The House of the Mosque Read online

  Muezzin nodded and started to walk away, but Aqa Jaan was suddenly struck by an idea. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘If Shahbal was in Farahan this afternoon and did get arrested, we should search his room before the police do. They’re bound to come here sooner or later.’

  Aqa Jaan went into Shahbal’s room and started looking through his things. To his surprise he found a stack of books beneath the bed and in the cupboard – books they didn’t have in their own library, such as novels, short stories and contemporary poems. There were also clandestine books, in which the shah was criticised for being an instrument of American imperialism.

  He leafed through the books, but didn’t have time to examine them, so he crammed them all into a bag and hurried through the darkness to the river.

  Shahbal didn’t come home that night, and no policeman knocked on their door.

  The next morning Aqa Jaan went to work as usual, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. At about ten o’clock the phone rang. It was the chief constable, asking Aqa Jaan to come in for a talk. Aqa Jaan put on his hat and had his chauffeur drive him to the station.

  He sat down in the chair proffered by the chief constable. ‘We’ve arrested your nephew,’ the chief constable informed him, ‘along with a group of foreigners.’

  ‘Arrested?’ Aqa Jaan said in as calm a voice as possible. ‘What for?’

  ‘We picked him up in the Red Village. When we searched him, we found a transistor radio and a book on him.’

  ‘What of it? Everyone has a transistor radio these days.’

  ‘It was tuned to Radio Moscow.’

  ‘There must be some misunderstanding. He lives in the house of the mosque. There’s no need for anyone in our house to listen to Radio Moscow.’

  ‘I agree. That’s why I’ve asked you to come here.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m very grateful to you,’ Aqa Jaan said.

  ‘But I’m still wondering what he was doing in Farahan.’

  ‘We have a few carpet workshops there. We employ dozens of the villagers. I often send my men there to inspect the work. Shahbal went to Farahan at my request.’

  ‘But he had an illegal book in his possession,’ the chief constable said.

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘The Russian Revolution.’

  ‘What’s so illegal about that?’

  ‘It was written by Maxim Gorky.’

  ‘Who’s Maxim Gorky?’

  ‘A Russian writer. Any student who’s found with a subversive book like that in his possession gets sentenced to six months in jail. But luckily for your nephew, you and I know each other. We need each other in this town, so I’m letting him go. As a favour to you.’

  ‘Thank you, I understand. I’ll speak to him when he gets home and warn him not to do it again,’ Aqa Jaan said, and he stood up.

  When Shahbal came home a while later, Aqa Jaan called him into his study. ‘You own a transistor radio and you listen to Radio Moscow. What’s the meaning of this? Why didn’t I know about it?’

  ‘The police overreacted. Everyone has a television these days, and radios are everywhere. People listen to broadcasts from all over the world. I listen to everything I can. Not just the Iranian channels, but also Radio Moscow, the Voice of America and the BBC.’

  ‘They found a Communist book on you.’

  ‘It was a novel, a made-up story. Books are books, what does it matter? Besides, the chief constable can’t tell me what I can and cannot read!’

  ‘Oh, yes he can. He had you arrested!’

  ‘He can arrest me, but he can’t force me to do what he wants.’

  ‘What were you doing in the Red Village so late at night?’

  ‘That’s another story. I should have mentioned it, but I couldn’t decide whether or not to tell you. Something’s been bothering me, but perhaps this isn’t the best time to go into it. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. Then again, not telling you is just as bad.’

  ‘You can tell me, Shahbal.’

  ‘I’ve been struggling with this for a long time. I’m filled with so many doubts that it’s all I can think about.’

  ‘Doubts about what?’

  ‘About everything! I hesitate to tell you, because I still can’t make up my mind. But the thing is, I . . . well, I’ve stopped going to mosque.’

  ‘No, you haven’t. I see you there every day.’

  ‘I don’t mean physically, I mean mentally. I’m there all right, but when I turn to face Mecca, I’m thinking about completely different things.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘I don’t dare put them into words. That’s why I think that it might be better for me to take a break from the mosque and the prayers.’

