Kader Abdolah - My Father's Notebook

How could he understand such a condensed version of a long story told to him in the middle of the night?

“Who is she?” he signed.

“A friend. And I think she has a—”

I hesitated, wondering if I should tell him that she had a gun. I decided not to.

“What do you want me to do?” my father signed.

“Hide her here, in your shop.”

“In my shop? How? Where?”

“In the lean-to.”

“That’s impossible, it’s a mess and—”

“Give her an oil lamp and a book. Buy her a newspaper … or no, not a newspaper. Forget that. Nobody must know she’s here.”

“What if she has to go to the bathroom?”

“Give her a bucket.”

“A bucket? I can’t give a bucket to a woman.”

I’d chosen the path of least resistance: my father’s shop. Actually, there’d been no alternative. The party had been in such a rush to get her out of Tehran that I hadn’t had a chance to think things through. Besides, I didn’t know of a better place.

“She’s no ordinary woman,” I said to him. “She won’t mind using a bucket. Stop looking at me like that. Give her a book to read and everything will be all right.”

“Where is she?”

“In the car. Turn off the light. I’ll go and get her and bring her here. Meanwhile, stoke up the fire. No, wait, don’t do that, we don’t want anyone to see smoke coming out of the chimney.”

I switched off the light and went out to the car to get Jamileh. It was an exciting — and also terrifying — moment.

I opened the rear door of the van. My hands were shaking. It was childish, I know, but I thought she’d leap out with her gun and say, “Lead the way, comrade!”

But she didn’t.

“Could you please get out now?” I whispered.

She didn’t move.

“Can you hear me?”

She moaned. In sudden panic I pushed aside the carpets. She couldn’t sit up. I knelt beside her and felt her forehead. It was feverish.

“How long have you been sick, comrade?”

“I’ll be all right,” she said weakly.

I had always thought of Jamileh as a tall woman with a powerful build, but she was small and thin. I threw my jacket around her, hoisted her onto my shoulder and walked to the shop. My father was waiting by the window. He came running out and helped me carry her inside.

Together we stumbled through the darkness and laid her down on the carpet before the stove. My father rushed off to get her a glass of water.

In the light of the glowing embers, Jamileh opened her eyes and looked at my father as he handed her the glass.

“This is my father,” I said. “He’s a deaf-mute.”

“I know,” she said and closed her eyes again.

I shook her gently. “Are you all right, comrade?”

“I’m just tired,” she whispered.

“Shall I get her some pills?” my father signed.

“Let’s wait and see.”

Now that she was sick, the whole picture changed. I couldn’t leave her here with only my father to look after her.

“Go on home, Father, like you always do. I’ll stay with her. Come back in the morning, with some milk.”

My father had no choice but to do as I said. He went out, locked the door of the shop behind him and walked away. I stood at the window and watched him go. He had become old, small and thin.

I stayed with Jamileh, terrified that she’d take a turn for the worse, that I’d have to bring her to the hospital, that everything would go wrong.

I had to stop thinking these negative thoughts. Since this whole thing depended on me, I had to pull myself together, stay focused and wait it out.

I walked through the dark shop to the lean-to. There, by the dim light of the moon, I shifted my father’s things around and cleared a space for Jamileh.

Once that was done, I no longer felt so insecure. My father’s shop was the perfect place to hide. But now I needed to rest. I sat down by Jamileh and held her hand.

Just before sunrise I heard the muezzin call:

Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.

Ashhado an la ilaha illa Allah.

Hayye ala as-salah .

God is great. God is great.

Testify that there is no God but God.

Hurry to the prayers .

I could hear people walking to the mosque. I got up and cautiously peeked out of the window. As usual, men and women were making their separate ways through the darkness to the mosque. I turned back to Jamileh and felt her forehead. The fever had gone down.

“Are you feeling better?”

She nodded. I heard my father’s cough. He opened the door and slipped inside with a bulging sack on his back.

“Nobody saw me,” he signed in the moonlight. “Is she better?”

“Yes.”

“Here — a pillow, blankets, milk, pills,” he signed. “I’m going to the mosque.”

“I’ll move her to the lean-to. She’s better, but I’m planning to stay here until tomorrow evening. I’ll lock the door from the inside. When you come back, go and sit in your usual place and start working. If she’s completely recovered by tomorrow evening, I’ll leave. Don’t worry. She’s strong.”

• • •

Around noon, Jamileh opened her eyes and I was able to talk to her. I told her I could stay another day, but she didn’t think it was necessary.

That evening I put her fate in my father’s hands and left.

Meanwhile, back in Tehran, the party was spreading the news of Jamileh’s escape. There were flyers everywhere. It was seen as a stunning victory over the shah.

During the night, sympathisers hung a banner from one of the buildings at the University of Tehran. It showed Jamileh as a strong goddess with a rifle slung over her shoulder.

The police organised a massive search. Everyone followed the news broadcasts in tense expectation.

I was working for a plumbing company at the time. I went to the shop as usual and worked like mad, hoping to make the time pass more quickly. I couldn’t keep my eyes off a black telephone mounted on the wall of the workshop. Every time it rang, my heart began to pound.

On the third day, at around three o’clock, just as I was having my coffee break, the phone rang. I raced to pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Hello, could I please speak to—”

I immediately recognised Golden Bell’s voice.

“Hi, it’s me. How are you?”

“Fine. Father gave me this number. He wants to see you right away.”

“OK, I’ll be there.”

I cut the conversation short in case the secret police had tapped the phone.

I’d written the number on a piece of paper and given it to my father. “If you need me urgently, give this number to Golden Bell — only Golden Bell — and tell her to call me from a public phone booth.”

I drove off immediately. Something must have happened to Jamileh.

On the outskirts of Senejan, I waited for half an hour until it got dark, then headed for the shop. My father wasn’t expecting me so soon. He jumped up and locked the door from the inside.

“What’s wrong?” I signed.

“She was getting better. Then yesterday her forehead felt hot again and she stopped eating. She’s still breathing, but she doesn’t open her eyes any more.”

I went into the lean-to and looked at Jamileh in the dim candlelight. She was lying under the blankets, sweating. I knelt beside her and checked her pulse. “Comrade! Can you hear me?”

She couldn’t hear me.

“If we don’t take her to the hospital,” my father signed, “she’ll die.”

I didn’t answer.

“She smiled yesterday,” he went on. “I made her some soup on the stove. She held my hand. But when I brought a spoonful of soup to her lips, she suddenly fell asleep. You’ve got to take her to a hospital.”