The House of the Mosque (15 page)

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.

A
fter 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:

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.

‘Excuse the interruption,’ Aqa Jaan said to Janeshin. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this design for weeks. Those seven men are my draughtsmen, my carpet designers. They’re magicians, really. Their names are known throughout the Middle East. Carpets designed by them are worth a fortune. But that’s enough of that. I gather that you’re willing to stay with us for an extended period of time?’

‘Yes.’

‘You realise that it might be a year or two? After all, Alsaberi’s son still has to finish his imam training.’

‘I know, but I think of it as a great opportunity. I’ve always wanted to be an imam in an urban mosque, but unfortunately I never got the chance. That’s why I’m glad you offered me this position. I won’t be able to manage without your help, though.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you all the help you need.’

‘I’ll be grateful for that. I mean, preaching a sermon in a village is not the same as giving a speech in the city. In the village you talk about small things, about everyday matters like cows or fodder. In the city you have to talk about big things, like politics. I think it’s interesting to talk about such subjects and to speak with more power when influential men are present. I’d like to elevate the tone of my sermons. I’d like my listeners to look up to me in admiration.’

Aqa Jaan smiled. He knew what the man meant, but, to be honest, Janeshin wasn’t made of the right stuff. He didn’t have the proper attitude or the gift of words or the necessary charisma. He was a village imam, with big hands and a heavy brow. You had to be a Khalkhal to get both old men and young women to support you.

‘I’m sure they will,’ Aqa Jaan said, ‘but after the confusion of Alsaberi’s death and Khalkhal’s escape, I wouldn’t mind having a bit of peace and quiet in the mosque again. Go ahead and talk about trees and plants and your experiences in the country. City folk will be fascinated by such topics. Just be yourself and everything will be fine.’

The imam smiled and hung his head.

‘I mean it,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘I’m curious to hear what you’re going to say on Thursday evening. Talk about Jirya, for example. About the mountains, the almond trees, the rare breed of mountain goats, the saffron. If you have any questions, you can ask the caretaker to get in touch with me. By the way, I’ve asked him to make arrangements for your stay here. Is there anything else you’d like to know?’

‘Not that I can think of.’

The office boy came in and ushered the imam to the door.

That evening, when Aqa Jaan was lying in bed beside Fakhri Sadat, he suddenly chuckled.

‘What’s so funny?’ Fakhri Sadat asked.

‘Nothing. I was thinking about the substitute imam. He’s a simple man, with lots of ambition, but he has no idea how to realise his dreams.’

‘So you’re laughing at the poor man?’

‘No, not at all. I appreciate the fact that he wants to make something of himself. It’s just that he has the build of a peasant.’

‘You can hardly blame him for that,’ Fakhri Sadat said, smiling.

‘You’re right. But I know from experience that you won’t get very far without talent. It’s not enough to have the lamp – there has to be a genie inside. I won’t bore you with the details, but, you know, he set his turban at an angle and said, “I’d like to elevate the tone of my sermons.”’ Aqa Jaan roared with laughter.

‘You
are
laughing at him,’ Fakhri Sadat said.

‘No, I’m not really, I’m just feeling happy. Everything is going the way it should. The mosque is doing well, the imam is right for the job, the business is rolling along as usual, and the new design is finished and it’s beautiful. Orders are pouring in and people can hardly wait to see our new carpets. Everyone wants them. It’s going to be a good year. Besides, we’re all in good health. What more could anyone want?’

He turned and laid his hand on Fakhri Sadat’s breasts. ‘Plus I have you,’ he said, ‘and I’m in the mood for love. What more could a man want?’

Fakhri Sadat batted his hand away, turned over on her side and lay with her back to him. He slipped his hand underneath her nightgown and caressed her bottom. ‘Take off your nightgown,’ he said softly. ‘I want you naked.’

Fakhri Sadat pulled the blanket over her head. ‘Are you crazy?’ she said. ‘What’s got into you that’s made you want me naked?’

He pressed his hand between her warm thighs and whispered: