Kader Abdolah - My Father's Notebook

“What do you mean, ‘too far’? What’s he done now?”

“I may be blind, but I do have two good ears. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with Jafar’s sight. Maybe I better let Jafar tell you what he’s seen.”

“Tell me, Jafar. What have you seen?”

“How shall I put it? It’s like this: Akbar goes out sometimes … well, almost every night, to sleep with a prostitute. I–I-I think he’s in love with her. That isn’t necessarily bad. She’s … well, she’s young and … very friendly. I get the impression that she’s fond of Akbar.

“But we think he’s gone too far this time. Right, Shoja? Anyway, that’s what we wanted to tell you. There’s nothing wrong with the woman. She’s young and healthy. But we thought you ought to know. Right, Shoja?”

“Right,” Shoja said. “Well, that’s it. Come on, let’s go before Akbar gets home.”

Kazem Khan knew that he had to do something for Akbar and that there wasn’t much time. If he didn’t act soon, no one would want their daughter to marry Akbar.

He had to admit that he’d failed to find the ideal wife for his nephew. So he turned the job over to the old women in the family.

The women rolled up their sleeves and got to work. Before long, however, their enthusiasm dwindled. None of the prospects they came up with fitted into the family. One had a father who was a beggar, another had brothers who were thieves, the third had no breasts, the fourth was so shy she didn’t dare show herself.

No, the women of the family weren’t able to find a wife for Aga Akbar, either.

Only one more door was open to them. The door to the house of Zeinab Khatun, Saffron Mountain’s aging matchmaker. She always had a ready supply of brides.

Zeinab would be sure to find a good one for Akbar, because she was an opium addict. The women in the family merely had to take her a roll of Kazem Khan’s yellow opium and she would arrange the whole thing.

Zeinab lived outside the village, in a house at the foot of the mountain. Her customers were usually single men in search of a wife. “Zeinab Khatun, have you got a girl for me? A virtuous woman who can bear me healthy children?”

“No, I don’t have a girl — or a woman — for you, virtuous or otherwise. I know you — you’re a wife-beater. I still haven’t forgotten the last one. Get out of here, go ask your mother to find you a wife.”

“Why don’t we step inside? I’ve brought you half a roll of yellow opium. Now what do you have to say?”

“Come right in. You need to smile more often and remember to shave. With that stubble of yours and those awful yellow teeth, I’ll never be able to find you a wife.”

Sometimes an elderly mother knocked on her door. “I’m old now, Zeinab Khatun, and I don’t have any grandchildren. Do something for my son. I’ll give you a pretty chador, a real one from Mecca.”

“People promise me all kinds of things, but as soon as their sons have a wife, they disappear. Bring me the chador first. In the meantime, I’ll think it over. It won’t be easy, you know. Few women want to marry a man who drools. But I’ll find someone for your son. If I die tonight, I’d hate to be carried to my grave in my old, worn-out chador. So go and get it. I’ll wait.”

The men of the family were opposed to the plan. But the women stuck a roll of opium into the bag of an elderly aunt, put on their chadors and went to Zeinab’s house.

The men thought it was beneath the family’s dignity to ask the matchmaker for a bride. Of course, they wanted Akbar to have a wife. But what they really wanted for him was a son. An Ishmael who would bear Akbar’s burden.

Since they didn’t want the child’s mother to be a prostitute, they resigned themselves to letting the women use a matchmaker.

Giggling, the women knocked on Zeinab’s door.

“Welcome! Please sit down.”

While they were still in the hall, the elderly aunt awkwardly pressed the opium into Zeinab’s hands. “I don’t know the first thing about this,” she said. “It’s from Kazem Khan.”

She was impatient. “I won’t beat around the bush, Zeinab Khatun. We’re looking for a good girl, a sensible woman, for our Akbar. That’s all there is to it. Do you have one for us or not?”

The women laughed. They got a kick out of the elderly aunt.

“Do I have one?” said the experienced Zeinab Khatun. “I’ll find one for you, even if I have to scour this entire mountain. If I can’t find a bride for Aga Akbar, who can I find one for? Sit down. Let’s drink some tea first.”

She brought in a tray with glasses and a teapot. “Let me think. A good girl, a sensible woman. Yes, I know of one. She’s very pretty, but—”

Auntie cut her off. “No buts! I don’t want half a woman for my nephew. I want a whole one, with all her working parts in order.”

“Allah, Allah, why don’t you let me finish? God will be angry to hear us talking about one of His creations with such disrespect. The woman I’m referring to is beautiful and in perfect health. It’s just that one leg is shorter than the other.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter, as long as she can walk,” the women said.

“Walk? Can she walk? She leaps like a gazelle. But all right, I can’t ask God why He made one leg shorter than the other. He must have had His reasons. Still, I have another woman, but she’s slightly deaf.”

“No, we don’t want a deaf woman for Akbar,” said the elderly aunt.

“She’s not deaf, just a little hard of hearing. She’s good and she’s also beautiful, trust me. Come to think of it, this one’s even better than the other one. Aga Akbar needs a wife who can walk, who can stand firmly on her own two feet. It doesn’t matter if she’s deaf. Aga Akbar won’t be talking to her anyway.”

“No, Akbar won’t, but their children will.”

“Good heavens, what am I hearing tonight! How can you say such things when you have a deaf-mute in your home? God will be angry. All right, I have another woman. She has a beautiful face, beautiful arms, a neck the colour of milk, a broad pelvis and firm buttocks. Take this woman. God will be pleased with your choice.”

The next day the women went to admire Aga Akbar’s future bride. She lived in another village on Saffron Mountain. It was a short visit. Zeinab Khatun was right — the girl was beautiful. But she looked a bit ill.

“A bit ill?” said the matchmaker. “Maybe she had a slight cold. Or maybe it’s that time of the month, you know what I mean, don’t you, ladies? Don’t worry, s he’ll be as right as rain by the time the wedding rolls around.”

She dazzled them with her words and sent them home happy.

A week later, as twilight fell, the men escorted the bridegroom from the village bathhouse to his home.

Aga Akbar looked strong and healthy in his suit. The blind Sayyid Shoja was his best man. He sat on a horse with Jafar the Spider in front of him, holding the reins. They climbed the hill to the house, where the women were to bring the bride and seven mules.

Everyone stood around outside, waiting and watching for the procession.

Before long, seven mules came into sight. The women let out cries of joy and a group of local musicians began to play. Aga Akbar helped his bride to dismount. He offered her his arm and escorted her, as tradition dictated, to the courtyard. Then he shut the door.

The only person who knows exactly what took place behind those closed doors was the old woman who was hiding in the bridal chamber so she could later testify that the marriage had been consummated.

As soon as the groom disappeared with his bride, the guests left. The old men sat around Kazem Khan’s and smoked until the old woman came and announced, “It’s over. He did it!”