The House of the Mosque (30 page)

‘
Salaam aleikum
,’ Khalkhal said.

For a moment Aqa Jaan wasn’t sure how to react. After all, Khalkhal had destroyed Sadiq’s life. He had abandoned her when she was pregnant with Lizard and had gone to Iraq to be with Khomeini. Now, after all these years, suddenly here he was again.

‘What can I do for you?’ Aqa Jaan said coolly, stepping outside and shutting the gate behind him.

‘I’ve been travelling round the country, spreading Khomeini’s message. This afternoon, I met with a group of merchants here in Senejan. I thought I’d see you there, and was surprised when you didn’t turn up. I’m leaving later tonight for Iraq, but I have one request: may I speak to my wife?’

‘She’s not your wife, not legally. When a man abandons his wife and has no contact with her for several years, the marriage is officially dissolved. You’re an imam; you ought to know that. You have no right to see her.’

‘I know, but I thought she might be willing to see me anyway.’

‘I’ll decide that! And I’m telling you, she won’t see you!’ Aqa Jaan heatedly exclaimed.

‘But I have a son, and I do have a right to see him.’

‘That’s true. But it would be better for us all if you turned and left and we could forget you ever came here,’ Aqa Jaan said in a slightly calmer tone of voice.

‘To be honest, I wasn’t planning to come. I was already in my car, ready to drive off, when I realised I couldn’t go without seeing them. I understand your anger, but you know that I was forced to leave my family because of the intolerable political situation in this country. The Americans are running the show. We must be prepared to sacrifice ourselves, our wives and our children in order to overthrow the regime, or else we’ll never achieve our goal. I had no choice, but I can live with the consequences.’

‘I don’t have to stand here in the middle of the night and listen to your drivel!’ Aqa Jaan snapped, and he pointed to the street.

Khalkhal glared at Aqa Jaan from behind his dark glasses. ‘If you want me to go, I will,’ he said. ‘But we’ll meet again some day!’

And he turned on his heel and left.

Aqa Jaan went to bed and told Fakhri about his unexpected meeting with Khalkhal. They discussed it briefly, but were both too tired to go into it further.

The next evening Fakhri knocked on the door of Aqa Jaan’s study. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Come in,’ said Aqa Jaan, a little taken aback.

Fakhri came in and stood in the middle of the room to deliver her bombshell: ‘I think that Zinat has been in touch with Khalkhal, and that Khalkhal has been meeting Sadiq, with Zinat’s knowledge and consent.’

‘What? I can’t believe it!’ Aqa Jaan said, stunned. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I suspect that Khalkhal and Zinat are in cahoots. I think that he’s even put her in contact with Qom. Zinat has had a taste of power. I can tell from the way she’s been acting. Have you noticed that she’s stopped going to our mosque? Beware of Zinat; I don’t trust her. She’s been doing some strange things lately.’

It might very well be true, thought Aqa Jaan, but how could I not have noticed?

‘I shouldn’t be telling you this,’ Fakhri continued, ‘but now that this has come out, I think there’s something else you ought to know. Khalkhal and Sadiq met quite recently, and, if you ask me, they did more than just talk. Sadiq has a bounce in her step again.’

‘What? That’s impossible! It’s just silly women’s gossip.’

‘No, it’s not. You notice every little change in the bazaar, so why can’t you see the changes in your own household? Every time I hear Zinat’s footstep on the stairs, I automatically reach for my chador. I don’t dare wear any make-up when she’s around. It’s like having a strange man look at me. I don’t know what she’s up to or who she’s in touch with, but she looks at people in a different way. I have the same feeling when our devotional group gets together. Nobody dares to speak up when Zinat’s there. I used to enjoy our meetings, but now they’re dominated by a bunch of rude women who talk about nothing but the sharia. And Zinat is the ringleader.’

Aqa Jaan sank deeper into his chair.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Who’s there?’

‘The cinema is smoking.’ Qodsi’s voice could be heard from the other side of the door.

‘What are you doing out so late at night?’ Aqa Jaan asked.

He jumped up and opened the door.

