The House of the Mosque (29 page)

‘I understand how you feel, but I’m only the coachman.’

Aqa Jaan quickly stuffed a few banknotes in the man’s pocket, took the sacks from him, went into the courtyard and shut the gate.

‘What’s going on?’ Fakhri Sadat called from upstairs.

Aqa Jaan hid the sacks in the garden under a few large pumpkin vines. ‘Nothing!’ he told her. ‘Nothing important. Are you ready? We’ve got to leave now or we’ll be late.’

The red sun was sinking below the desert horizon when Aqa Jaan got behind the wheel of his Ford and drove to the station with his wife.

Fakhri Sadat wept with joy when she saw her son emerge from the train. He had always been her favourite. Only six months ago, before he’d left for Isfahan, she used to give him a goodnight kiss every evening before he went to bed. Now he had a black moustache and long hair.

Fakhri Sadat had raised Jawad herself. She hadn’t wanted him to get too involved in the mosque, the bazaar or politics. She had raised him to think for himself, so he could choose his own path. Now she could reap the rewards. Her son didn’t look like a religious fanatic, and she was pleased that he’d let his hair grow a bit longer. He seemed to take after his uncle Nosrat more than his father.

In all the years that he’d lived at home, he’d never shown the slightest interest in the affairs of the mosque. Fakhri Sadat was glad that Aqa Jaan considered Shahbal, and not Jawad, his successor. What she didn’t know, because Aqa Jaan hadn’t told her yet, was that he was disappointed in Shahbal and was now pinning his hopes on his son.

It had been several months since Shahbal had phoned Aqa Jaan. He’d called him at the bazaar, but had dialled the number of the warehouse rather than that of his office. Someone from the warehouse had come running in to tell Aqa Jaan that he was wanted on the phone.

‘Who’s calling?’

‘A businessman from Tehran.’

‘Why did he call the warehouse?’

‘He says he tried your number several times, but there was no answer.’

Aqa Jaan went to the warehouse and picked up the phone.

‘I apologise for the inconvenience, Aqa Jaan, but I was afraid your phone might be tapped. I called to tell you not to worry if I don’t come home for a while. I’ve got a couple of things going at the moment. I just wanted to hear your voice. Will you give my love to everyone?’

‘I will. And may God watch over you!’

There was no need for Shahbal to elaborate. Aqa Jaan understood why the call had to be kept short.

Still, the last thing he wanted to do was to talk to Fakhri about it now. This was her evening, and he didn’t want to spoil it.

It was a pleasant evening. They lingered at the table and everyone was in a good mood. Normally Zinat would have told them a story, but she wasn’t home tonight. What Aqa Jaan didn’t know was that she had secretly been in contact with the fundamentalists in Qom. Her instructions were to form the women’s devotional groups into a tight unit, under the guise of teaching them about the Koran.

To keep the tradition going, Muezzin took over Zinat’s role and told them a story about the prophet Yunus:

They were still mulling over the story when they heard a strange sound coming from the courtyard. Aqa Jaan cupped his hand behind his ear.

‘What’s that I hear?’ Muezzin asked. ‘What’s that sound?’

Aqa Jaan went outside and saw that the sky had become strangely dark.

‘I hear a horde of insects,’ said Muezzin.

‘Locusts!’ Aqa Jaan shouted. ‘Close all the doors and windows!’

But it was too late. Thousands of locusts flew into the house, and the air turned brown, as if the house had been hit by a desert storm.

The women flung on their chadors and raced from room to room, closing doors and windows.

Ahmad hurried into the library, while Aqa Jaan raced down to the cellar to close the shutters.

The locusts landed on the roofs, the trees, the plants in the garden, even in the
hauz
, and began to devour everything in sight.

Every once in a while locusts descended on Senejan from such faraway places as Mecca. Only after they’d stripped the city bare did they move on to the grapevines by the river and finally disappear behind the mountains. No one had ever seen such an enormous swarm of locusts as they did that day. Only the old people could recall hearing their parents talk about such devastation.

One of the books in the library described a plague of locusts that had taken place fifty years ago:

Only when daylight came did the locusts fly off towards the mountains. Every plant and tree in the garden had been stripped bare, and there were fish bones floating in the
hauz
. Even the grandmothers had been spirited away by the locusts.

It’s a sign that something terrible is about to happen, thought Aqa Jaan as he viewed the damage from his window. Locusts come for a reason.

He slipped his hand into his pocket and wrapped his fingers firmly round his Koran.

A
s Muezzin lay in bed, he chanted a surah to himself:

Seven days had gone by since the locusts had descended on the city. But Muezzin was still in bed.

‘Why have you shut yourself up in your room, Muezzin?’ Aqa Jaan enquired from behind the closed door. ‘Why won’t you come out?’

‘I don’t dare.’

‘Why not? What are you afraid of? What’s happened?’ Aqa Jaan asked, and he entered the room warily.

‘The clock in my head has stopped ticking. I’ve lost my sense of time, of
zaman
.’

‘You’re just tired, Muezzin,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘It’s your work. You’re upset because your pottery isn’t selling well.’

