The House of the Mosque Read online

  The trees were hung with green satin pennants inscribed with the poems of the old Persian masters. The most famous singer of sacred songs had been sent for from Qom. His renditions of rhythmic surahs from the Koran left a lasting impression on all who heard him.

  Aqa Jaan had bought a new suit and gone to the barber. He liked being dressed in spotless new clothes. Thanks to Fakhri Sadat, he was one of the few merchants in the bazaar who paid attention to his appearance. His office boy kept his shoes polished, and the grandmothers ironed his shirts. Fakhri Sadat liked to tease him sometimes: ‘You’re the handsomest man in the city. Nobody who saw you with your clean-shaven face and dashing hat would ever guess that you could reel off the entire Koran by heart!’

  The imam was sitting in the library as usual. Soon – after everyone had arrived – he would put in a brief appearance and then go back to his books.

  The celebration had begun. The invited guests and the city’s most influential men came trickling in. The men stayed on the right side of the courtyard, beneath the cedar tree, sitting on chairs grouped around the hauz, while the women went behind the curtain and sat in the beautiful, fragrant garden – the pride of the gardener, Am Ramazan. None of the guests had brought their children, which was unusual. Children were normally welcome at weddings, but this was such a distinguished gathering that they had not been invited.

  The guests were served tea and the very best pastries. Both men and women had rosewater sprinkled on their hands.

  All of those present – especially the women – were curious to see Khalkhal.

  A car drew up to the door. The mayor stepped out and was welcomed to the house by Aqa Jaan. The men stood up when he came into the courtyard and waited until he had seated himself by the hauz before sitting down again.

  A second car drew up to the door. This one, as they all knew, contained the groom. Aqa Jaan welcomed Khalkhal and led him over to the place of honour by the mayor.

  The mayor stood up to offer his congratulations, but the groom looked right past him, as if he hadn’t seen him and didn’t know who he was. To Khalkhal, the mayor was a lackey of the shah. He refused to sit next to him, much less shake hands with him.

  The mayor sat down again and no one commented on the incident. Aqa Jaan had been so busy talking to someone that he hadn’t even noticed the snub.

  At three o’clock the man from the registry office arrived with two bearded assistants, each of whom was carrying a ledger. They sat at the table where the marriage certificate was to be signed and opened their ledgers. The official part of the ceremony could begin.

  Just then shouts arose from the women on the other side of the curtain. ‘Salaam bar Fatima!’ they cried. ‘Greetings to Fatima!’

  This signalled the arrival of the bride. She sat down at the table where the registry clerks were busy writing in their ledgers.

  The bride was more beautiful than ever. She was wearing a pale green chador with pink flowers over a milky-white gown. Her eyebrows had been carefully plucked, and she was wearing mascara, so that she looked more like a young woman than a girl.

  The registry clerk asked for the bride’s birth certificate. Aqa Jaan reached into his inside pocket, took out the document and handed it to him. The clerk meticulously noted the details in his ledger, then asked the groom for his birth certificate.

  Khalkhal checked his pockets, one by one, but came up empty-handed every time. He and his father had a whispered exchange, after which he rummaged through his overnight bag. All eyes were glued on the groom, as everyone waited for him to produce the certificate.

  ‘I forgot to bring it,’ Khalkhal said.

  Horrified gasps were heard from the women on the other side of the curtain. This was an extraordinary situation.

  The registry clerk thought for a moment, then said, ‘Do you have any other form of identification?’

  Khalkhal checked his pockets again, and he and his father had another whispered exchange. No, he didn’t have any kind of identification with him.

  A scandalised buzz broke out on both sides of the curtain.

