Kader Abdolah - My Father's Notebook

Suddenly, the answer came to me: Mount Damavand!

Even though it was winter, I might be able to make one of my dreams come true. I raced to the basement and gathered up my climbing gear, along with some hiking boots and warm clothes for my father.

I surprised my father in his shop.

“Do you want to come with me?” I asked.

“Where?”

“To the country’s highest mountain.”

“Now?”

“I have a couple of days off and Safa’s at her grandmother’s, so I thought the two of us might—”

“What’ll I say to Tina?”

“Tell her you’re going away with me for a few days.”

Was my father too old to attempt such a difficult climb? He was an experienced climber, but he knew nothing about climbing techniques. Was I being irresponsible? Would my father have trouble breathing at that high altitude? We would see. I didn’t want to stop and think about such things. It didn’t matter whether we reached the top. I just wanted to be with him. Who knows, maybe this would be the last time we could be together. I might be arrested any day now, so I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to make use of my unexpected freedom. If he couldn’t climb that high, we’d simply turn back.

In that case, we could still take the train to the oil fields or ride a camel across the Kavir-e-Lut desert. We’ll see, I thought, as we headed towards Mount Damavand.

If we drove all night, we’d be at Safar’s before sunrise. Safar’s Café is where the climbers meet, eat breakfast and form groups before starting up the mountain.

I’d already climbed Mount Damavand three times, but never in the winter. I was afraid that the café would be closed and there wouldn’t be any climbers.

I saw a distant light and felt hopeful. At least Safar’s was open. My father was quiet. He couldn’t see the point of climbing a mountain for the fun of it.

There had to be a goal. You climbed a mountain to get to another place or to meet someone. Or you went up one side of the mountain and came down the other because a woman was waiting for you. He wanted to know why we were making the climb in all this snow.

I told him that we were going to try and reach the top. “But it’s a difficult mountain. Have you ever climbed with ropes?”

“A couple of times,” my father said. “You’re the one who taught me how.”

He was right. I’d forgotten. Once, when I was a student, I’d tried to scale a difficult wall on Saffron Mountain with him.

I heard the buzz of voices before I even opened the door to the café. To my surprise, Safar’s was as crowded as it usually was in the spring. That was a relief. “Come on in,” I gestured to my father. “Sit down.” But there were no empty chairs.

Where had all these people come from? Why were they making the climb in the middle of winter? Surely they couldn’t all be members of the party, hoping to escape reality for a few days?

It was so pleasant that you forgot the war and the imams. It was as if you’d closed your eyes for a moment and when you opened them again, you found yourself in another country, or on another planet.

The café smelled of fresh tea, fresh bread and dates.

People usually climbed the mountain in groups; nobody climbed alone. If you were by yourself, you went to Safar’s and asked to join a group, which accepted you unhesitatingly.

I put down my backpack and introduced myself. I let it be known that I wanted to make the climb with my father and that we would prefer to join a group of experienced climbers, because he was a deaf-mute.

My father was surprised to find such a warm and friendly café in the middle of the snow. He felt happy and comfortable. Everyone went over to him, shook his hand and wished him luck with the climb. He thought all those young men and women were friends of mine.

One group promptly found two chairs for us. My father sat down and I went off to get our breakfast: omelette, dates, real butter, fresh bread, tea and sugar. Just what climbers need.

It was still dark when the groups left the café, one by one. The groups made sure to stay fairly close together, since they knew they’d need each other’s help in the cold.

We climbed up to 3,000 feet, where, following an old tradition, we waited for the sun to rise. My father stood next to me. He didn’t understand why everyone was staring at the sky.

Suddenly, the sun’s first golden arrow pierced the darkness. Silence. Then there was a second arrow, and a third, and all at once a whole shaft of light. Finally, the sun burst into flames behind the top of Mount Damavand like a golden crown. My astonished father looked at me, then at the sun and finally at the mountain, looming over us like a solid mass of snow.

As soon as Mount Damavand had revealed itself to us in all its archaic beauty, we burst into a well-known song:

Damavand! Your Majesty! O ancient pride of Persia,

Lend us your strength. Make us as strong as you.

Help us to be steadfast in the face of hardship.

Teach us to trust ourselves just as you trust yourself.

You are our pride and glory, O Damavand!

You have to climb Mount Damavand to experience it for yourself. The eternal snow, the biting cold on your skin, the colour and smell of the ancient volcano, the thick layer of ice.

We climbed on in silence. With only a few short breaks, we could probably reach 15,000 feet by sunset. There we could pitch camp, spend the night and prepare for the difficult climb ahead.

But before we got to 15,000 feet, we’d have to scale a few tricky ice walls with spikes and ropes. Fortunately, my father and I were with a group of very experienced climbers. They took my father under their wing, so I didn’t have to look after him by myself. They were patient with him. He climbed like an old mountain goat, which made the climbers chuckle. They got a kick out of his old-fashioned methods.

Once we pitched camp, he was no longer dependent on me. In fact, he didn’t even have time to sit next to me. Everyone wanted him in their group, so they could talk to him around the campfire.

“We need an interpreter, Ishmael. Can you come and sit over here?” someone called.

I didn’t feel well. This time, the thin air was making me dizzy. All I wanted to do was sleep, but I couldn’t just crawl into my sleeping bag and abandon those millions of pearls in the sky.

Besides, now that the party had been dealt a crushing blow, I wanted to think quietly about my future: What would happen when I went back to Tehran? The party might have been decapitated, but it wasn’t dead. We had lost, but we weren’t vanquished.

First, however, I had to reach the top of Mount Damavand.

It was a cold, short night. We got up before the sun rose. I couldn’t eat or drink. Even the thought of food made me sick.

We started the climb, in groups, while it was still dark. I was worried about my father. The higher we climbed, the thinner the air became. The moment I noticed that he couldn’t go any further, I’d take him down to the first-aid tent.

As fate would have it, however, I was the one who needed help. After a while, I felt too weak either to climb properly or to look after my father.

“Will somebody please take care of my father?” I called in a faint voice.

“Your father’s doing fine,” I heard the leader of the group say. “Look after yourself.”

After a while, my mind went blank.

My father, the party, the movement, the mullahs — everything was erased. My previous climbs had gone all right, but this time I felt incredibly weak. I kept my eyes glued to the brown hiking boots of the man in front of me and tried to follow his footsteps.

At some point, my legs almost gave out. An inner voice, however, urged me not to fall, not to lose sight of those boots, but to keep going, keep going, keep going.