The House of the Mosque (18 page)

‘Again?’

‘Two men grabbed me, but I screamed and screamed until they ran off into the mountains.’

‘Didn’t I tell you not to go to there? If you go to the vineyards again, I’ll have to tell your mother. This has got to stop. Do you hear me?’

‘Yes. I promise not to go there again.’

‘Good! Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?’

‘Yes,’ she said, and she rattled off the rest of her news without stopping to take a breath: ‘Constable Ruhani beats his wife every night and smokes those nasty things and the shoemaker locked his mother in the chicken coop and she was crying because she wanted out and Azam Azam always takes a knife with her when she goes to bed with her husband and Am Ramazan’s donkey is sick and the grandmothers thought they’d get to go to Mecca this year, but he didn’t come, that’s the second time he hasn’t come, and that made the grandmothers cry.’

‘What was that about the grandmothers? Who didn’t come?’ Aqa Jaan asked.

‘The Prophet Khezr. This is the second time he hasn’t come.’

Aqa Jaan was shocked.

‘What are you talking about? What do you mean?’

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said.

She stood up, crammed a chocolate into her mouth, took a gulp of tea and raced off.

‘Wait a minute!’ Aqa Jaan shouted.

That night in bed Aqa Jaan told his wife that Qodsi had stopped by again.

‘What did she have to say?’

‘The usual gobbledegook. She mixes things up and says the first thing that comes into her head.’

‘I know, she makes half of it up. In that way she’s a bit like our Zinat.’

‘You shouldn’t compare Qodsi to Zinat. Qodsi has a screw loose.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not comparing them. I just meant that Zinat can’t sit still either, and her head is also full of fantasies.’

‘True, but Qodsi’s stories are total gibberish.’

‘They may be gibberish, but she tells them well. Still, you never get the whole story. She gives you bits and pieces and rattles them off, one right after another, which adds to the suspense. What did she tell you today?’

Aqa Jaan thought for a moment. He’d been thinking all day about what she’d said about the grandmothers, but he didn’t feel like mentioning it to Fakhri yet.

‘She makes me so angry,’ he said. ‘She went to the other side of the river again. She says that two men grabbed her and that she screamed and screamed until they ran off into the mountains.’

‘My God, not those men again! I’m afraid they’ll do something to her, and if they do, you’ll be the one who has to deal with it. Maybe I should talk to her and scare her a bit, so she’ll stay away from them.’

‘She also said that Am Ramazan’s donkey is sick and that Azam Azam takes a knife with her when she goes to bed with her husband.’

Fakhri Sadat laughed. ‘What did she mean by that?’

‘I don’t know. She makes things up. She goes into a house, sees something and turns it into a story. For all I know she did see a knife or something like it in Azam Azam’s bed. She also said that Constable Ruhani beats his wife every night.’

‘That might be true. You ought to do something for that poor woman. Her husband’s not only corrupt, he’s an addict. Tell Zinat. She’ll know who to contact in the mosque. She’s good at arranging those kinds of things. She could drop by Azam Azam’s house and find out what’s going on. You should tell Zinat. Anything else?’

‘The shoemaker locked his mother in the chicken coop.’

‘That can’t be true! What kind of person would lock his elderly mother in a chicken coop?’

‘People are so cruel sometimes. They’re capable of
any
thing.’

‘Ask Zinat to go and visit her. Maybe she can find out if it really happened.’

‘Qodsi only remembers things that make an impression on her, then she tells them in her own way. But it occurred to me just now that she might have a different motive. Maybe she comes to see me when she has something important to say, something she can’t share with anyone else. The difference between her and Zinat is that Zinat tells ancient stories. Qodsi takes a strand of truth and weaves it into a story. There’s
some
truth in what she says. That’s all I meant to say.’

Fakhri Sadat laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes. ‘I don’t want to hear another word about Qodsi,’ she said. ‘Tell me something else, something beautiful, something sweet . . . I don’t mean to complain, but you haven’t been spending much time with me lately. We used to go away on trips more often. You took me to Mashad for a week, and we stayed in that guesthouse by Imam Reza’s tomb. And we went to Isfahan together, but it’s been years since we’ve taken a trip. You go off by yourself and I stay here. Sometimes I think I’ve grown old, and that you—’

‘She mentioned something else.’

‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you? Are you still talking about Qodsi?’

‘She said something about the grandmothers. About how the Prophet Khezr had let them down.’

‘Who let them down?’ Fakhri said, and sat up in bed.

‘The Prophet Khezr! I’m quoting Qodsi, and she must have been quoting someone. My guess is that she overheard a conversation between the grandmothers. I think they have a secret.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘It’s just a feeling I have. Qodsi said, “Khezr didn’t come. It’s the second time he hasn’t come, and that made the grandmothers cry.”’

Only now did he realise that for years he’d often seen the grandmothers early in the morning, sweeping, but he’d never stopped to think that they might have been doing it secretly.

Just before dawn, Aqa Jaan slipped out of bed, went over to the window and watched the door to the grandmothers’ bedroom.

Before long it opened and out came two shadowy figures with brooms.

He’d spent all night thinking about the grandmothers and coming up with a plan. He now knew how to make their dream come true. He smiled to himself and climbed back into bed.

Fakhri Sadat’s bare leg caught his eye. He could also see her pomegranate-red pants in the glow of the nightlight. She was right – he had been spending less time with her, and it had been quite a while since they’d taken a trip together. He no longer came back with presents for her either. It had been ages since he’d come home from Damascus with that box of underwear in seven different colours. He crawled under the covers, gave her a hug and began to pull down her pants.

‘Not now!’ Fakhri Sadat said sleepily.

He ignored her as usual and tugged her pants even lower.

‘Not now,’ she said again, softly.

And then she fell silent.

A
few weeks later, the grandmothers were out sweeping when they heard a strange sound coming from the alley. They peered into the darkness, but didn’t see anything, so they went back to their sweeping. All of a sudden a horse whinnied. Again they peered into the darkness, but their ageing eyes couldn’t make out a thing.

‘Did you hear a horse whinny?’ Golbanu said.

‘Yes, and I heard hooves too,’ Golebeh said.

The sounds came closer. The grandmothers clutched each other’s hand, stared into the alley and stood rooted to the spot. A black horse suddenly appeared in the glow of the streetlight. High up in the saddle was an Arab in a white robe. The grandmothers bowed in respectful silence.

The horseman cried in Arabic, ‘
Yaaa ayoohaaaal nabe-ii, waaa salaaaaamooo namazooooo Khezr wa al-Mekka!
’

The grandmothers didn’t know a word of Arabic, but the horseman’s message was clear enough. The words ‘Mecca’ and ‘Khezr’ were all they needed to hear.

Again they bowed to the Arab on the horse.

‘
Waaa enne-ii waa jaleha
,’ the horseman continued. ‘
Waaa enne-ii yaa,
Golbanu
. Waaa enne-ii yaa,
Golebeh!’

The grandmothers trembled with excitement. The horseman had said their names. Had they heard him correctly?

‘
Yaaa eyyo haaannabe-ii. Eqraaa esme-ii
, Golbanu!’ said the horseman.

No, they hadn’t been mistaken. He’d clearly said ‘Golbanu!’

What were they supposed to do?

Golbanu stepped forward and bowed her head. The horseman took a letter out of his pocket and held it out to her.

Golbanu approached him hesitantly and accepted the envelope.

‘Golebeh!’ the horseman called.

The other grandmother went up to him and received a white envelope as well.

‘
Waaa enna lellaah. Waaa Allaaho samaad
,’ the horseman cried. Then he tugged the reins, wheeled around and vanished into the darkness.

Daylight came. The astonished grandmothers were still standing on the path, clutching their envelopes.

They didn’t dare move. They were afraid they’d been dreaming. But they couldn’t have been, because the crow flew down to the streetlight and cawed as loud as it could.

Back in their room, the grandmothers locked the door, turned on the light and opened the envelopes. The letters were identical, but they couldn’t read them: the Prophet had evidently written them in a secret language. They would have to show the letters to someone, but who? Aqa Jaan? Fakhri Sadat? Zinat Khanom? No.

‘Let’s ask Shahbal,’ Golebeh said.

They went to his room.