  Aqa Jaan looked at the mayor and read the mistrust in his eyes. He looked at several of the bazaar’s leading merchants. Everywhere he looked he saw disapproval. How could Khalkhal have forgotten to bring the necessary documents to his wedding? Everyone was waiting to see how Aqa Jaan would react. He suspected that Khalkhal had left his identification papers at home on purpose, hoping to force the family into letting their daughter marry him without having the marriage officially registered. That might be customary in the countryside, where the bride and groom simply exchanged vows in the presence of a village imam, and then the man was granted access to the woman’s bed. In such a marriage the man was free to take other wives. But marriages of that sort no longer took place in the city and certainly not in the prominent circles to which Aqa Jaan’s family belonged.

  ‘Perhaps you left the documents at your father’s house,’ Aqa Jaan said to Khalkhal.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. They’re in Qom.’

  Aqa Jaan sat down beside the mayor and they conferred briefly.

  ‘You’re right,’ the mayor concluded. ‘You shouldn’t go through with it.’

  Then Aqa Jaan went over to Alsaberi, who had just emerged from the library and was standing by the cedar tree, next to the caretaker.

  ‘We’re going to have to postpone the wedding,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘Khalkhal must go to Qom to get his identification papers.’

  ‘In that case he won’t be back until after midnight. It might be better for them to say their vows first. Then he can go to Qom and get his papers.’

  ‘No, because once they’ve exchanged vows, that’s that. Sadiq will belong to him and we’ll be powerless to help her. He’ll take her away, and we’ll be left with nothing. You of all people should know that.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Alsaberi replied. ‘Let him go and get his papers.’ And he went back into his library.

  Aqa Jaan strode over to the registry clerk. ‘Without valid identification papers,’ he announced, ‘there will be no marriage!’

  Everyone began talking at once.

  Aqa Jaan turned to Khalkhal. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said calmly. ‘You can go to Qom to get your papers. I’ll wait. We’ll all wait.’

  Khalkhal was taken aback. ‘But that’s impossible! There’s no train going to Qom at this hour. And I don’t trust the buses.’

  ‘I’ll arrange for transport,’ Aqa Jaan said. He went over to where the mayor was sitting and spoke with him. The mayor nodded several times in agreement.

  ‘It’s all set,’ Aqa Jaan told Khalkhal. ‘A jeep will pick you up shortly. The mayor’s chauffeur will drive you to Qom. I’m a patient man, but you’d better not take too much time.’

  Khalkhal had been outmanoeuvred. He stood up and stalked angrily to the door to wait for the jeep. For a moment Aqa Jaan thought he saw a flash of pure malice in Khalkhal’s eyes, as if he had suddenly dropped his mask and revealed his true self.

  A banquet had not been included in the wedding celebration, but Aqa Jaan felt obliged to feed his guests. ‘Please accept my apologies,’ he announced. ‘These things happen. I cordially invite you all to stay for dinner.’ Then he sent Shahbal to the restaurant opposite the mosque to arrange for food to be delivered.

  Fakhri Sadat asked Aqa Jaan to come to her room so she could speak to him in private. ‘Don’t you think you were being a bit hard on the boy?’

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I don’t trust him.’

  ‘But you hardly know him.’

  ‘He’s no ordinary imam. He’s shrewd. I didn’t expect him to show up without identification papers. He has some scheme in mind, though I can’t imagine what.’

  ‘You men and your schemes! What on earth could he be up to?’

  ‘Well, what’s done is done. He’s on his way to Qom now. We’ll just have to be patient.’

  ‘That’s how it always is. Men make the decisions and women mu
st be patient.’

  ‘That’s not true. I’m not about to give away a daughter of this house without a proper guarantee. I thought you’d understand.’

  ‘I do, but what should I say to the women?’ she said, avoiding his eyes.

  ‘You know what to say. Welcome them, give them something to eat and keep smiling. Show them you can rise above the occasion . . . and be patient.’

  At ten-thirty there was still no sign of Khalkhal. The guests had finished eating hours ago. The servants were going around with tea for the umpteenth time. The hookahs had been passed from hand to hand. The mayor, who had left for a few hours, had come back. The men from the bazaar had gone out after dinner, strolled along the river and assured Aqa Jaan that in his place they would have done the same thing.

