The House of the Mosque (4 page)

‘Ah, so she’s beautiful!’ Muezzin said, and he laughed. ‘Just what I would have expected from Nosrat!’

The grandmothers came in with a burning brazier, into which they threw a handful of
esfandi
seeds that filled the room with a fragrant smell, while the girls carried the food in from the kitchen.

‘Aren’t we going to wait for Ahmad?’ Alsaberi asked.

‘Forgive me,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘I was so excited at seeing Nosrat that I forgot to give you the message. Ahmad phoned me at the bazaar and told me he wouldn’t be coming. They’re having their own celebration in Qom.’

Ahmad was Alsaberi’s seventeen-year-old son. He was in Qom, studying to be an imam with the great moderate cleric Ayatollah Golpayegani.

The grandmothers had cooked a delicious New Year’s dinner, and everyone lingered at the table. After the meal the girls brought in sweets made specially for the occasion.

The women had accepted Shadi and were bombarding her with questions about Tehran and the female half of its population. Shadi had brought them presents: lipstick, nail polish, nylons and fancy bras. The men, finding that they were no longer welcome, retreated to the guest room.

It was nearly midnight when one of the grandmothers announced, ‘Ladies! It’s time to get ready for the New Year’s prayer.’

Nosrat moved closer to Shadi. ‘What do we need to do to get ready?’ she asked.

‘Nothing. I’m not interested in all that mumbo-jumbo,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘They’ll have to pray without me. I’m taking you to the library instead.’

‘Why, what are we going to do in there?’

‘You’ll find out,’ he said. He grabbed her hand, led her on tiptoe past the cedar tree and softly opened the library door.

‘Why don’t you switch on the light?’

‘Shh, not so loud! The grandmothers see and hear everything. If they find out we’re here, they’ll swoop down on us like two ghosts,’ he said, and he began to undo the buttons of her blouse.

‘No, not in here,’ she whispered, and gently pushed him away.

He put his hands around her waist, pressed her against the bookcase, then lifted her skirt.

‘No! It’s spooky in here.’

‘It’s not spooky; it’s thrilling. The ancient spirit of our house is here. For the past seven hundred years imams have been preparing themselves for prayers in this room. It’s a sacred place. A lot of things have happened within these hallowed walls, but not this. I want to make love to you here, to add something beautiful to the history of this room.’

‘Oh, Nosrat,’ she sighed.

He lit the candle on the imam’s desk.

‘Nosrat, where are you?’ Golbanu shouted from the courtyard. ‘Hurry, the imam is ready!’

Two large carpets had been spread out in the courtyard so the family could pray. Everyone was there, except for Nosrat and his fiancée.

‘I told you he’s a rascal,’ Golbanu said. ‘He sneers at the mosque every chance he gets, but I won’t let him. He simply
must
come to the prayer!’

‘Where could they be?’ Golebeh asked.

They turned their heads towards the library.

Quietly they crossed the courtyard. The library windows were rattling. Or were they imagining it? No, the curtains were moving too.

The grandmothers tiptoed over to the door, but didn’t dare open it. They knelt cautiously by the window, looked through the gap between the curtains and saw to their surprise that the imam’s candle, which they never lit, was now burning brightly.

They cupped their hands over their eyes and peered into the room.

The bookcases were jiggling slightly in the candlelight. The two women were so startled by what they saw next that they simultaneously leapt to their feet.

What should they do? Should they tell Aqa Jaan?

No, that wasn’t a good idea, not on a special night like this.

But what should they do about the unforgivable sin taking place in the library?

Nothing, they told each other with their eyes.

Like generations of grandmothers before them, their duty was to pretend that nothing had happened. They had been entrusted with so many family secrets they had long ago learned to lock them in their hearts and throw away the key. No, they hadn’t seen or heard a thing.

The imam had already begun the prayer. The rest of the family was lined up behind him, facing Mecca. The grandmothers slipped in unnoticed beside the other women. The house was silent. The only sound was that of the imam’s prayer:

T
he girls in the house had grown up and a few of them had reached a marriageable age. But how could they marry if no man knocked on the door and asked for their hand?

