The House of the Mosque (45 page)

Fakhri Sadat, who had once thought she would never get over her grief, kissed her grandson. ‘Aqa Jaan!’ she called excitedly one day. ‘Come and look! He’s the spitting image of Jawad!’

The old crow heard her and circled above the house. The fish in the
hauz
leapt out of the water for joy, the cedar tree smiled and stood a bit straighter, the birds flew down and perched on its branches, and the wind blew the fresh smell of spring wildflowers down from the mountains. Aqa Jaan put on his hat and coat, picked up his walking stick and went off to the bazaar to buy a box of biscuits.

When was the last time he’d blithely bought a box of biscuits?

It had been the day the grandmothers left for Mecca.

On one of those lovely spring days, Aqa Jaan drove his old Ford out of the garage and, for the first time in his life, washed it himself. He put Fakhri Sadat’s suitcase in the boot and helped her into the front seat, then slid behind the wheel and drove to Jirya.

At one time almost all the women in Jirya, young and old alike, had woven carpets for Aqa Jaan and given him a royal welcome whenever he visited the village. There had also been a time, however, when they refused to give him a grave for his son.

Fortunately, those days were now over, for when he parked his car and he and Fakhri Sadat crossed the village square, the villagers made way for them and bowed respectfully.

Now that the wave of violence had stopped, the war had ended and the dust of the revolution had settled, people were able to take stock. They could see what the years of strife had cost them. Families had been destroyed by political division and death. Prisons were crammed with opponents of the regime. Unemployment had soared and food was scarce.

Aqa Jaan had never told Fakhri what had happened that night in the village, but she had heard the story from her relatives.

‘I still don’t understand how people can change from one day to the next,’ she said, as they walked towards the house that used to belong to her father.

‘They’re simple people. Most of them are illiterate. The shah did nothing to help them, and neither will the ayatollahs. I don’t blame them. Besides, this is where we have our roots. Our dead are buried here. When things go well, we get the credit; when things go badly, we get the blame.’

The Islamic Army had commandeered their ancestral home, so they spent their first night at the house in which Fakhri had grown up. It now belonged to her sister.

The next day they set out for Kazem Khan’s house, strolling side by side through the almond groves. The trees were covered with pale pink blossoms, and the birds twittered merrily, as if they were celebrating the end of the sorrowful era. The old part of the village was the same as ever, but young couples had started building houses on the hills.

Jirya was known for two things: carpets and saffron. Sweet-smelling saffron flourished on these hills. In the old days, when the only way to get to Kazem Khan’s house was by horseback, the hillsides had been covered with yellow saffron plants. Now the lower slopes were dotted with hundreds of simple stone cottages. During the shah’s reign, people had started to build a water reservoir on the highest hill, but the project had long since been abandoned.

‘The almond trees have become old and gnarled,’ Fakhri remarked.

‘So have I,’ Aqa Jaan replied.

Before the onset of winter, the village girls used to go out to the hills and pick the saffron threads, which were as valuable as gold. They sang happily as they worked, and at the end of the day their hands were stained a brownish yellow and their bodies smelled of saffron.

The girls from Jirya were popular with the boys from other villages. Their suitors soon discovered, however, that Jirya girls were reluctant to leave the village.

During the long cold winters, the girls stayed inside and wove carpets. When spring came, they flung open the windows, and then you could hear them giggling and singing.

The windows were open now, but there wasn’t a sound. Singing was no longer allowed.

Aqa Jaan and Fakhri Sadat passed an old walnut tree, a sign that they weren’t far from Kazem Khan’s house, which had been built on an elevation overlooking the saffron hills.

In the distance they saw two men on horseback galloping towards them. When the men were nearly upon them, they reined in the horses, dismounted and led the horses over to Aqa Jaan. There was a strong family resemblance between the two men. They bowed and said
salaam
to Aqa Jaan, then fell silent.

Aqa Jaan didn’t recognise them. He shot a quizzical glance at Fakhri.

‘It’s the two deaf sons of the couple who used to work for Kazem Khan,’ she said, and she smiled.

Aqa Jaan returned their greeting and, gesturing, asked after their wives and children.

The men signed back that their wives were doing well and that the children had grown. ‘The horses are for you,’ one of the men gestured. ‘To use while you’re staying here.’

Aqa Jaan smiled at Fakhri. ‘They’re offering you a horse,’ he said. ‘Do you think you’re up to it?’

‘Absolutely not!’ Fakhri said, and she laughed. ‘You might still be able to ride, but I can’t. I’m not as young as I used to be. I wouldn’t dare get on a horse these days!’

‘Their wives have invited you for a visit,’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘Good, I accept with pleasure,’ Fakhri signed. ‘Tell them I’ll come.’

The men handed over the reins and started back home on foot.

Kazem Khan’s house glittered like a jewel among the gnarled trees, as was only proper for the house of the village poet. Kazem Khan had been buried at the bottom of the garden, beneath the almond trees. His grave was now blanketed with blossoms.

When Kazem Khan was still alive, the birds used to sit outside the window of his opium room and sing until he opened the window and let out the smoke. After he’d finished his pipe, he’d say, ‘Go home now, birds, and sleep well!’ And off they’d fly.

Kazem Kahn’s former servants had readied the house for Aqa Jaan and Fakhri. They ate outside, talking about Kazem Khan and laughing at how he used to win the hearts of the mountain women by writing them poems.

That evening the former servant delivered a message to Fakhri Sadat. ‘Some of the women would like to come by and say hello,’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’

‘Which women?’ Fakhri asked, surprised.

‘The ones who used to weave carpets for you.’

The women of the village had always looked up to Fakhri, admiring her beauty and pleasing manners. She was still well liked.

‘What time would they like to come?’

‘Now, if it’s convenient.’

Aqa Jaan retreated to Kazem Khan’s library.

The old women were the first to enter the house. They kissed Fakhri Sadat and seated themselves on the floor. Then more women came in, this time in groups. They too kissed Fakhri and sat down. Fakhri was astonished. She knew most of the women by sight, since they had all worked for them at one time or another, but then a group of seven women came in and embraced her. These were the girls who had once woven sample carpets for her.

‘What a lovely surprise!’ Fakhri exclaimed. ‘Your visit brings the light back into my heart. I wasn’t expecting this. I thought you’d all forgotten me.’

One of the old women stood up to speak. ‘Fakhri,’ she began, ‘you’ve suffered a lot of pain. We know that. You lost your son, and we denied him a burial place. We’ll have to live with that for the rest of our lives. Tonight we’ve come to ask you to stop mourning. We’ve brought you a dress. We beg you to put away your mourning clothes and wear this dress instead. We should have done this a long time ago.’

The woman handed her a brightly coloured floral-print dress. Fakhri looked down at her black mourning clothes with tears in her eyes. She was speechless. She wept silently, her hand covering her mouth.

Just as she was about to go upstairs and show her new dress to Aqa Jaan, she saw a group of men coming up the steps. They were the village elders, all of whom had at one time worked for Aqa Jaan.

One of them knocked on the library door and asked if they could come in.

‘Please do,’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘You’re more than welcome!’

They trooped into the library and sat down on the creaking chairs by the window. After a long pause, one of the men spoke up: ‘Aqa Jaan, almost every family in the village lost a son during the war. Our children are all buried in the cemetery. We refused your son a grave, and that troubles us greatly. Please forgive us!’

‘God is all-knowing and all-forgiving,’ Aqa Jaan said soothingly. ‘I’ve never blamed you. Your visit has eased my pain. I’ve always believed in human goodness. Thank you all for coming here today.’

The old man took out a white shirt. ‘The time for mourning has come to an end,’ he said. ‘Please accept this gift and put your black shirt away.’

That night in bed, Fakhri lay her head on Aqa Jaan’s chest. ‘What a lovely evening,’ she said. ‘I’m so happy! Now I can come and visit our village again!’

They looked out of the window at the star-filled sky.