  Shahbal had been sent up to the roof as a lookout.When he finally saw the jeep, he signalled to Aqa Jaan.

  A few minutes later the jeep drew up to the door.

  Khalkhal got out, walked straight over to the registry clerk and slapped his birth certificate down on the table.

  Someone shouted, ‘Salawat bar Mohammad! Blessings on the Prophet Muhammad!’

  ‘Salawat bar Mohammad!’ everyone shouted in response.

  Aqa Jaan smiled. The men from the bazaar came back from their walk. The singer sang loudly:

  By the night when it conceals the light!

  By the day when it appears!

  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 sky and He who made it!

  By the earth and He who spread it!

  By the soul and He who shaped it!

  Mahiha

  Khalkhal had taken his bride to Qom. No one knew where the couple lived. The family hadn’t expected him to keep it a secret, but they decided not to make an issue of it.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘The door of our house is always open to them.’

  Although Khalkhal had completed his imam training, he still didn’t have a permanent position in a mosque. Once you had your own mosque, you could support yourself. Until then you had to make do with a modest allowance from your ayatollah.

  Aqa Jaan had offered to finance him, but Khalkhal had refused. Still, by calling on his vast network, Aqa Jaan always managed to find a mosque where Khalkhal could fill in as a substitute imam.

  Sadiq came home from time to time, but Khalkhal had forbidden her to give her address to her family. Occasionally she complained to her mother about her new living arrangements. The house was small, the atmosphere was oppressive and she hadn’t managed to make any contact with the neighbours. ‘Everything is so different in Qom,’ she told her mother. ‘People shut themselves up in their own homes with their own families, and the doors and curtains are always closed.’

  ‘It’s all part of adjusting to a new life, especially when you’ve moved to another city, not to mention a religious bastion like Qom. Khalkhal is young. He’s just finished his training and doesn’t have a permanent position yet.’

  ‘I know, but Khalkhal is different from any of the men I’ve ever known. He’s not like my father, he’s not like Aqa Jaan, and he’s not like Uncle Nosrat. I don’t know how to get close to him. It’s hard to have a real conversation. There are long, awkward silences when he’s at home, and that scares me. He doesn’t talk to me and I don’t know what to say to him.’

  ‘You shouldn’t compare our life in this house to that in yours. This house is old. It’s taken centuries for it to develop a rhythm of its own. But your house is that of a young imam with no history. You have to work at creating a home, at making it warm and hospitable, at seeking contact with your neighbours and showing your husband that you love him and are interested in him.’

  ‘It’s easier said than done, Mother. I can give him my love, but the question is whether he wants it.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  Sadiq was showered with love when she came home. They bought her shoes and clothes and gave her money and sent her back to Qom with her bags full.

  When Khalkhal went off to another city to fill in as imam, he sent Sadiq home to her parents, and when he was finished, he came to collect her. Sometimes they left on the same day, and sometimes they stayed a week, in which case they slept in the Dome Room.

  The Dome Room had a balcony, a kind of filigreed wooden porch, where you could sit and marvel at the shadows cast by the dome on the opposite wall – the same wall out of which the ants had once crept.

  Eight hundred years ago, when the house had been built, the architect had designed a room especially for the imam of the mosque. The delightful play of sun and shadows went on all day until twilight. At first all you could see was the shadow of the dome on the wall, but then the silhouette of the minarets came into view. Later the dome disappeared and only the minarets remained. Sometimes the shadow of a pigeon, a crow or a cat was projected onto the wall in the vivid evening light. At dusk the mosque cats liked to sit on the balcony and stare longingly at the bats swooping above the hauz.

  In nice weather you could put a rug on the floor of the balcony, add a few pillows and sit there reading a book or drinking tea. The guests who occupied the Dome Room were always free to do as they pleased, which is why it was the ideal spot for Khalkhal’s visits. He would stay there all day. The grandmothers would bring him food, and everyone else was careful not to disturb him.