  ‘Everyone has doubts. That’s no reason to get so upset.’

  ‘I’m past the doubting stage,’ Shahbal said. ‘I don’t feel at home in the mosque any more. I’ve lost my faith.’

  Shahbal watched as Aqa Jaan slumped in his chair and slipped his hand in his jacket to touch his pocket Koran.

  ‘I’ve hurt you,’ Shahbal said softly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Your news does indeed hurt me,’ Aqa Jaan replied, ‘but I went through a similar phase once. It will pass. Young people are especially prone to doubts. In my day there were no radios or televisions or tempting books, all of which have a great influence on people. But I’m not worried, because I haven’t filled your head with strange ideas that would cause you to turn your back on God. All I can do is wait. But you should remember this: I’m not mistaken, I trust you, I believe in you. It’s only human to have doubts. But you’re tired. Go and get some sleep. We’ll discuss it another time.’

  Shahbal turned to leave. He had tears in his eyes. Yet Aqa Jaan surprised him with one last question: ‘Do you know anything about those four escaped men?’

  ‘No!’ Shahbal said. But Aqa Jaan could tell from the tone of his voice that he was hiding something.

  Early the next morning Aqa Jaan was on his way to the bazaar when he ran into Crazy Qodsi.

  ‘How are you, Qodsi?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘How’s your mother?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  ‘Do you have any news for me?’

  ‘The Moshiri girl sometimes goes down the street with her bare bottom hanging out.’

  He didn’t understand what she was saying. Moshiri was one of the richest carpet merchants in the bazaar. His twenty-four-year-old daughter was mentally ill, which is why he never let her leave the house.

  ‘The Moshiri girl sometimes does what? Would you repeat that?’ Aqa Jaan asked.

  Qodsi brought her face close to his and whispered, ‘You have ghosts in your mosque.’

  ‘Ghosts? Bare bottoms? Come now, Qodsi. You can do better than that!’

  But she had already disappeared through the nearest open door.

  The police had received a tip about some suspicious goings-on in the cellar of the mosque. They were convinced that the guerrillas were hiding in the crypt. So one evening two policemen slipped into the mosque disguised as young imams and lined up for the prayer along with the other worshippers.

  Afterwards the policemen lingered and struck up a conversation with the substitute imam. They told him that they were from Isfahan, and that they were spending the night at an inn in Senejan before going on to the holy city of Qom.

  The elderly imam invited them to his rooms for tea. He explained that he was only filling in for Alsaberi’s son, who, if all went well, would graduate from the seminary at the end of the year and take his father’s place. The policemen sipped their tea and kept their eyes on the courtyard.

  ‘Does anyone else live here, or do you live alone?’

  ‘I’m the only one living in the mosque, but the caretaker is around a lot. The mosque is his life. I’m grateful he’s so dedicated; he does the work of ten men. He gets here early in the morning and goes home late at night.’

  ‘I think I hear a noise in the cellar,�
�� said one of the policemen, inventing an excuse to go outside and look around.

  ‘This mosque is old, very old. It has many secrets. Don’t ask me who goes in and out of the cellar. Ancient mosques are always full of mystery. Sometimes I hear strange sounds, like footsteps in the night, or faint voices. The mosque has a life of its own. You have to ignore such sounds when you sleep here. You have to bury your head in your pillow and close your eyes.’

  At the end of the evening, the policemen heard footsteps in the courtyard. They stood up, said goodbye and stole through the darkness to the cellar, where they crouched down and peeked through a small window.

  The shadow of a man with a candle in his hand glided into the cellar. He seemed to be looking for something, or perhaps he was carrying out a ritual. In any case he was holding an object in his left hand, though they couldn’t tell what it was or see exactly what he was doing. He was either talking to himself or to someone else as he headed towards the darker regions of the cellar. They heard a door open, and the shadow disappeared.

  They tiptoed into the cellar, crept cautiously down the stairs and stood stock-still, listening to the silence. They didn’t dare switch on their torches. They inched their way towards the place where they had last seen the shadow, taking care not to trip over the tombstones. As they approached the door, they heard a faint voice and saw a yellow strip of light beneath it.

