The House of the Mosque (14 page)

Only now did he understand the mayor’s warning: ‘Remember, Aqa Jaan, I can’t help you the way I used to.’

He – who didn’t frighten easily – was now afraid. Until a few short hours ago he thought he’d eventually be able to work things out, even if Khalkhal did get arrested. All it would take, he had assumed, was one phone call to the chief constable and Khalkhal would be released. Now he knew he’d been wrong.

Apparently the brisk mountain air blowing across Senejan had cleared his head and helped him to think straight. Even Khalkhal was a stranger, he realised, and an untrustworthy one at that. Who was he really? An unknown imam who had come from Qom to ask for the hand of Alsaberi’s daughter. What else did he know about him? Nothing.

The mountain air had done its work – the mist had lifted from his eyes and he now saw everything in a clear light. Khalkhal had been playing a dangerous game. He had known that Farah Diba would be in the cinema, but had deliberately neglected to tell him. His aim had been to create chaos in the city. He’d lured the unsuspecting mosque-goers to the cinema so that Farah Diba would walk into his trap, the country would be turned upside down and the event would be world news. And Aqa Jaan hadn’t suspected a thing. Thank goodness he’d been able to defuse Khalkhal’s plan in time. Khalkhal had deceived him and was now hiding in the crypt. His fate was in Aqa Jaan’s hands.

Despite the cold, he could feel the sweat on his forehead. To allay his fear, he began to chant:

He turned to the window and noticed that it had grown light. Hordes of people were heading towards the mosque. Feeling his heart grow lighter, he squared his shoulders and went inside.

Never before had so many people attended the morning prayer, and they were still pouring in. Aqa Jaan hadn’t listened to the radio, but others had heard that a riot had broken out in Senejan and that the city had been turned upside down by a fanatical imam.

All of the morning papers carried reports of Farah Diba’s royal visit to the clinic and mentioned her presence at the cinema. Here and there it had been hinted that the mosque-goers had been mobilised by the imam for the most dubious of reasons.

And that’s why they had all come to the mosque: to experience what was left of the excitement.

The caretaker came out and greeted Aqa Jaan, then the two of them took a short stroll so they could go over their plan. On the way back, Aqa Jaan stole quietly into the cellar and headed towards the crypt. Suddenly Shahbal loomed up out of the darkness.

‘Where’s Khalkhal?’ Aqa Jaan asked.

‘In the storeroom.’

‘Go upstairs and ask your father to start the
azan
.’

He cautiously opened the storeroom door. ‘It’s me,’ he said.

In the dim light of the candle Khalkhal was totally unrecognisable. He was wearing the suit and the hat, and his beard had been clipped short.

‘The secret police are looking everywhere for you. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you why. I’ll do what I can to help you escape, but first there’s something I need to get off my chest: I’m not pleased with that demonstration of yours. You deceived me. You should have told me what you were doing, but you deliberately kept me in the dark. We’ll discuss this some other time. Now we need to concentrate on your escape. Shahbal will come for you after the prayer, and the two of you will leave the mosque along with everyone else. The caretaker’s cousin will be waiting for you outside the bazaar. You’ll get on the back of his motorcycle, and he’ll drive you to the village of Varcheh. The imam of Varcheh will somehow get you to Kashan, and the imam of Kashan will make arrangements for your trip to Qom. Here’s some money,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘I’m going now.’ He turned and walked off without waiting for a reply.

He had wanted to lash out at Khalkhal, to say, ‘You deliberately put the city, the mosque, the house and the family at risk. My faith in you has been destroyed. I knew from the start that you couldn’t be trusted, but luckily the damage isn’t irreparable. Now get out. I don’t want to have to see you for a long, long while.’ But he hadn’t said it. He was glad he’d managed to keep his temper under control and had softened his language.

As soon as Aqa Jaan entered the prayer room, everyone stood up for him. They’d heard that the house had been raided last night and that Khalkhal had escaped.

A group of prominent merchants escorted Aqa Jaan to the place where the imam usually led the prayer. ‘I’m going to need your help,’ Aqa Jaan whispered to them. ‘This is a critical moment for the mosque. Khalkhal is in danger. I’ll lead the prayer. I know it’s unusual, but this is an emergency. I’d like all of you to stay here afterwards, so we can walk to the bazaar together.’

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.’

H
a 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 closer 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.’