  Shahbal was the only one in the family with whom Khalkhal had any contact. He was often invited to eat with him. Shahbal had been fascinated by Khalkhal from the start. He’d met lots of imams, but Khalkhal had something the others lacked: he was full of new ideas and talked about exciting things. Shahbal liked to listen to him and to discuss a wide variety of topics.

  Khalkhal was well informed. He talked about America as if he knew it like the back of his hand. He explained how the Americans had taken control of Iran and how they ruled it from behind the scenes. He told him how the Americans had first gained a foothold. ‘It was like this. America was becoming a superpower and wanted a military base in Iran that could be used against the Soviet Union. But Mossadegh, our democratically elected prime minister, was a progressive politician and a nationalist. He didn’t want to give the land to the Americans, but they were getting impatient. They were afraid the Soviets would invite Mossadegh to Moscow and reinforce his anti-Americanism. So the CIA came up with the idea of staging a coup, and the shah went along with it. The plan was for Mossadegh to be assassinated. The Soviet Union got wind of it, however, and told Mossadegh. He arrested the pro-American military officers who supported the coup and had the shah’s palace occupied. The CIA managed to whisk the shah away in a helicopter in the nick of time, and he was flown to the US in a fighter jet.’

  ‘That’s fascinating!’ Shahbal said. ‘I’ve never heard that before.’

  ‘You won’t find it in your schoolbooks,’ Khalkhal said. ‘The history you’re being taught is based on lies.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘To realise its global ambitions, America needed Iran. Our country occupies a strategic position in the Middle East and also shares nearly twelve hundred miles of border with the Soviet Union. So the CIA staged another coup, and this time they had the backing of several Iranian generals. Two days later, when everyone thought it had all blown over, Mossadegh was arrested. The generals seized control of the Parliament, and American tanks were parked at every major intersection in Tehran. Hundreds of criminals and prostitutes were then sent into the streets to wave around portraits of the shah.

  ‘The next day the shah, with the help of a group of CIA agents, was reinstalled in his palace. The shah is a puppet. We have to get rid of him and the Americans.’

  Shahbal got goose pimples when he listened to Khalkhal’s impassioned descriptions of historical events.

  The last time they ate together on the balcony, Khalkhal told him
about the armed struggle of the ayatollahs against the regime. He described the historic day when Ayatollah Khomeini, who had incurred the wrath of both the shah and the Americans, had fought back. Many young imams had been killed that day. Many more had been arrested, and Khomeini had been forced into exile.

  Shahbal had often heard the name ‘Khomeini’, but he knew almost nothing about the man. He must have been about seven or eight years old when the uprising occurred. On his next visit Khalkhal promised to bring him a banned book, which contained an accurate account of the history of the ayatollahs’ resistance movement in the last few decades.

  That evening Khalkhal said something about prisons that made Shahbal rethink his ideas. ‘No one’s afraid of going to jail,’ Khalkhal said. ‘It’s become a kind of university, especially for young activists.’

  It was a novel concept. Shahbal had always thought of prison as a place for criminals.

  ‘Political prisoners aren’t like ordinary prisoners,’ Khalkhal said. ‘They’re people who fight against the regime, people who are embarrassed by the presence of the CIA in this country. They’re the most intelligent people, the ones who want to take the fate of the country into their own hands and radically change the political system. That’s why the regime arrests them and keeps them in a separate wing, but then they’re all thrown together, sometimes ten or twenty to a cell, and they meet people from all walks of life: students, artists, imams, politicians, leaders and teachers, as well as people with new ideas. They start talking and discussing things, so the prison cell becomes a university, where you can learn all kinds of things. Can you imagine what happens when you put so many intelligent people together in one cell? They swap stories and listen to each other’s experiences. Before you know it, you’ve joined them. Some people go in like a lamb and come out like a lion. I know lots of political prisoners – friends of mine, young imams, members of left-wing or right-wing underground movements. Have you ever heard of these movements?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’