  They stopped. The voice – or voices – wasn’t very clear. It sounded like someone reading something aloud or telling a story. They pressed their ears to the door and heard snatches of something that made no sense to them at all:

  Suckle him.

  If you fear for him,

  Cast him into the river.

  Fear not,

  And do not grieve,

  For We shall restore him to you.

  Suddenly they heard a woman scream. They stared at each other in sheer terror, not knowing whether the shriek had come from the mosque or from the cellar. They raced up the stairs, making as little noise as possible, and hurriedly left the mosque.

  It was Sadiq who had screamed. She’d been standing next to the hauz when she suddenly went into labour. A stabbing pain had gone from her belly to her back and left her feeling dizzy. She’d screamed and crumpled up in agony.

  Aqa Jaan, Fakhri, Zinat and Muezzin had gone on a pilgrimage to a nearby village that evening and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. Luckily Shahbal had heard Sadiq’s scream. He ran to the hauz, helped her up and brought her to her room. There, in the bright light, he saw drops of blood on the floor.

  ‘Phone the doctor!’ he yelled to Nasrin, Aqa Jaan’s elder daughter. ‘I’ll go and get the midwife!’ He jumped on his bicycle and pedalled as fast as he could in the direction of the river.

  When the midwife finally arrived, she took one look at Sadiq and said, ‘This is serious. I can’t deal with it on my own. You’ll have to send for a doctor.’

  ‘He’s already on his way,’ Nasrin informed her. ‘I’ll go and wait for him.’

  Sadiq was in agony. She screamed so loudly that the midwife decided she’d have to do what she could or Sadiq would lose the baby.

  ‘The baby’s trying to come out, but something’s holding it back. I can’t see anything in this light. Nasrin, get me a lamp and some clean towels.’

  Nasrin hurried out and came back with a lamp and a stack of towels.

  ‘Shine the light over here. Don’t be so clumsy. Concentrate!’

  Nasrin stepped closer to the bed, but avoided looking at Sadiq as she held the lamp over the midwife’s head. ‘I think I hear the doctor,’ she said.

  ‘Shut up and hold that lamp still!’

  A car stopped outside the gate. Nasrin’s hands were shaking. To calm her nerves, she began to hum.

  The midwife told Sadiq to keep breathing and to push harder. ‘The baby’s turned the wrong way,’ she explained. ‘It can’t come out. We’re going to have to try something else.’ Sadiq let out a loud cry and fainted.

  Just then the doctor came into the room.

  ‘The doctors are always the last to arrive!’ the midwife muttered. ‘They’re always tucked up nicely in their comfy beds.’

  It was a difficult birth, but a few hours later, with the help of the midwife and Nasrin’s humming, the doctor delivered the baby. ‘It’s a boy!’ he said.

  The midwife held the baby upside down. ‘He’s not breathing.’ She shook him a few times until at last he began to cry. ‘Thank God!’

  The doctor went over to Sadiq, took out his stethoscope and listened to her heart. ‘She’s exhausted, but doing all right,’ he said to the midwife, who was washing the baby in a basin that Nasrin had filled with water.

  ‘There’s something wrong with its back,’ the midwife said, and she carefully laid the baby on its stomach.

  The doctor put on his glasses and ran his finger along the baby’s spine, examining the bones. ‘A severe deformity,’ he muttered.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ the midwife sighed.

  The doctor left.

  ‘Both mother and baby are asleep,’ the midwife said to Nasrin. ‘I’m sorry I snapped at you. These situations are always difficult. I’m going home to get a few hours’ sleep, but I’ll be back first thing in the morning. There’s a problem with the baby. The doctor will phone Aqa Jaan tomorrow.’

  The house had settled down again. There was still a light on in Sadiq’s room, and the windowpanes were casting their multi-coloured glow onto the stones in the courtyard.

  Shahbal was awed by the baby’s birth.

  In the past, when a child had been born in the house of the mosque, Aqa Jaan had always recited a melodious surah into the baby’s ear, because, according to one of the Prophet’s sayings, ‘The first words that a child hears remain in his memory for ever, like a sentence carved in stone.’

