thought. And if he makes me, I’ll scream until everyone in the mosque runs up to the roof to see what’s going on.

  She went into the kitchen. It felt so empty without the grandmothers. When they had lived here, the kitchen had always been neat and tidy. Now it was a mess. Nothing was where it should be. The rubbish bin was full, the spice jars were all over the place instead of in the cupboard where they belonged and the kitchen was no longer filled with the delightful smell of fresh fruit, which had always stood in the bowl on the counter. Sadiq began to clean up. She carried out the rubbish, wiped off the spice jars and arranged them on the shelf. She put away the dishes, swept the floor, washed the windows and watered the plants.

  Then she got out a frying pan and began to cook.

  That evening, when everyone came home, they saw a light on in the kitchen, and the house was filled with the tantalising smell of food.

  Sadiq set the dining-room table. For the first time in a long while the family ate together.

  They were careful not to ask her any questions or to mention Khalkhal’s name. They knew that Aqa Jaan would talk to her when the time was right.

  It had been an enjoyable evening, and they all mentioned how much they had missed eating good food. After dinner Sadiq went back to the kitchen and stayed there until bedtime. After doing the washing-up, she sat by the window for a long time and stared into the darkness. Her suitcase was still by the hauz. Zinat had offered her a bed in her room, but she didn’t want to share with her mother.

  Sadiq peered at herself in the kitchen mirror, the same one the grandmothers had always used. The mottled old mirror told her that a new phase of her life was about to begin. She’d been dithering all day long, but now she’d finally made up her mind. Sadiq stood up, switched off the kitchen light and went down to the cellar.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Muezzin called.

  She jumped.

  ‘Is that you, Sadiq?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure at first. Your footsteps have changed so much I almost didn’t recognise them. What are you doing down here in the middle of the night?’

  ‘Looking for a key. It must be in one of those old trunks.’

  ‘The key to what?’

  ‘The room next to the stairs. The one between the stairs and Aqa Jaan’s study.’

  ‘Do you need it right now?’

  She searched through the trunks, but didn’t find the key.

  ‘Look behind that archway,’ Muezzin said. ‘There’s another trunk in there. Take the lantern, or you won’t be able to see a thing.’

  There was a lantern in a niche, with a box of matches beside it. Sadiq lit the candle in the lantern and used it to light her way to the trunk, which she rummaged through without finding the key.

  ‘There’s a box in here, in the cupboard,’ Muezzin told her. ‘The key might be in that.’

  She switched on the light in the studio and saw Muezzin taking some vases out of his kiln.

  ‘Don’t touch them,’ he said. ‘They’re still hot.’

  She edged her way past the newly fired vases and opened the cupboard. Inside were a couple of old-fashioned men’s jackets and two walking sticks.

  ‘Did you find it?’

  ‘No, all I can see are clothes.’

  ‘It has to be in there somewhere. I heard keys jingling once when the grandmothers were clearing out the cupboard.’

  She pushed aside the jackets. Suddenly she heard a dull jangle.

  ‘You found them!’ Muezzin exclaimed.

  Sadiq went back to the courtyard. She walked past Aqa Jaan’s study and stopped in front of
the third door. She tried the keys in the lock, one by one. Only one key in the bunch fitted, but she couldn’t get it to turn.

  She went back to the cellar to get Muezzin. He oiled the lock and tried the key again, but it still wouldn’t budge. ‘This room hasn’t been used for ages,’ he said. ‘The key and the lock are rusty.’

  He was dying to ask, Why does the door have to be unlocked now, in the middle of the night? If you want to sleep, use the guest room. But instead, he poured a little more oil in the lock and tried it again.

  ‘I think it’s loosening up, yes, here it comes, it’s turning. No, wait, it’s still stuck. I need to tap it with a hammer, but I’m afraid I’ll wake everybody up.’

  And yet he had no choice, so he went back to his room and got a hammer. He gave the key a couple of taps, then turned it. There was a sudden click. ‘At last!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s unlocked now, though heaven only knows why you’re so anxious to get in here at this time of night!’ Then, without waiting for an explanation, he went back to his room and shut the door behind him.

  Sadiq gently pushed open the door.

  The room was dark. She felt around for the light switch, but it wasn’t working. So she went back to the cellar, got the lantern and returned to her room.

  White sheets had been draped over everything, even the carpet. They were covered with a thin layer of dust. Sadiq carefully removed the sheets and piled them up outside.

  There was a bed, and next to that an old mirror. A chador was hanging on a coat-rack, and beneath it lay a worn pair of slippers. On the bedside table was a comb, a compact and a small make-up bag. The two shelves on the wall above the bed held a number of books. There was also a wood-burning stove – on top of which stood a tea glass and a bowl – and a cupboard with several dresses hanging inside.

  Sadiq took two clean sheets out of the laundry room, fetched her suitcase, went back to the bedroom, set the suitcase down beside the cupboard, made up the bed, crawled under the covers, closed her eyes and went to sleep.

  Early the next morning everyone saw her giving the room a thorough cleaning. She beat the carpet and washed the windows, and also had Shahbal fix the wiring.

  That evening a light could be seen in the window of the room by the stairs. The coloured panes of glass cast a red, green and yellow glow on the ground beneath the window.

  One night, after Aqa Jaan had seen Sadiq standing in the doorway with the red, green and yellow lights shining on her abdomen, he wrote in his journal, ‘Sadiq is pregnant.’

  Guerrillas

  At the entrance to the bazaar policemen were busy putting up WANTED posters. Underneath the black-and-white pictures of four men with glasses and moustaches was written: ‘Escaped prisoners! Armed Communists! A reward of 10,000 toman offered for any tips as to their whereabouts.’