A thick layer of smoke was hanging over the centre of town, and fire engines were racing noisily towards the fire.

Aqa Jaan’s first thought was: Khalkhal! He didn’t mention his suspicions to Fakhri, but quickly changed into his street clothes, hurried outside and headed into town.

There were police cars everywhere, and ambulances were taking the wounded to the hospital. A bomb had exploded in the cinema. Three people had been killed and more than a hundred had been wounded.

A week later another bomb exploded, this time in a cinema in Isfahan. There were even more dead and wounded. The regime didn’t issue an official statement, nor was the incident mentioned in any of the newspapers.

Forty days after the attack in Isfahan, a huge bomb went off during the premiere of an American film in the country’s largest cinema, in the southern city of Abadan. Four hundred and seventy-six people died, and many more were injured.

The news made the headlines of newspapers throughout the world.

The shah could hear Khomeini’s footsteps coming closer and closer, and yet it never occurred to him that the mosques and bazaars could have rallied round Khomeini in such a short time. Although he was kept informed of developments, his underlings always scrupulously avoided mentioning the possibility of a popular uprising. The shah was told only that his people were contented and grateful. His Western allies were confident of his ability to govern. He saw no reason to worry about the bombings.

The eyes of the world were focused on Iraq, where Khomeini was living in exile. During the Friday prayer, the Persian service of the BBC broadcast the following message from Khomeini: ‘We are not responsible for the bombings. We don’t commit such atrocities! The secret police are behind the attacks.’

The broadcast was of historical significance, for it was the first time an imam – an ayatollah – had ever delivered his message over the radio. Khomeini might be old, but his voice sounded as militant as ever. Not once did he say the word ‘shah’. Instead, he referred to the shah disparagingly by his middle name, Reza: ‘Reza uses harsh words. Let him. He’s a nobody, an errand boy! I’m going to come and fling him out on his ear. I’m not defying him; he isn’t worth it. I’m defying America!’

The BBC announced that a demonstration would be held in Tehran on the following Friday. The news came like a bolt from the blue. The shah couldn’t understand why contented people would want to demonstrate – or how an uprising could take place in a country so tightly controlled by the police and the security forces.

On that famous Friday thousands of shopkeepers from Tehran’s bazaar made their way towards Majlis Square, where the Parliament was located. They were joined by thousands of others, who spilled out of the mosques at the end of the Friday prayer and poured into the side streets.

When the square was full, the crowd began to move in the direction of Shah Square. The first row of demonstrators was made up of young imams. A few feet ahead of them, walking all by himself, was a newcomer: a relatively young ayatollah in a noticeably stylish imam robe.

The more traditional imams usually paid little attention to their appearance, but this ayatollah was obviously different. He walked with his head held high, his beard neatly clipped and his white shirt carefully ironed. But the most eye-catching feature of all were his yellow imam slippers.

Nobody knew who he was. This was the first time he’d been seen in public. He’d arrived in Iran only last week, having travelled from Iraq via Dubai, disguised as a businessman in an English suit and hat.

This first trial demonstration had been an instant success. According to the BBC, one hundred thousand people had demonstrated against the shah in the streets of Tehran. A younger generation of imams had clearly been in charge.

A picture of the remarkable imam was splashed across the front pages of all the morning papers. ‘Who is this man?’ read the headline in
Keyhan
, the country’s leading daily.

His name was Ayatollah Beheshti. He had been born in Isfahan and was – at the age of fifty-five – one of the youngest ayatollahs in the Shiite hierarchy. A highly motivated man, he was head of the Iranian mosque in Hamburg, the most important Shiite mosque in Europe.

He had also been the first imam to hear the footsteps of the approaching revolution, and had immediately left his mosque and gone to Iraq to assist Khomeini.

Having lived in Germany for years, Beheshti had an insider’s view of the Western world. This is exactly what the ageing Khomeini needed to help him realise his dream of an Islamic state.

Beheshti understood the value of folk tales and the power of photographic images. His plan was to focus the attention of Western television on Khomeini and then to weave his magic web: ‘An elderly imam sits on a simple Persian rug. He lives in exile, dines on bread and milk, and defies America!’

