Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

Aqa Jaan was shocked.

‘What are you talking about? What do you mean?’

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said.

She stood up, crammed a chocolate into her mouth, took a gulp of tea and raced off.

‘Wait a minute!’ Aqa Jaan shouted.

That night in bed Aqa Jaan told his wife that Qodsi had stopped by again.

‘What did she have to say?’

‘The usual gobbledegook. She mixes things up and says the first thing that comes into her head.’

‘I know, she makes half of it up. In that way she’s a bit like our Zinat.’

‘You shouldn’t compare Qodsi to Zinat. Qodsi has a screw loose.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not comparing them. I just meant that Zinat can’t sit still either, and her head is also full of fantasies.’

‘True, but Qodsi’s stories are total gibberish.’

‘They may be gibberish, but she tells them well. Still, you never get the whole story. She gives you bits and pieces and rattles them off, one right after another, which adds to the suspense. What did she tell you today?’

Aqa Jaan thought for a moment. He’d been thinking all day about what she’d said about the grandmothers, but he didn’t feel like mentioning it to Fakhri yet.

‘She makes me so angry,’ he said. ‘She went to the other side of the river again. She says that two men grabbed her and that she screamed and screamed until they ran off into the mountains.’

‘My God, not those men again! I’m afraid they’ll do something to her, and if they do, you’ll be the one who has to deal with it. Maybe I should talk to her and scare her a bit, so she’ll stay away from them.’

‘She also said that Am Ramazan’s donkey is sick and that Azam Azam takes a knife with her when she goes to bed with her husband.’

Fakhri Sadat laughed. ‘What did she mean by that?’

‘I don’t know. She makes things up. She goes into a house, sees something and turns it into a story. For all I know she did see a knife or something like it in Azam Azam’s bed. She also said that Constable Ruhani beats his wife every night.’

‘That might be true. You ought to do something for that poor woman. Her husband’s not only corrupt, he’s an addict. Tell Zinat. She’ll know who to contact in the mosque. She’s good at arranging those kinds of things. She could drop by Azam Azam’s house and find out what’s going on. You should tell Zinat. Anything else?’

‘The shoemaker locked his mother in the chicken coop.’

‘That can’t be true! What kind of person would lock his elderly mother in a chicken coop?’

‘People are so cruel sometimes. They’re capable of any thing.’

‘Ask Zinat to go and visit her. Maybe she can find out if it really happened.’

‘Qodsi only remembers things that make an impression on her, then she tells them in her own way. But it occurred to me just now that she might have a different motive. Maybe she comes to see me when she has something important to say, something she can’t share with anyone else. The difference between her and Zinat is that Zinat tells ancient stories. Qodsi takes a strand of truth and weaves it into a story. There’s some truth in what she says. That’s all I meant to say.’

Fakhri Sadat laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes. ‘I don’t want to hear another word about Qodsi,’ she said. ‘Tell me something else, something beautiful, something sweet… I don’t mean to complain, but you haven’t been spending much time with me lately. We used to go away on trips more often. You took me to Mashad for a week, and we stayed in that guesthouse by Imam Reza’s tomb. And we went to Isfahan together, but it’s been years since we’ve taken a trip. You go off by yourself and I stay here. Sometimes I think I’ve grown old, and that you—’

‘She mentioned something else.’

‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you? Are you still talking about Qodsi?’

‘She said something about the grandmothers. About how the Prophet Khezr had let them down.’

‘Who let them down?’ Fakhri said, and sat up in bed.

‘The Prophet Khezr! I’m quoting Qodsi, and she must have been quoting someone. My guess is that she overheard a conversation between the grandmothers. I think they have a secret.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘It’s just a feeling I have. Qodsi said, “Khezr didn’t come. It’s the second time he hasn’t come, and that made the grandmothers cry.”’

Only now did he realise that for years he’d often seen the grandmothers early in the morning, sweeping, but he’d never stopped to think that they might have been doing it secretly.

Just before dawn, Aqa Jaan slipped out of bed, went over to the window and watched the door to the grandmothers’ bedroom.

Before long it opened and out came two shadowy figures with brooms.

He’d spent all night thinking about the grandmothers and coming up with a plan. He now knew how to make their dream come true. He smiled to himself and climbed back into bed.

Fakhri Sadat’s bare leg caught his eye. He could also see her pomegranate-red pants in the glow of the nightlight. She was right — he had been spending less time with her, and it had been quite a while since they’d taken a trip together. He no longer came back with presents for her either. It had been ages since he’d come home from Damascus with that box of underwear in seven different colours. He crawled under the covers, gave her a hug and began to pull down her pants.

‘Not now!’ Fakhri Sadat said sleepily.

He ignored her as usual and tugged her pants even lower.

‘Not now,’ she said again, softly.

And then she fell silent.

A few weeks later, the grandmothers were out sweeping when they heard a strange sound coming from the alley. They peered into the darkness, but didn’t see anything, so they went back to their sweeping. All of a sudden a horse whinnied. Again they peered into the darkness, but their ageing eyes couldn’t make out a thing.

‘Did you hear a horse whinny?’ Golbanu said.

‘Yes, and I heard hooves too,’ Golebeh said.

The sounds came closer. The grandmothers clutched each other’s hand, stared into the alley and stood rooted to the spot. A black horse suddenly appeared in the glow of the streetlight. High up in the saddle was an Arab in a white robe. The grandmothers bowed in respectful silence.

The horseman cried in Arabic, ‘ Yaaa ayoohaaaal nabe-ii, waaa salaaaaamooo namazooooo Khezr wa al-Mekka! ’

The grandmothers didn’t know a word of Arabic, but the horseman’s message was clear enough. The words ‘Mecca’ and ‘Khezr’ were all they needed to hear.

Again they bowed to the Arab on the horse.

‘ Waaa enne-ii waa jaleha ,’ the horseman continued. ‘ Waaa enne-ii yaa, Golbanu . Waaa enne-ii yaa, Golebeh!’

The grandmothers trembled with excitement. The horseman had said their names. Had they heard him correctly?

‘ Yaaa eyyo haaannabe-ii. Eqraaa esme-ii , Golbanu!’ said the horseman.

No, they hadn’t been mistaken. He’d clearly said ‘Golbanu!’

What were they supposed to do?

Golbanu stepped forward and bowed her head. The horseman took a letter out of his pocket and held it out to her.

Golbanu approached him hesitantly and accepted the envelope.

‘Golebeh!’ the horseman called.

The other grandmother went up to him and received a white envelope as well.

‘ Waaa enna lellaah. Waaa Allaaho samaad ,’ the horseman cried. Then he tugged the reins, wheeled around and vanished into the darkness.

Daylight came. The astonished grandmothers were still standing on the path, clutching their envelopes.