In Senejan strangers never knocked on your door to ask for your daughter’s hand. Marriages were arranged by matchmakers – older women who set up meetings between the groom and the family of the bride. These visits usually took place on cold winter evenings.

Some families did without a matchmaker. In that case the women in the family donned their chadors, the men put on their hats and the group set off to pay a surprise visit to a family with an eligible daughter. Families with unmarried daughters didn’t want to be caught off-guard by an unexpected knock, so they made sure they were always ready to receive visitors.

Such evenings were filled with long conversations about gold and carpets, the basic ingredients of the bride’s dowry and about the house, plot of land or sum of money that the groom would have to give his bride if the marriage foundered.

After the men reached an agreement, it was the women’s turn to talk. They discussed the bridal clothes and the jewellery to be presented to the bride during the ceremony. Wristwatches were currently a novelty at the bazaar in Senejan, so every bride was dying to have one.

On cold winter evenings, when the lights shone in the neighbours’ windows longer than usual, you knew that they were conducting marriage negotiations. Their living rooms were warm, and their windows steamed up from the hookahs. But those same winter evenings were a torment to the many families with an eligible daughter but no likelihood of a groom.

In the house of the mosque the imam’s daughter, Sadiq, was old enough to marry.

The family waited in silence. Perhaps someone would knock, perhaps the phone would ring. But winter was nearly over, and there hadn’t been a single suitor.

Finding a suitable husband for the daughters of the house wasn’t easy. Not just anyone could ask for their hands in marriage. Ordinary girls had enough young men to choose from: carpenters, bricklayers, bakers, junior civil servants, schoolmasters or railway employees. But such men were not suitable for the daughters of the house of the mosque.

The shah’s regime was corrupt, so anyone who worked for the government was automatically excluded. What about secondary school teachers? That was a possibility. But when all was said and done, only the sons of prominent merchants were considered suitable.

With winter almost over, the girls who hadn’t received a marriage proposal knew they’d have to wait another year. Luckily, however, life doesn’t always follow tradition, but carves out a path of its own. And so one evening there was a knock on the door.

‘Who’s there?’ asked Shahbal, the son of Muezzin.

‘Me,’ called a self-confident male voice from the other side of the door.

Shahbal opened the door and saw a young imam in a striking black turban standing in the yellow glow of the streetlight. He wore his turban at a jaunty angle and smelled of roses. His long dark imam robe was so new that this was obviously the first time he’d worn it.

‘Good evening to you,’ said the young imam.

‘Good evening,’ Shahbal replied.

‘My name is Mohammad Khalkhal,’ said the imam.

‘Pleased to meet you. How can I be of help?’

‘I’d like to speak to Imam Alsaberi, if I may.’

‘I’m sorry, but it’s late. He doesn’t receive visitors at this hour. You can see him tomorrow morning in the mosque.’

‘But I wish to speak to him now.’

‘May I ask what it’s about? Perhaps I can be of assistance.’

‘I’d like to talk to him about his daughter Sadiq. I’ve come to ask for her hand in marriage.’

Shahbal’s jaw dropped. For a moment he was too stunned to reply. Then he collected himself and said, ‘In that case you need to speak to Aqa Jaan. I’ll tell him you’re here.’

‘I’ll wait,’ the imam said.

Shahbal left the door ajar and went into Aqa Jaan’s study, where his uncle was busy writing. ‘There’s a young imam at the door. He says he’s come to ask for the hand of Sadiq.’

‘He’s at the door?’

‘Yes. He says he’d like to speak to Alsaberi.’

‘Do I know him?’

‘I don’t think so. He’s obviously not from around here. And he’s not your average imam either. He smells of roses.’

‘Send him in,’ Aqa Jaan said as he put away his papers and stood up.

Shahbal went back to the door. ‘You may come in,’ he said to the imam, and he led him into Aqa Jaan’s study.