  Shahbal went into the library, took the oldest Koran out of the cupboard and tiptoed back to Sadiq’s room. She was fast asleep. The baby lay in its cradle by the wall. Shahbal opened the Koran and leafed through it in search of a melodious surah. Then he changed his mind and put it aside. Leaning over, he whispered a poem in the newborn’s ear, a verse by the famous contemporary Persian poet Ahmad Shamlou, which Shahbal knew by heart:

  Bar zamin-e sorbi-sobh

  savaar

  khamush estaadeh ast

  Wa yaal-e boland-e asbash dar baad.

  A man on horseback

  sits motionless

  in the lead-grey morning

  while the wind ripples his horse’s long mane.

  Oh God, horsemen shouldn’t sit still

  when danger is headed their way.

  The baby opened its eyes.

  Lizard

  Lizard was now a year old. He crawled over to the hauz and played with the water. It was the first time he’d ever ventured so far from his room.

  In the beginning everyone used to watch him like a hawk, but after a while no one paid any attention to him. He stared into the water at the red fish, who stared back at him with their blank eyes. Lizard opened and shut his mouth in imitation of the fish, then giggled. He was happy. He crawled closer and suddenly fell into the water.

  Everyone was stunned. Sadiq ran over and tried to pull him out, but Lizard didn’t want to go. Instead, he paddled through the water, chasing the fish. So Shahbal stepped into the hauz, scooped him up and handed him to Sadiq, who carried the crying child to her room.

  Owing to a congenital spinal defect, Lizard was unable to sit up, but he grew quickly and started exploring his surroundings at an early age. He often crawled under the bed and under the blankets like a giant lizard. It didn’t take him long to find his way to the courtyard, where he liked to crawl between the plants in the garden. Later they discovered that Lizard was unable to talk.

  Aqa Jaan’s children didn’t want him coming into their rooms and crawling under the blankets, so they began to lock their doors. They found him repulsive and were ashamed of their feelings, but it was ha
rd to shake them off. It took time to adjust to his deformity, to get used to holding a child who looked more like a reptile than a human being.

  Still, Lizard had his own favourites: the moment he saw Am Ramazan, he would crawl over to him as fast as he could. Then Am Ramazan would pick him up, put him on his shoulders and walk around the courtyard, pointing out the flowers, the trees, the crow, the cats.

  Lizard also felt at ease with Muezzin. He liked to crawl across his room and lie under his bed.

  ‘Is that you, my boy, or is it the cat?’ Muezzin always said with a laugh.

  Lizard would hand Muezzin his walking stick. It was his way of saying he wanted to go for a walk, so Muezzin would stroll around the courtyard, with Lizard crawling along behind.

  Nobody knew how he got his nickname. Aqa Jaan had forbidden his children to call him ‘Lizard’, but it suited him so well that it had stuck.

  Officially his name was Sayyid Mohammad, but he didn’t respond when he was called that. He only crawled over to those who called him ‘Lizard’.

  He was a creature who was closer to the world of cats, chickens and fish than to the world of people. Everyone had accepted this fact. Even his mother had stopped fighting it and resigned herself to her fate.

  Khalkhal had disappeared from their lives but come back in the form of Lizard, who had his father’s face. Lizard crawled into Sadiq’s bed and tugged at her to get her attention. She didn’t want him, but she had no choice. He was her child.

  The day that Lizard fell into the hauz turned out to be an important day in the history of the house.

  Ahmad, the son of the late Alsaberi, had finally completed his imam training in Qom and had come home to assume his father’s position.

  In a few days he would be installed as the imam of the mosque. The entire family had gathered for this once-in-a-lifetime event. It would be the beginning of a new era in Senejan, as the relationship between the mosque and the bazaar was bound to change. Everyone was curious to see how the mosque would fare under Ahmad’s leadership.

  Last week Aqa Jaan had gone to Qom to attend Ahmad’s ‘robe presentation’ and had spent the night, so that he and Ahmad could have a quiet talk about his installation ceremony and his future duties.