Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

It was a special night — the anniversary of the night on which Imam Ali had been killed.

Ali was Islam’s fourth caliph. On that night he had been in the mosque, leading the prayer with hundreds of believers lined up behind him, when Ibn Muljam came in, took a place behind Ali and started praying along with him. He waited until Ali got to the end of his prayer, then took out his sword and killed him with a single blow to the head. From that moment on, Islam was divided into two factions: Shiites and Sunnis.

The Shiites wanted Hassan, Ali’s oldest son, to be his successor; the Sunnis backed a candidate of their own. The Shiites and the Sunnis have been at each other’s throats ever since. Ali became the most beloved of the caliphs. Fourteen centuries after his death, the Shiites still mourned him as if he had just been slain.

Tonight the mosque would be filled to capacity. Alsaberi, who had memorised his sermon, was planning to talk at length about Ali. He had come up with a novel approach: after fourteen centuries of enmity between Shiites and Sunnis, he was going to suggest reconciliation.

He’d been practising his sermon all day in front of the mirror. ‘There has been enough enmity! We are brothers! Let us be friends. Let us shake hands in the name of friendship and Islamic unity!’

He wanted his sermon to be a surprise, so he hadn’t discussed it with Aqa Jaan. Besides, if he’d mentioned it beforehand, Aqa Jaan would have said, ‘Why bother? There aren’t any Sunnis in Senejan.’

Although there might not be any Sunnis here, and although they might not hear him, tonight he was determined to say something new, something no other imam had ever said before.

The grandmothers had kettles of water heating on the stove and were waiting for Alsaberi.

He was lost in thought. He tested the water with his hand and cautiously stepped into the tub. Holding onto the rim with both hands, he immersed himself in the water. After resurfacing, he exclaimed, ‘Sunnis, let us shake hands! We are brothers! It’s cold! So cold!’

One of the grandmothers poured hot water over his head while the other began washing him with soap. Meanwhile Alsaberi practised his sermon, all the while shivering with cold. ‘Islam is in danger! We must forget our differences and fight side by side against our common enemy! Cold! ’

He was still wondering whether he should change the last words to ‘a common enemy’? It was ambiguous, because what did he mean by ‘a common enemy’? The shah? The Americans? If he dared to utter those words, it would be the fieriest sermon he’d ever given, but he was in doubt.

‘We’re done!’ said one of the grandmothers.

Alsaberi stood up. He stepped out of the tub, placing his right foot on the towel that had been spread on the floor, but because he’d let go of the rim, he suddenly slipped and fell, his left leg still in the tub.

‘Dead!’ he blurted out in shock.

The grandmothers were upset, but they immediately pulled him up and tried to get him back into the tub because, having touched the ground, he was unclean and would have to be washed all over again. Just then one of the cats bolted out from behind the stove. Frightened by Alsaberi’s loud cry, it fell into the tub, brushed against his leg, leapt out of the tub and ran outside. The imam’s wet, bare leg had been touched by a cat! Just the thought of it made Alsaberi nauseous. Maybe there were mice too. Alsaberi shivered in horror. The bathroom was unclean, the water was unclean, the towels were unclean, the grandmothers were unclean — and all of this on the night of Ali’s death! The night on which he hoped to give the greatest sermon of his life. What was he to do? Where could he clean himself before the prayer? There was no time to waste; people were already waiting in the mosque.

‘Allah!’ he cried, with a lump in his throat. Then he stumbled outside, naked, and raced towards the hauz .

‘Come back!’ Golbanu screamed. ‘It’s been snowing. Come back!’

Alsaberi plunged into the hauz and disappeared under the water.

The fish fled to the far end, the crow screeched loudly and the grandmothers scurried down to the cellar and came back up with clean towels.

‘You’ve been in there long enough!’ Golebeh cried.

‘Please come out!’ Golbanu implored.

Alsaberi came up for air, then ducked back under the water again.

‘Come out of there this instant!’

Alsaberi stood up. He momentarily lost his balance, but managed to right himself. Then he stepped out of the hauz and went over to the grandmothers, who threw some towels around him. Golbanu raced ahead to turn up the heater in the library, while Golebeh went down to the cellar to get more towels.

The heater was red-hot and the extra towels had been warmed, but where was Alsaberi?

‘Maybe he went to his bedroom,’ Golebeh said.

‘Alsaberi!’ Golbanu called.

‘May God watch over him! Where on earth did he go? Alsaberi!’

The fish were huddled together in the hauz , the crow was screeching non-stop and the cats were peering over the edge of the roof as the grandmothers hurried over to the hauz . Alsaberi was stretched out in the snow, with the yellow glow of the lantern lighting up his face. His eyes were closed. On his lips was a frozen smile.

‘Alsaberi!’ the grandmothers shrieked.

But no one was home, everyone was in the mosque. The grandmothers ran up the stairs to the roof, scattering the cats as they went. Standing by the left minaret, which was Muezzin’s usual post, they shouted with all their might, ‘Alsaberi is gone!’

Inside the mosque, people heard their cry. Muezzin came charging up to the roof, followed by the caretaker and several men from the bazaar. They hurried down the stairs to the courtyard and went over to the hauz . The moment the caretaker saw Alsaberi’s lifeless body, he cried, ‘ Enna lellah! ’

At the familiar words, everyone knew that Alsaberi was dead.

The men carried him into the library. The grandmothers dried their tears, because they knew you were supposed to be restrained in the presence of death. Mindful of their duties, they went to an antique cupboard behind the bookcase, took out a white sheet — the shroud the imam had bought for himself in Mecca — and handed it to the caretaker. He unfolded it and draped it over Alsaberi, all the while chanting a sacred verse.

Aqa Jaan came running in.

‘ Enna lellah! ’ the men cried in unison.

‘ Enna lellah ,’ Aqa Jaan replied calmly.

He knelt by the body, gently pulled back the shroud and looked at Alsaberi’s face. Then he kissed him on the forehead and covered him up again.

Suddenly Zinat appeared in the doorway. Weeping, her face pale, she threw herself onto her husband’s body.

The grandmothers helped her up and led her away.

Voices could be heard from the courtyard. People had hurried out of the mosque to see what was happening.

Aqa Jaan left the library and went to the courtyard. The news had travelled fast. Some men were already there with a coffin, which they carried over to the hauz . The imam’s body was laid inside and taken to the mosque.

Seven men went up to the roof and cried in unison, ‘ Hayye ale as-salat! ’

Everyone who heard this call to prayer realised that the imam was dead. Every shopkeeper in the city, except for the bakers and the pharmacists, shut their doors and came to the mosque. A long line of police vehicles drove up, and the mayor’s car drew up outside the mosque.

It was a blessed death, everyone said, because Alsaberi died on the same day as the holy Ali.

At nine o’clock that evening the coffin was placed on a catafalque by the mosque’s hauz . It had been decided to leave the body there until the following day, so that people could pay their respects, and relatives who lived far away would have time to get to the funeral.