‘No, it’s not the pottery; it’s the locusts. My clock stopped ticking when the swarm arrived. I don’t dare go out any more. I panic whenever anyone asks me what time it is.’

The shopkeeper who used to sell Muezzin’s pottery on consignment had cancelled his contract. The market had been flooded with so many cheap plastic goods that there was no longer any demand for his ceramics. And yet Muezzin couldn’t stop making things. He kept churning out plates, bowls, water jugs and vases, and stacking them in the cellar. When the cellar was full, he started piling them between the plants in the garden. And when the garden was full, Lizard helped him to stack them on the roof of the mosque.

Muezzin stayed in bed for three more days. On the tenth night, his clock suddenly started ticking again.

‘Three minutes past twelve,’ he muttered. He was so relieved that he immediately sat up in bed.

He heard a noise: the clang of the front gate. Then footsteps crossing the courtyard to Aqa Jaan’s study.

‘Shahbal,’ he realised instantly.

He stood up and was about to shout a greeting, but then thought better of it. Shahbal must have his reasons for going to see Aqa Jaan so late at night. He would have to be patient. Shahbal would come and see him soon enough.

Aqa Jaan’s first thought when he saw Shahbal in the doorway was: he’s changed. All traces of the boy who had once lived in the house were gone. There was now a man standing before him.

Aqa Jaan stood up, embraced Shahbal and offered him a chair. ‘How are you, my son? You’ve forgotten us. I haven’t heard from you in months.’

‘It’s a long story, Aqa Jaan, but I’ll make it short. I’m happy and everything’s all right.’

Aqa Jaan knew that he mustn’t insist, so he kept his reply simple. ‘Good, that’s all I need to know,’ he said, and he paused, to allow Shahbal to continue if he wanted to.

‘The university is currently in an uproar,’ Shahbal began. ‘The American vice-president was in Tehran today for a visit. Students blocked the road from the airport to the palace, but the riot police broke up the demonstration. Then the students regrouped and tried to storm the American Embassy, but they were stopped by a special task force. There were a few scuffles, and a couple of Molotov cocktails were thrown through the windows. The embassy burst into flames. Then a helicopter came down and started to fire randomly into the crowd. Two students were killed and dozens more were wounded. The police are now looking for the students who led the demonstration. They’ve all fled. So have I. I’d like to hide in the mosque for a few days until things have calmed down, unless you object.’

‘Why would I object?’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘You were right to come home. You’re safer here than anywhere else. I can help you better here than in Tehran.’

‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t live here any more, but whenever I feel unsafe or insecure, you’re the first person I think of. This house has always been my haven. Thank you for giving me a sense of security. And for raising me. When I was living here, I didn’t really know who I was. Now I do. You’ve made me into the strong person I am today.’

Aqa Jaan was touched by Shahbal’s remarks. ‘Not only do you have a good head on your shoulders,’ he replied, ‘but you can also express your feelings.’

‘There’s something else I’d like to tell you,’ Shahbal said. ‘This afternoon, when the train pulled into Qom, I saw an incredible scene. Hundreds of young imams were holding a demonstration in the train station. They were standing on the tracks, blocking the trains, and shouting, “
La ilaha illa Allah!
There is no God but Allah!”

‘I’ve never seen such a demonstration! Their voices were so strong and powerful! What I saw in Qom today was a totally new kind of resistance. The ayatollahs have changed their tactics. Imams who used to turn their backs on modern inventions like trains were now standing on the railway tracks. One young imam scaled the wall in the waiting room and pasted a picture of Khomeini over the shah’s portrait. Someday the great event we’ve all been waiting for is bound to happen . . . Have you been in touch with anyone in Qom?’

It was an unexpected question. No, he was no longer in touch with anyone in Qom, and no ayatollah had phoned him during the past year. Now that Shahbal had told him about the demonstration, he felt as if a train full of ayatollahs had left the station, and he had missed the train.

It was thirteen minutes to one when Muezzin heard footsteps in the alley. The footsteps sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place them. Then he heard someone fumbling at the lock on the front gate. He got out of bed, padded barefoot into Aqa Jaan’s study and whispered, ‘I heard a noise in the alley. Someone’s at the gate!’

Aqa Jaan immediately turned to Shahbal. ‘Go and hide in one of the minarets!’

Shahbal gave his father a quick kiss, went up to the roof, took a blanket out of the shed, opened the trapdoor in the left minaret, crawled inside and closed the door behind him.

Aqa Jaan saw a bewildered-looking Lizard standing in the middle of the courtyard. His clothes were soaking wet. ‘You can’t stay here!’ he whispered to him. ‘Go upstairs!’

Outwardly calm, Aqa Jaan strode to the gate and opened it. A man wearing a hat and a pair of dark glasses was standing on the pavement with a key in his hand. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Aqa Jaan couldn’t remember where he might have seen him.

‘I think we’ve met before,’ Aqa Jaan said, ‘but I don’t see very well in the dark. Can I help you?’

The man took off his hat. Only then did Aqa Jaan recognise him, though it took a moment for it to sink in. It was Khalkhal! He had aged.