‘Good evening. My name is Mohammad Khalkhal,’ the imam said. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you?’

‘No, not at all. Welcome! Do sit down,’ Aqa Jaan said as he shook the imam’s hand.

Aqa Jaan noticed that Khalkhal was indeed different. He liked the fact that, like the imams in his own family, the young man was wearing a black turban, since that meant that he too was a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad.

Aqa Jaan had in his possession the family’s oldest genealogical document: a parchment scroll tracing the male line all the way back to Muhammad. It was stored in a special chest in the treasure room beneath the mosque, along with a ring that had once belonged to the holy Imam Ali.

‘Would you like some tea?’

A while later Golbanu came in with a tea tray and a plate of dates and handed them to Shahbal. He poured the tea and placed the dates in front of Khalkhal, then turned to go.

‘There’s no need for you to leave,’ his uncle told him, so Shahbal took a seat in the corner.

Khalkhal popped a date into his mouth and sipped his tea. Then he cleared his throat and came straight to the point: ‘I’ve come to ask for the hand of Imam Alsaberi’s daughter.’

Aqa Jaan, who had been about to take a sip, put down his glass of tea and glanced over at Shahbal. He hadn’t expected the subject to be broached so abruptly, not to mention that a man didn’t usually come on his own to ask for a girl’s hand. Tradition demanded that the father of the groom did the talking. But Aqa Jaan was used to dealing with all kinds of people, so he replied in an even voice, ‘You’re welcome to my home, but may I ask where you live and what you do for a living?’

‘I live in Qom and I’ve just completed my training as an imam.’

‘Who was your supervisor?’

‘The great Ayatollah Almakki.’

‘Almakki?’ Aqa Jaan said in surprise. ‘I’ve had the honour of making his acquaintance.’

When he heard the name Almakki, Aqa Jaan knew that the young imam was part of the revolutionary anti-shah movement. The name Almakki was virtually synonymous with the underground religious opposition to the shah. Though many of the young imams who studied under Almakki shunned politics, anyone who had been trained by him was suspect.

Aqa Jaan assumed that the young imam, who wore his turban at a jaunty angle and doused himself with rosewater, was far from neutral. But he refrained from comment.

‘What are you doing at the moment? Do you have your own mosque yet?’

‘No, I’m a substitute imam in a number of different cities. When the regular imam is ill or away on a trip, I get called in to take his place.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘We also make use of substitutes, except that we always call on the same one: an imam from the village of Jirya. He’s very reliable, and comes the moment he’s sent for.’

Aqa Jaan wanted to ask the young imam where his parents were from and why he hadn’t asked one of his male relatives to accompany him. But he didn’t bother, because he knew what the young imam’s answer would be: ‘I’m a grown man and I can decide for myself who I want to marry. My name is Mohammad Khalkhal. I studied under Ayatollah Almakki. What else do you need to know?’

‘How did you hear about our daughter? Have you ever seen her?’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘No, but my sister has met her. Besides, she was recommended to me by Ayatollah Almakki. He’s given me a letter to give to you.’ He took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Aqa Jaan.

If he had a letter from the ayatollah, there was nothing more to say. If Almakki approved of him, that was enough. The case was closed.

Aqa Jaan respectfully opened the envelope and read the following note:

In the name of Allah. I take the opportunity of Mohammad Khalkhal’s visit to send you my regards.
Wa-assalaam
.

There was something odd about the letter, but Aqa Jaan couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The ayatollah had neither approved nor disapproved of the young man; he had merely sent his greetings. Evidently he wasn’t all that impressed, or else he would have said so in his note. But Khalkhal did have a letter from Almakki and that meant something.

Aqa Jaan slipped the note into a drawer. ‘I’m wondering how to proceed,’ he said. ‘I suggest we do the following: I’ll tell Imam Alsaberi and his daughter that we’ve met. After that we’ll set a date for you to come here with your family . . . with your father. Is that all right with you?’