  The same pictures had been printed on the front page of the local newspaper. ‘Four dangerous terrorists at loose in our city!’ read the caption.

  People had crowded round the entrance to the bazaar and were standing in little groups, talking. They didn’t know the first thing about Communism, but they did know that Communists were dangerous people who didn’t believe in God.

  The paper also printed an interview with a goatherd, who claimed to have seen the fugitives.

  ‘Were they armed?’ the interviewer asked.

  ‘Yes, they had rifles slung over their shoulders.’

  ‘Where did you run into them?’

  ‘I didn’t run into them. I was gathering my flock, chasing after a goat, when suddenly I saw four men on horseback. I could tell right away that they were strangers, because they were sitting in the saddle like sultans. You don’t see people like that in the mountains very often.’

  ‘Did you talk to them?’

  ‘Not at first. Only later. I didn’t get a look at their faces. They were going up the mountain, so I only saw them from behind. They were heading for the pass. I guess they were hoping to cross the border into Afghanistan. Suddenly one of them turned, rode down to where I was standing and asked me if I could give him some bread and milk.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t know they were Communists. I wouldn’t have given it to them if I’d known.’

  ‘Didn’t you ask him who he was?’

  ‘No, that’s not something you usually ask a stranger. I just got out a pail and went looking for a goat to milk.’

  ‘What did he do when you gave him the milk and the bread?’

  ‘He shook my hand and said, “Please forgive me, but I can’t pay you.”’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘Yes, he said that he’d remember my face.’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’

  ‘I don’t know, but the next day I saw the WANTED posters at the police post in our village. Four terrorists! And I gave them my bread!’

  Ordinary people didn’t know what was going on, but those who listened in secret to Radio Moscow’s Persian-language broadcast knew the reason for the manhunt.

  The fugitives who were attempting to flee the country were the four most important members of a leftist underground movement. They had been arrested a few years ago during an uprising in the forests of the northern region of Shomal, where they’d been in charge of an anti-American guerrilla movement. Their aim had been to spark a rebellion in the north that would eventually topple the shah. One of those men was Hamid Ashraf.

  Most of the mountain people lived in poverty. Their villages lacked even the most basic facilities: there were no schools, no telephones and no doctors. The authorities did nothing at all for the village of Farahan, because that’s where Ashraf had been born. The village was paying the price for his political activities.

  Ashraf had studied physics at the Technical University of Tehran – a hotbed of leftist discontent in the country. He was a young leader who had abandoned the traditional Communist Tudeh Party and set up an underground movement known as Fadai, whose followers were engaged in an armed struggle against the shah.

  Because of its long opposition to the regime, Farahan was known as the Red Village. The villagers were proud of Ashraf and of the town’s nickname.

  There were no radios in the other mountain villages, and yet the people of the Red Village listened to Radio Moscow. The moment they heard that Ashraf had escaped from prison, they spread the news through the entire mountain region.

  The people of the Red Village claimed that the newspaper interview was a pack of lies, that the goatherd didn’t exist. They were convinced that the whole story had been fabricated by the secret police. But others swore that the goatherd had been sent by the Red Village to throw the police off the track.

  Leftist sympathisers throughout the country talked about the Red Village so much that it had taken on mythical proportions. They claimed that the villagers were all Communists, that on holidays the red flag fluttered over every door and that the shah’s gendarmes didn’t dare set foot there.

  Although most of the people in the mountains were illiterate, it was said that everyone in the Red Village could read, that leftist sympathisers had secretly gone to the village and taught people how to read and write.

  In Radio Moscow’s report of the escape, it was hinted that Hamid Ashraf and his comrades might be hiding in the Red Village.

  The next day fourteen armoured vehicles roared into the village, and two helicopters circled above. Since the mountain people had never seen a helicopter at such close range, they dropped what they were doing and raced up the hills to get a better look. The helicopters were flying so low they could see the armed men inside.

  The people of the Red Village climbed up on their roofs to protest, leaving their doors wide open so the police wouldn’t break them down.

  The policemen searched every house and questioned everyone they found on the roofs. They kicked in a lot of doors anyway and turned the village upside down, but didn’t find a trace of the fugitives.

  They did, however, arre
st a number of young men who couldn’t prove that they lived in the village or had been visiting relatives. Only when darkness fell did they call a halt to the search.

  Shahbal didn’t come home that night. Muezzin, who had listened to the news on his radio, was worried about his son. He went to Aqa Jaan to let him know that the boy hadn’t come home.

  Aqa Jaan had seen the posters in the bazaar and heard the news of Hamid Ashraf’s escape. He owned several small carpet workshops in the Red Village, where people wove rugs for him. He knew the village well, and the villagers knew and respected Aqa Jaan. Still, it had never occurred to him that Shahbal might be mixed up in its Communist activities. He stayed up till midnight, waiting, but there was no sign of Shahbal.

  ‘Do you have any idea where he might have gone?’ he asked Muezzin.

  ‘He came downstairs this morning to say that he was going out and that he’d be home late, but I didn’t expect him to be this late.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s stupid of me to ask, but do you think he’s involved somehow with this business in Farahan?’

  ‘In the Red Village?’

  ‘Apparently the police arrested a lot of people. At least that’s what I heard at the bazaar.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with Shahbal?’ Muezzin asked in surprise.

  ‘Everything’s tied up with everything else these days. There was a lot of unrest in the city this afternoon. Everyone was talking about the Red Village. Anyway, it’s midnight now. All we can do is wait. We should stay calm and try to get some sleep, and see what the morning brings.’