Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

The agents dragged blind Muezzin out of his room and looked in every nook and cranny.

‘Bastards!’ Muezzin yelled. ‘All of you! Get out of my room! Get out of this house!’

The door to the library was locked.

‘Give me the key!’ the man in charge demanded.

‘I haven’t got one,’ Aqa Jaan called from where he was standing on the other side of the courtyard.

‘Give me the key or I’ll break the door down!’

The grandmothers emerged from the darkness, opened the door and switched on the light.

One of the agents was about to enter the library when Golbanu screeched, ‘Take off your shoes!’

He ignored her.

‘Take off your shoes, you bastard!’ she shrieked.

The agent didn’t go in, but hovered on the threshold, clearly impressed by the antiquity of the library. He stared at the centuries-old bookcases and the imam’s antique desk, then turned and went into the courtyard.

The other agents stormed into the Carpet Room, where a half-finished carpet was hanging on the wall. They peered behind the carpet, opened the antique cupboards and threw spools of wool on the floor. Then they left the Carpet Room and started in on the Opium Room.

A walkie-talkie crackled. The man in charge went over to the hauz and mumbled something into his walkie-talkie. After a moment he came back. ‘That’s enough,’ he called to his men. ‘Let’s go!’

They met in the courtyard, slammed the gate shut on their way out and drove off.

Aqa Jaan locked the gate and switched off the lights.

‘Is there anything to eat?’ he asked the grandmothers. ‘I’m starving. And dying of thirst.’

He had just sat down when Shahbal came in.

‘Where is he?’ Aqa Jaan asked.

‘In the mosque.’

‘Where exactly?’

‘In the oldest crypt. The caretaker let him in,’ Shahbal said.

‘He’s safe for now, but those agents are bound to come back. This isn’t going to blow over. They’ll be keeping an eye on the mosque. We’ve got to send him to Qom. Tomorrow, when the doors open for the morning prayer, they’ll come in when everyone else does, and we won’t be able to stop them. We’ve got to come up with an escape plan.’

The grandmothers came in, bearing a silver tray. They unfolded a clean cotton napkin and laid it on Aqa Jaan’s desk. On top of that they carefully arranged two glasses, an antique gold-rimmed teapot filled with fragrant tea and a delicate porcelain plate heaped with warm bread and cheese. Then they left. Aqa Jaan looked over at Shahbal and smiled.

‘Apparently they approve of your actions,’ Shahbal commented as Aqa Jaan poured him some tea.

‘Grab a chair and have a bite. We’ve got work to do. We won’t be getting any sleep tonight!’

After they’d eaten, Aqa Jaan rummaged through the cupboard in his study and came back with a hat, a suit and a pair of scissors. He placed them on the table in front of Shahbal. ‘I have a plan,’ he said. ‘In a little while I’ll go and stand outside the mosque. I’ll pretend to be waiting for someone. I know the secret police are keeping watch from their cars, so I’ll do my best to attract their attention. Meanwhile, you’ll go up to the roof and slip over to the mosque, taking the clothes and the scissors with you. Then you’ll help Khalkhal trim his beard and tell him to put on the hat and the suit. The sun will be coming up soon, and people will start arriving for the morning prayer. Because of last night’s events, I’m expecting more people than usual. At the end of the prayer, when everyone is leaving, I want you and Khalkhal to walk out behind me. I’ll take care of the rest. Is that clear?’

‘Absolutely.’

It wasn’t cold, but at that hour of the morning a brisk wind was blowing from the mountains. Aqa Jaan took up his position outside the mosque and noticed that the streetlight, which had been broken for months, was now shining brightly. The caretaker had complained repeatedly to the electricity company, but the light had never been fixed. Aqa Jaan himself had phoned several times to complain to the manager, but had never been put through.

The street was empty, except for two men standing on the corner smoking a cigarette. When they realised that Aqa Jaan had spotted them, they slipped into the darkness.

A car with four men inside drove past the mosque, turned and drove past again without stopping.

The two men who’d slipped into the darkness came back into the glow of the streetlight. They strolled towards Aqa Jaan, still smoking their cigarettes, and passed him without a greeting. Obviously they were not from around here; otherwise they would have recognised him, even in the darkness, and said hello.

As he waited, Aqa Jaan realised more than ever how much the city had changed in recent years. Strangers were now in charge. Until a few years ago he had known everyone in a position of authority in Senejan: men from good families, sons of the merchants in the bazaar. And when he went into a government office, the director himself always jumped up to welcome him. He didn’t know any of the new directors, who avoided all contact with the mosque. They wore tight suits and ties and smoked fat cigars. The city appeared to be divided in two: on the one side, the traditionalists, the historical buildings and the bazaar; on the other side, the new directors, the new policemen, the modern buildings, the theatres and the cinemas. In the old days he could get anything done with the wave of a hand. Nowadays he couldn’t even get a streetlight fixed.

Only now did he understand the mayor’s warning: ‘Remember, Aqa Jaan, I can’t help you the way I used to.’

He — who didn’t frighten easily — was now afraid. Until a few short hours ago he thought he’d eventually be able to work things out, even if Khalkhal did get arrested. All it would take, he had assumed, was one phone call to the chief constable and Khalkhal would be released. Now he knew he’d been wrong.

Apparently the brisk mountain air blowing across Senejan had cleared his head and helped him to think straight. Even Khalkhal was a stranger, he realised, and an untrustworthy one at that. Who was he really? An unknown imam who had come from Qom to ask for the hand of Alsaberi’s daughter. What else did he know about him? Nothing.

The mountain air had done its work — the mist had lifted from his eyes and he now saw everything in a clear light. Khalkhal had been playing a dangerous game. He had known that Farah Diba would be in the cinema, but had deliberately neglected to tell him. His aim had been to create chaos in the city. He’d lured the unsuspecting mosque-goers to the cinema so that Farah Diba would walk into his trap, the country would be turned upside down and the event would be world news. And Aqa Jaan hadn’t suspected a thing. Thank goodness he’d been able to defuse Khalkhal’s plan in time. Khalkhal had deceived him and was now hiding in the crypt. His fate was in Aqa Jaan’s hands.

Despite the cold, he could feel the sweat on his forehead. To allay his fear, he began to chant:

By the morning light,

And by the night when it is still!

He has not abandoned you.

Did He not find you an orphan and guide you?

And find you in need and make you rich?

Did He not lift the burden from your shoulders?

He spread your fame, for with hardship comes ease.

He turned to the window and noticed that it had grown light. Hordes of people were heading towards the mosque. Feeling his heart grow lighter, he squared his shoulders and went inside.

Never before had so many people attended the morning prayer, and they were still pouring in. Aqa Jaan hadn’t listened to the radio, but others had heard that a riot had broken out in Senejan and that the city had been turned upside down by a fanatical imam.