Unlike Beheshti, Khomeini was so ignorant of the modern world that he still had trouble saying the word ‘radio’.

It was nearly nightfall when Beheshti knocked on the door of Khomeini’s house in Najaf. Khalkhal opened the door.

‘I am Beheshti, the imam of the mosque in Hamburg,’ he said, introducing himself. ‘I have come here to talk to the ayatollah.’

In those days nothing happened in the Khomeini household without Khalkhal’s consent. Pilgrims were always coming to the door, hoping to meet the ayatollah. Khalkhal had never met or heard of Beheshti, but he was immediately struck by his air of confidence and his stylish attire. ‘What do you wish to speak to the ayatollah about?’ he enquired.

‘I understand your curiosity, but I have no intention of discussing this matter with anyone but the ayatollah.’

Khalkhal ushered Beheshti into the guest room and ordered the servant to bring him some tea. ‘I hope you don’t mind waiting,’ he said.

Khomeini had never met Beheshti either, but he had known his father. The old man was dead, but he had once been the head of the influential Friday Mosque in Isfahan.

‘The ayatollah was a friend of your father’s,’ Khalkhal reported back to him. ‘He’s looking forward to meeting you.’ And he escorted Beheshti into the simply furnished library, where the ageing ayatollah was seated on his rug.

Beheshti came into the library, bowed to the ayatollah and shut the door behind him.

N
o one had seen it coming, no one had been expecting it and no one knew exactly what was going on, but one day the ageing Ayatollah Khomeini suddenly appeared out of nowhere at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris.

There were four of them: Khomeini, Beheshti, Khalkhal and Khomeini’s wife, Batul.

During the fourteen years of his exile in Iraq, Khomeini had never once left the city of Najaf. He woke up every day at five-thirty, said his morning prayer and read the Koran. At seven-thirty his faithful wife brought him his breakfast, after which he worked in his modest library until twelve-thirty. Then it was time for the noon prayer. After lunch he took a short nap, then went back to work until four.

Late in the afternoon he received visitors, mostly Iranian carpet merchants who had travelled to Iraq on business, though some were Islamic dissidents disguised as merchants. They carried messages back and forth, so that Khomeini could maintain his secret contacts with the ayatollahs in Qom.

During the winter, he spent the day in his library, but during the spring and summer he went out at six o’clock, after it had cooled down a bit, to work in his garden.

Later in the evening, he washed his hands and face, put on his robe and went to the Imam Ali Mosque, with his wife walking several feet behind him.

And now here he was in Charles de Gaulle Airport, leaning on a trolley by a baggage carousel.

After they had all collected their bags, the owner of the largest Persian carpet emporium in Paris drove them to a house in Neauphle-le-Château, where he had arranged for them to stay.

Approximately sixty years ago, Khomeini had left his native village and gone to Qom to become an imam.

In those days there were no cars in his village, much less roads for them to drive on. He walked through the mountains to the city of Arak, where he was planning to take a stagecoach to Qom, for it was not until decades later that Reza Khan, the father of the present shah, modernised the country and, with the help of the British, built a railway system.

When Khomeini reached Arak, he was surprised to see a lorry filled with pilgrims on their way to the holy city of Qom. The Armenian driver offered him a lift. It turned out to be an unforgettable trip, but when Khomeini finally reached Qom after the bumpy ride through the hills, he felt sick from the diesel fumes.

Later, after becoming an ayatollah, he had himself driven around in an elegant Mercedes, but every time he stepped into the car and caught a whiff of diesel fuel, his nausea returned.

And now, as he was being driven to the quiet suburb through the streets of Paris, he smelled it again.

Beheshti, who had organised everything in advance, pulled out his appointment book and picked up the phone.

He dialled the number of a young Iranian journalist who worked for the American television network ABC and informed her that Khomeini had moved from Najaf to Paris. He explained that from now on the ayatollah would be leading the revolution from Paris and offered her a scoop: ABC could be the first network to interview Khomeini in Paris, but she had to decide quickly, or else he would call the BBC.