Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

Another time he attacked the city’s theatre for putting on a play in which an imam was ridiculed. The play was aimed at schoolchildren. Every day a new group was brought in to see the performance. Khalkhal was incensed. ‘It’s a disgrace to the honourable city of Senejan. How dare they turn an imam into a figure of fun to entertain our youth? I warn the bazaar: a cunning attack has been launched in this city against Islam. Have you looked in your children’s schoolbags lately to see what kind of blasphemous ideas are being taught at their school? Are you aware of the poisonous poetry being assigned to your daughters in the name of literature? My hands shook when I read some of those poems. Out of respect for the women sitting on the other side of the curtain I won’t tell you what those poems were about. War has been declared on our faith. Don’t play with fire. I warn you! Don’t play with fire!’

The mayor heard the harsh words being hurled from the pulpit. To keep the situation from escalating, he ordered the theatre to stop performing the play.

The incident had barely died down when rumours of a plan to build a cinema in Senejan spread throughout the city.

Senejan’s oldest bathhouse had fallen into disuse, and the owner of a number of large cinemas in Tehran had purchased it with the idea of converting it into a cinema. It was a landmark, a unique place for cultural activities, the perfect spot for a cinema.

Khalkhal immediately let the mayor know that a cinema in a religious stronghold like Senejan was unacceptable, and the mayor let him know that the city had not been consulted: the decision had already been taken in Tehran. The royal cultural institute was touting it as one of its pet projects, and Farah Diba had personally approved the plan.

When the cinema owner heard that Farah Diba was going to come to Senejan for the opening of the women’s clinic, he vowed to finish the renovation on time so that she could open the cinema as well.

He contacted the authorities in Tehran and arranged for Farah to open the cinema after presiding over the opening of the clinic. Given the fact that Senejan was such a religious stronghold, it was decided to wait until the last minute to announce the news.

On a sunny Thursday afternoon a helicopter flew over the city and circled above the bazaar three times. Schoolchildren lined the streets of the route that Farah Diba’s open limousine would take to the clinic.

The children cheered, clapped their hands and shouted, ‘ Jawid shah! Long live the shah!’ Three jets also thundered overhead, trailing smoke in the three colours of the Iranian flag. Dozens of plainclothes policemen mingled with the crowd, and army vehicles filled with soldiers were stationed at every corner, ready to quell any signs of unrest.

Farah Diba waved and smiled at the crowd, while a fresh breeze toyed with her hair. She radiated power. As the limousine passed by, the teachers and the clinic staff removed their veils to reveal their Farah cuts. They squealed in excitement and waved their veils.

A camera crew was on hand to capture the scene, which would be broadcast on the evening news, so everyone could see how the women in the pious city of Senejan had rallied round Farah Diba and embraced her as their role model. Since this was Farah Diba’s first visit to a religious stronghold, it was a litmus test for the regime. If Senejan could be won over, the other devout anti-shah cities could be won over as well.

Everything had gone smoothly. So smoothly in fact that the television station decided not to wait until the eight o’clock news, but to use her trip as the lead story on the six o’clock news. The visit was considered a resounding victory over the ayatollahs. But the broadcasters had overlooked one thing — a minor detail that at first glance hadn’t seemed at all important.

A number of young women from Senejan had been hired to work as nurses in the new clinic. They were standing by the door in their crisp white short-sleeved uniforms. As Farah Diba stepped out of her royal limousine, the photographers rushed over and aimed their cameras at the nurses, who bowed and presented the queen with a beautiful bouquet of flowers. But their uniforms were made of such sheer nylon that you could see the nurse’s pale-blue underpants. The bazaar was stunned, and when Khalkhal heard the news, he was so angry he couldn’t eat.

Khalkhal saw it as a slap in the face of the ayatollahs and a deliberate insult to the bazaar. The incident had taken place in his city, the city in which he was the imam of the influential Friday Mosque. He felt compelled to comment on it in tonight’s sermon.

As evening fell, Aqa Jaan’s phone rang. A man from Qom asked to speak to Khalkhal. It was a short, one-sided conversation. Khalkhal listened for a long time, then just before hanging up said, ‘No, I didn’t know. Yes, I understand. Right, I have all the information I need. So do you.’

Aqa Jaan had no idea what they’d been talking about, nor did he ask Khalkhal whom he’d been talking to. Later, when he glanced through the library window, he saw Khalkhal pacing back and forth.

The news broadcast seemed to suggest that Farah Diba had left the city after the opening of the clinic and had gone back to Tehran. In fact she was still in Senejan. A helicopter had flown her to a historical site on the outskirts of the city, at the edge of the desert, so she could view a citadel that had been converted into an inn. Once upon a time it had been a caravanserai on the Silk Road, where merchants and wayfarers could spend the night.

Farah, who had studied architecture in Paris, was now in charge of the restoration of several of the country’s historic buildings. Much of her time had been spent on the improvements to the citadel.

She was scheduled to go back to Senejan later that evening for the opening of the cinema. For this special occasion the cinema owner had sent to Tehran for a Hollywood love film that had never been shown before in Iran. He had told no one of the royal visit, saying only that a few VIPs from Tehran would be on hand for the opening.

As Farah Diba sat down to dinner in the ancient citadel, Khalkhal slipped into Aqa Jaan’s study to make a phone call. He had a short, whispered conversation with someone in Qom.

At seven o’clock he was ready to go to the mosque. When Shahbal came to the library to escort him, he noticed that Khalkhal was restless.

‘Is anything wrong?’ he enquired.

‘No, why do you ask?’ Khalkhal replied, as they headed out the door.

‘What are you going to talk about tonight?’

‘I haven’t decided. I’ve been too preoccupied with the visit of that slut.’

Shahbal wanted to ask, ‘What slut?’, but didn’t, for the simple reason that he couldn’t bring himself to utter the word ‘slut’.

‘Where’s Aqa Jaan?’ Khalkhal asked.

‘In the mosque.’

They went into the mosque. The prayer room was full. In fact, there were more people than usual. Everyone was curious to see how their imam would react to Farah Diba’s visit.

Khalkhal calmly climbed into the pulpit, took his seat and began to talk in a quiet voice about the mosque and the role of the imam. He saw the mosque as the heart of the city and the imam as the wakeful conscience of the faithful.

He made no reference to the opening of the clinic. Nor did he mention the television broadcast of Farah Diba’s visit. Instead, he aimed all of his arrows at the cinema.

‘Beware!’ he suddenly exclaimed and raised a warning finger. ‘You must know what’s going on!’

He paused dramatically. ‘In the name of the mosque, in the name of the city, in the name of the bazaar,’ he resumed, ‘I ask you, I beg you, I warn you not to continue. Put a stop to these diabolical plans! Senejan is no place for promiscuous American culture. No place for sin. Put a stop to it, or we will do it for you!’