Kader Abdolah - My Father's Notebook

“They brought your father into the office. He’d lost a lot of weight. He was nothing but skin and bones. ‘What’s this?’ they asked.

“‘It’s mine,’ he signed.

“‘How did you get hold of it?’

“Me, Akbar, I wrote it,’” he signed.

“‘You? You wrote this book?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘What did you write about?’

“‘The things in my head,’ he signed.

“The gendarmes didn’t understand him and they certainly didn’t believe him.”

“And you? Did you believe him?”

“I knew your father, but I didn’t always understand him, either. To be honest, I had my doubts. I was afraid he’d stolen the book from one of those foreigners, one of those cuneiform experts.

“‘My uncle,’ Akbar suddenly gestured. ‘My uncle knows all about it. He told me to write down the things in my head.’

“‘Come with me,’ the gendarme gestured. ‘We’ll go and see the general!’

“So, they took us to see the general. The gendarme put the book on the general’s desk.

“‘A book? In cuneiform?’ the general exclaimed. ‘Where did you get this?’

“‘I found it in his pocket,’ the gendarme replied. ‘He claims he’s deaf and dumb.’

“Only God could help him now.

“‘Mine. It’s mine,’ Aga Akbar gestured. ‘Uncle. My uncle knows about it. I think, then I write in the book.’

“‘Do you know this man?’ the general asked me.

“‘Yes, he’s a friend, uh, I mean an acquaintance. He’s a craftsman, the best carpet-mender in the whole region. He lives with his uncle in Saffron Village.’

“‘Do you know how he got hold of this book?’

“‘No.’

“‘OK, you’re dismissed.’

“I had no idea what they were going to do with him.

“An hour later I heard someone shout, ‘Look, it’s Aga Akbar!’ I went out to see what was going on. The gendarmes had taken off his clothes and thrown him into a freezing pond.”

Ishmael looked at his father in surprise. Aga Akbar, who was following every word of the story, nodded and smiled.

The farmer’s wife sat down next to Ishmael and put her arm around his shoulder. “Now, thank God, Aga Akbar has a son to help him.”

The farmer continued. “I couldn’t be sure that Akbar was telling the truth. It was hard to believe he’d written those things. But I was the only one who could do anything and after a while I couldn’t bear to watch any longer. I ran over to the general, who was standing by the pond. I knelt at his feet and said that Akbar was telling the truth, that he was a good man and that they should send for his uncle Kazem Khan.”

“Did that help?” Ishmael asked.

“It did, thank God. They hauled him out of the pond, draped a blanket over his shoulders and took him back inside. Do you remember, Akbar?”

Aga Akbar nodded. “Yes, I remember. I haven’t forgotten.”

“Three days later Kazem Khan turned up at the army barracks with the imam from Saffron Village. The imam placed the Holy Book on top of the general’s desk and swore that Akbar’s book was nothing more than a deaf-mute’s attempt to imitate cuneiform writing, that they were just Aga Akbar’s meaningless scribbles.”

• • •

Many years later, after Aga Akbar’s death, the mail-carrier handed Ishmael a package.

By then Ishmael was the same age his father had been when captured by the gendarmes. He opened the package. It was a book. The notebook with Aga Akbar’s scribbles.

Ishmael sat down at his desk, thumbed through the pages and thought: How will I ever discover the secrets contained in these pages? How can I let the book tell its own story? How can I translate it into a readable language?

We’ve talked quite a bit about Ishmael,

though we haven’t yet described his birth.

Soon we’ll encounter a woman in the snow.

Kazem Khan will pick up the tale from here.

Sometimes you have to be patient. If whatever it is you’re doing doesn’t seem to be working out, leave it for a while. That way you give life a chance to sort itself out.

Kazem Khan was away on a trip. He couldn’t go home because the snow was nearly three feet deep. It would take a few days to clear the road.

So he rode around in search of a fellow opium smoker. Just as it was getting dark, he came to the village of Khomein.

“Good evening!” he called to an old man clearing the road.

“Good evening, stranger. Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for the hunter.”

“Which one? Everyone in this village is a hunter.”

“Er … the one who hunts mountain goats.”

“Ah, yes, I know who you mean. He used to hunt mountain goats, but he’d be lucky to hit a farm goat these days. Anyway, go down the road I’ve just cleared until you see an old oak tree. Take the path to your left and keep going up the hill through the snow. In the distance you’ll see a house with a long stone wall and a large pair of goat horns above the gate. That’s where your hunter lives.”

Kazem Khan rode up the hill through the snow to the house, but it looked deserted. From his horse, he called out, “Hello, is anyone home?”

No answer.

He knocked on the door with his riding crop. “Hunter! Are you there?”

“Hold on!” came the voice of a young woman, “I have to clear the snow.”

Had the voice come from the courtyard or the roof? He couldn’t tell.

“Salaam, stranger!” the woman called.

Kazem Khan looked over his shoulder.

“Here, I’m up here. Who do you want to talk to?”

“Oh, up there! Hello. I’m looking for the hunter.”

“He’s asleep.”

“So early?”

“Yes,” she said and vanished.

Kazem Khan needed a place to sit down and smoke his pipe. It was his usual time and he was already beginning to get the shakes. So he called out again, “Yoo-hoo, young lady, where are you?”

Again no answer.

“What on earth are you doing up there?”

“Clearing the snow, so the roof won’t fall down on the head of your hunter.”

“Come on down. This is urgent. I need—”

“I know what you need,” she said. “But you won’t get it here. Goodbye.”

“Please wake up the hunter and say that Kazem Khan is here. Did you hear me? Kazem Khan.”

“No, I won’t wake him up. I refuse to have any more strangers in the house. Goodnight, sir!”

“I’m not a stranger, I’m Kazem Khan.”

“I don’t care who you are, you aren’t getting anything from me. No opium, no fire, no tea. Pleasant journey!”

“God, what a difficult woman! Listen to me! I need to smoke my pipe this instant. If I don’t, I’ll drop dead here on your doorstep.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“This is different.”

“Your name means nothing to me, so go ahead and drop dead on my doorstep. But smoke a pipe? No, not in my house, not any more. Who do you think will have to make the fire? Me. And who will have to make the tea? Me! Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m never going to do those things for anyone ever again!”

“Then go and get the hunter!”

“The hunter is dead. Now are you happy?”

“Do you want me to beg? Do you want this old man to go down on his knees? Look at me, I’m practically falling off my horse.”

She ignored his pleas.

He thought about it, then tried another tack.

“I understand what you’re saying. You’re absolutely right. But I’m not your average opium smoker. I’m the most famous man on Saffron Mountain. I read books and I know hundreds of poems by heart. I also write them. If you open the door, I’ll write a poem especially for you.”