Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

Aqa Jaan strode over to the registry clerk. ‘Without valid identification papers,’ he announced, ‘there will be no marriage!’

Everyone began talking at once.

Aqa Jaan turned to Khalkhal. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said calmly. ‘You can go to Qom to get your papers. I’ll wait. We’ll all wait.’

Khalkhal was taken aback. ‘But that’s impossible! There’s no train going to Qom at this hour. And I don’t trust the buses.’

‘I’ll arrange for transport,’ Aqa Jaan said. He went over to where the mayor was sitting and spoke with him. The mayor nodded several times in agreement.

‘It’s all set,’ Aqa Jaan told Khalkhal. ‘A jeep will pick you up shortly. The mayor’s chauffeur will drive you to Qom. I’m a patient man, but you’d better not take too much time.’

Khalkhal had been outmanoeuvred. He stood up and stalked angrily to the door to wait for the jeep. For a moment Aqa Jaan thought he saw a flash of pure malice in Khalkhal’s eyes, as if he had suddenly dropped his mask and revealed his true self.

A banquet had not been included in the wedding celebration, but Aqa Jaan felt obliged to feed his guests. ‘Please accept my apologies,’ he announced. ‘These things happen. I cordially invite you all to stay for dinner.’ Then he sent Shahbal to the restaurant opposite the mosque to arrange for food to be delivered.

Fakhri Sadat asked Aqa Jaan to come to her room so she could speak to him in private. ‘Don’t you think you were being a bit hard on the boy?’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I don’t trust him.’

‘But you hardly know him.’

‘He’s no ordinary imam. He’s shrewd. I didn’t expect him to show up without identification papers. He has some scheme in mind, though I can’t imagine what.’

‘You men and your schemes! What on earth could he be up to?’

‘Well, what’s done is done. He’s on his way to Qom now. We’ll just have to be patient.’

‘That’s how it always is. Men make the decisions and women must be patient.’

‘That’s not true. I’m not about to give away a daughter of this house without a proper guarantee. I thought you’d understand.’

‘I do, but what should I say to the women?’ she said, avoiding his eyes.

‘You know what to say. Welcome them, give them something to eat and keep smiling. Show them you can rise above the occasion… and be patient.’

At ten-thirty there was still no sign of Khalkhal. The guests had finished eating hours ago. The servants were going around with tea for the umpteenth time. The hookahs had been passed from hand to hand. The mayor, who had left for a few hours, had come back. The men from the bazaar had gone out after dinner, strolled along the river and assured Aqa Jaan that in his place they would have done the same thing.

Shahbal had been sent up to the roof as a lookout. When he finally saw the jeep, he signalled to Aqa Jaan.

A few minutes later the jeep drew up to the door.

Khalkhal got out, walked straight over to the registry clerk and slapped his birth certificate down on the table.

Someone shouted, ‘ Salawat bar Mohammad! Blessings on the Prophet Muhammad!’

‘ Salawat bar Mohammad! ’ everyone shouted in response.

Aqa Jaan smiled. The men from the bazaar came back from their walk. The singer sang loudly:

By the night when it conceals the light!

By the day when it appears!

By the sun and its morning glow!

By the moon that follows in its wake!

By the day when it shows its glory!

By the sky and He who made it!

By the earth and He who spread it!

By the soul and He who shaped it!

Khalkhal had taken his bride to Qom. No one knew where the couple lived. The family hadn’t expected him to keep it a secret, but they decided not to make an issue of it.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘The door of our house is always open to them.’

Although Khalkhal had completed his imam training, he still didn’t have a permanent position in a mosque. Once you had your own mosque, you could support yourself. Until then you had to make do with a modest allowance from your ayatollah.

Aqa Jaan had offered to finance him, but Khalkhal had refused. Still, by calling on his vast network, Aqa Jaan always managed to find a mosque where Khalkhal could fill in as a substitute imam.

Sadiq came home from time to time, but Khalkhal had forbidden her to give her address to her family. Occasionally she complained to her mother about her new living arrangements. The house was small, the atmosphere was oppressive and she hadn’t managed to make any contact with the neighbours. ‘Everything is so different in Qom,’ she told her mother. ‘People shut themselves up in their own homes with their own families, and the doors and curtains are always closed.’

‘It’s all part of adjusting to a new life, especially when you’ve moved to another city, not to mention a religious bastion like Qom. Khalkhal is young. He’s just finished his training and doesn’t have a permanent position yet.’

‘I know, but Khalkhal is different from any of the men I’ve ever known. He’s not like my father, he’s not like Aqa Jaan, and he’s not like Uncle Nosrat. I don’t know how to get close to him. It’s hard to have a real conversation. There are long, awkward silences when he’s at home, and that scares me. He doesn’t talk to me and I don’t know what to say to him.’

‘You shouldn’t compare our life in this house to that in yours. This house is old. It’s taken centuries for it to develop a rhythm of its own. But your house is that of a young imam with no history. You have to work at creating a home, at making it warm and hospitable, at seeking contact with your neighbours and showing your husband that you love him and are interested in him.’

‘It’s easier said than done, Mother. I can give him my love, but the question is whether he wants it.’

‘Why wouldn’t he?’

‘I don’t know!’

Sadiq was showered with love when she came home. They bought her shoes and clothes and gave her money and sent her back to Qom with her bags full.

When Khalkhal went off to another city to fill in as imam, he sent Sadiq home to her parents, and when he was finished, he came to collect her. Sometimes they left on the same day, and sometimes they stayed a week, in which case they slept in the Dome Room.

The Dome Room had a balcony, a kind of filigreed wooden porch, where you could sit and marvel at the shadows cast by the dome on the opposite wall — the same wall out of which the ants had once crept.

Eight hundred years ago, when the house had been built, the architect had designed a room especially for the imam of the mosque. The delightful play of sun and shadows went on all day until twilight. At first all you could see was the shadow of the dome on the wall, but then the silhouette of the minarets came into view. Later the dome disappeared and only the minarets remained. Sometimes the shadow of a pigeon, a crow or a cat was projected onto the wall in the vivid evening light. At dusk the mosque cats liked to sit on the balcony and stare longingly at the bats swooping above the hauz .

In nice weather you could put a rug on the floor of the balcony, add a few pillows and sit there reading a book or drinking tea. The guests who occupied the Dome Room were always free to do as they pleased, which is why it was the ideal spot for Khalkhal’s visits. He would stay there all day. The grandmothers would bring him food, and everyone else was careful not to disturb him.

Shahbal was the only one in the family with whom Khalkhal had any contact. He was often invited to eat with him. Shahbal had been fascinated by Khalkhal from the start. He’d met lots of imams, but Khalkhal had something the others lacked: he was full of new ideas and talked about exciting things. Shahbal liked to listen to him and to discuss a wide variety of topics.