‘The villagers have made amends. The older ones have learned from their experiences, and it’s made them wise. The rich traditions of this place have served as the basis of their wisdom. They know how to heal old wounds.’

‘Some of the women are coming over tomorrow to put a henna rinse in my hair,’ Fakhri said excitedly. ‘It’s supposed to bring good luck.’

‘I’m glad,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘You deserve to be happy.’

And they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Aqa Jaan was awakened the next morning by the chirping of the birds. After his prayer, he put on the white shirt the villagers had given him and strolled around the garden. He felt good. He looked at the blossom-laden trees and felt the strength flowing back to his legs. He stopped by Kazem Khan’s grave, knelt down, picked up a pebble, tapped it against the tombstone and recited one of his uncle’s poems:

A delightful breeze was blowing from the mountains. Suddenly Aqa Jaan remembered last night’s dream. He’d dreamed of Hushang Khan.

Hushang Khan was an old friend of his, a nobleman who lived high up in the mountains. Khan was the man who had come to their rescue that night, the man who had driven up in his jeep and taken Jawad’s body away for burial.

He lived in an old fortress in a village that belonged to him, a village far away from all the other villages in the mountains.

Aqa Jaan had not been back to the mountains since the night that Hushang Khan had driven off with Jawad’s body. He knew that patience was called for, that one day the time would come.

Now, as he knelt by his uncle’s grave, he remembered his dream. The strong scent of the blossoms sent memories of Jawad, of his sweet smell, wafting through Aqa Jaan’s soul.

He led one of the horses out of the stable, heaved himself into the saddle and galloped off towards Sawoj-Bolagh.

Hushang Khan was about sixty years old. The son of a powerful nobleman, he was a remarkable individual who had turned his back on his father and refused to have anything to do with the regime of the shah.

Hushang had four wives, each of whom had borne him five children. He had turned his domain into a kind of closed colony, which was almost entirely self-sufficient. He owned a jeep and a few tractors, and raised cows, horses and sheep. There was a small winery in the cellar of his house, where he produced wine for his own consumption.

He had no contact with the outside world, except for friends who came to see him from time to time. His circle of friends included writers, poets and musicians from such places as Isfahan, Yazd, Shiraz and Kashan. To them his door was always open. They hiked through the mountains with him, smoked his opium, drank his home-made wine and enjoyed the fruit from his garden.

There was no road to his village. Somehow he managed to get his battered jeep over the rocks and up the steep inclines, but no one else even tried. His guests usually took a bus to Jirya and hired mules to take them the rest of the way.

Hushang Khan had once been a student in Paris and had lived there for a long time. One day, however, he’d simply packed his bags and returned to the mountains.

He always wore knee-high boots, a French beret and cologne from Paris. Every morning he climbed to the top of the mountain to see the sunrise. He kept his radio tuned to a French station, so he could listen to the news and the music.

Even though he had four wives, he lived in the fortress by himself, surrounded by his belongings.

The mountains around Sawoj-Bolagh were enveloped in mystery. There was a crater in the highest mountain, and an ancient volcano still belched out smoke. The fortress, which had been built on the slope of one of the mountains, overlooked an arid valley.

On the way to the fortress there were three mysterious caves, each of which housed a remnant of Persian history. In the deepest recesses of the first cave was a simple stone statue of King Shapur, an early Sassanid king. Carved in the wall of the second was a lion battling the king of the Achaemenids, who was seated on a bull. The third cave contained a chiselled relief depicting King Darius – the greatest king of all.

Green flags emblazoned with Koran verses fluttered outside the entrance to the caves, to welcome the pilgrims who made their way up the mountainside on mules to see the carvings.

Eagles soared high above the caves, keeping an eye on all that went on. The pilgrims liked to think of them as the guardians of the caves.

At the top of the mountain was a huge bell that Hushang Khan’s visitors could ring to let him know they were coming. Aqa Jaan rang the bell and waved his hat in the direction of the village. ‘Kha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-n!’ he called, and his voice echoed through the valley beneath the fortress.