‘Wake up! Are you still in bed? Haven’t you said your prayer? Shame on you. I’ll tell Aqa Jaan you slept in like a sinner. Here,
eqra
! Read this. Read us the letters!’ Golbanu said.

Shahbal sleepily examined the letters. ‘I can read the words, but I don’t know what they mean. It’s in Arabic.’

Perhaps they’d have to show the letters to Aqa Jaan after all, but he’d gone to Jirya, and it would be ages before he returned. So they put on their chadors and went to the mosque to show their letters to the substitute imam.

Janeshin had just finished his morning prayer and gone back to his room to sleep for another hour. When he heard a knock, he thought it was Zinat Khanom, so he called sleepily, ‘Come in!’

Instead, the grandmothers came traipsing into his room. ‘What’s the matter, ladies?’ he said in surprise. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘We’ve received a highly confidential letter. Or rather two letters. Would you please read them to us?’

‘Gladly. Have a seat.’

They handed him the letters.

He took his turban from the nightstand, put it on and sat down on his chair in his long cotton shirt. ‘Do sit down, ladies,’ he said. ‘Hold on, I need my glasses.’

He put on his glasses and perused one of the letters. ‘A letter in Arabic?’

‘Can’t you read it?’

‘I should be able to, but it’s not as if I read a letter in Arabic every day. Of course I can read the Koran, but the language in the Koran is different, it’s the language of God. I can read the Koran well enough to understand it, but if you handed me an Arabic newspaper, I probably wouldn’t be able to tell you what it said. Or to put it another way, if I flew to Mecca today, I doubt if I could talk to the people there. Wait, there’s an address at the bottom of the letter. Are you supposed to go somewhere? Where did you get these letters? They seem to be formal documents of some kind. I can also make out a name: Hajji Aqa Mustafa Mohajir.’

‘We know Hajji Aqa Mustafa Mohajir,’ said Golbanu. ‘He has an office at the bazaar.’

‘Well, that settles it. Apparently you’re supposed to go and see this hajji.
Wa-assalaam!
’

The grandmothers were unable to control their excitement. They snatched back their letters and hurried outside.

They wanted to set off for the bazaar immediately, but Golbanu said, ‘I think it’s too early. Let’s wait until the sun’s a bit higher. Besides, we ought to put on our good clothes, if we’re going to the bazaar with such important letters.’

All of a sudden the house looked different. It was bathed in bright sunlight, as if every object were smiling and everyone was in on their secret. The old cedar tree had no doubt heard the hoof beats, and the
hauz
had thrilled to Khezr’s voice.

The flowers in the garden looked reverently at the grandmothers, the sun sparkled on the library windows and the crow circled above their heads, cawing cheerfully. ‘Thank you, crow, thank you,’ the grandmothers cried. The red fish leapt out of the water. ‘Thank you, fish, thank you,’ said the grandmothers.

‘I hear happy footsteps,’ Muezzin called up from the cellar. ‘What’s put you two in such a good mood?’

Golbanu and Golebeh went down to his studio to say hello. He was standing at his workbench, kneading a lump of clay.

Should they tell him? Were they allowed to reveal their secret? No, first they had to go and see Hajji Mustafa, Golbanu thought. Only then would they know if their lifetime dream was about to come true.

‘Good morning!’ said the grandmothers merrily.

‘And a good morning to you too, ladies. I know you’re dying to tell me something,’ Muezzin said.

‘It’s true, we have the most wonderful news!’ Golebeh began, but Golbanu quickly changed the subject before Golebeh could spill the beans. ‘These vases look new, Muezzin,’ she improvised. ‘They’re absolutely gorgeous.’

‘There’s no need to overdo it. I’ve been making vases my entire life. It’s just that you’re seeing them through different eyes today.’

The grandmothers exchanged smiles.

‘We’ve heard some very good news. We’ll tell you soon, and then you can shout it from the rooftops.’

‘Such secrecy!’ Muezzin said.

The grandmothers all but skipped up the stairs and went back into the courtyard.

They were so happy that they didn’t know what to do, where to go or who to visit. They saw Fakhri Sadat walking towards the kitchen and waved – a bit awkwardly, since it wasn’t something they ordinarily did. One of the cats walked by and they chased after it. Alarmed by their odd behaviour, the cat fled to the roof.