Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

They didn’t dare move. They were afraid they’d been dreaming. But they couldn’t have been, because the crow flew down to the streetlight and cawed as loud as it could.

Back in their room, the grandmothers locked the door, turned on the light and opened the envelopes. The letters were identical, but they couldn’t read them: the Prophet had evidently written them in a secret language. They would have to show the letters to someone, but who? Aqa Jaan? Fakhri Sadat? Zinat Khanom? No.

‘Let’s ask Shahbal,’ Golebeh said.

They went to his room.

‘Wake up! Are you still in bed? Haven’t you said your prayer? Shame on you. I’ll tell Aqa Jaan you slept in like a sinner. Here, eqra ! Read this. Read us the letters!’ Golbanu said.

Shahbal sleepily examined the letters. ‘I can read the words, but I don’t know what they mean. It’s in Arabic.’

Perhaps they’d have to show the letters to Aqa Jaan after all, but he’d gone to Jirya, and it would be ages before he returned. So they put on their chadors and went to the mosque to show their letters to the substitute imam.

Janeshin had just finished his morning prayer and gone back to his room to sleep for another hour. When he heard a knock, he thought it was Zinat Khanom, so he called sleepily, ‘Come in!’

Instead, the grandmothers came traipsing into his room. ‘What’s the matter, ladies?’ he said in surprise. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘We’ve received a highly confidential letter. Or rather two letters. Would you please read them to us?’

‘Gladly. Have a seat.’

They handed him the letters.

He took his turban from the nightstand, put it on and sat down on his chair in his long cotton shirt. ‘Do sit down, ladies,’ he said. ‘Hold on, I need my glasses.’

He put on his glasses and perused one of the letters. ‘A letter in Arabic?’

‘Can’t you read it?’

‘I should be able to, but it’s not as if I read a letter in Arabic every day. Of course I can read the Koran, but the language in the Koran is different, it’s the language of God. I can read the Koran well enough to understand it, but if you handed me an Arabic newspaper, I probably wouldn’t be able to tell you what it said. Or to put it another way, if I flew to Mecca today, I doubt if I could talk to the people there. Wait, there’s an address at the bottom of the letter. Are you supposed to go somewhere? Where did you get these letters? They seem to be formal documents of some kind. I can also make out a name: Hajji Aqa Mustafa Mohajir.’

‘We know Hajji Aqa Mustafa Mohajir,’ said Golbanu. ‘He has an office at the bazaar.’

‘Well, that settles it. Apparently you’re supposed to go and see this hajji. Wa-assalaam! ’

The grandmothers were unable to control their excitement. They snatched back their letters and hurried outside.

They wanted to set off for the bazaar immediately, but Golbanu said, ‘I think it’s too early. Let’s wait until the sun’s a bit higher. Besides, we ought to put on our good clothes, if we’re going to the bazaar with such important letters.’

All of a sudden the house looked different. It was bathed in bright sunlight, as if every object were smiling and everyone was in on their secret. The old cedar tree had no doubt heard the hoof beats, and the hauz had thrilled to Khezr’s voice.

The flowers in the garden looked reverently at the grandmothers, the sun sparkled on the library windows and the crow circled above their heads, cawing cheerfully. ‘Thank you, crow, thank you,’ the grandmothers cried. The red fish leapt out of the water. ‘Thank you, fish, thank you,’ said the grandmothers.

‘I hear happy footsteps,’ Muezzin called up from the cellar. ‘What’s put you two in such a good mood?’

Golbanu and Golebeh went down to his studio to say hello. He was standing at his workbench, kneading a lump of clay.

Should they tell him? Were they allowed to reveal their secret? No, first they had to go and see Hajji Mustafa, Golbanu thought. Only then would they know if their lifetime dream was about to come true.

‘Good morning!’ said the grandmothers merrily.

‘And a good morning to you too, ladies. I know you’re dying to tell me something,’ Muezzin said.

‘It’s true, we have the most wonderful news!’ Golebeh began, but Golbanu quickly changed the subject before Golebeh could spill the beans. ‘These vases look new, Muezzin,’ she improvised. ‘They’re absolutely gorgeous.’

‘There’s no need to overdo it. I’ve been making vases my entire life. It’s just that you’re seeing them through different eyes today.’

The grandmothers exchanged smiles.

‘We’ve heard some very good news. We’ll tell you soon, and then you can shout it from the rooftops.’

‘Such secrecy!’ Muezzin said.

The grandmothers all but skipped up the stairs and went back into the courtyard.

They were so happy that they didn’t know what to do, where to go or who to visit. They saw Fakhri Sadat walking towards the kitchen and waved — a bit awkwardly, since it wasn’t something they ordinarily did. One of the cats walked by and they chased after it. Alarmed by their odd behaviour, the cat fled to the roof.

The grandmothers put on their good clothes, powdered their cheeks and donned their most beautiful chadors. Then off they went, in the direction of the bazaar.

Hajji Mustafa was an old friend of Aqa Jaan. He was also a powerful man in the city, since he had the exclusive right to arrange trips to holy shrines in other cities and to organise the pilgrimages to Karbala, Najaf, Medina, Damascus and Mecca.

His travel agency was in the middle of the bazaar. Hundreds of prospective pilgrims stopped by every day to plan their trips. The grandmothers went in, but didn’t have to queue like the others. After all, they had a personal letter for Hajji Mustafa.

They peeked through the window of his office. Although they’d seen him in the mosque only once, they recognised him immediately. He was sitting at his desk, talking on the phone. He motioned for them to come in, and they cautiously opened the door.

‘What can I do for you?’ Hajji Mustafa said, as soon as his call was over. The grandmothers handed him their letters. ‘We have a message for you,’ Golbanu said.

He put on his glasses, opened one of the envelopes and carefully perused the letter, peering occasionally at the grandmothers over the rim of his glasses. After reading the second letter, he took off his glasses and sat without moving for one long minute.

The grandmothers exchanged questioning glances.

He put the letters back in their envelopes, touched them reverently to his forehead and slipped them into a drawer.

‘Please sit down,’ he said solemnly.

The grandmothers seated themselves in the two old-fashioned leather chairs beside his desk.

Hajji Mustafa rummaged through some papers, jotted down a few words and made a mysterious phone call. Then he went out, leaving the grandmothers alone in his office without saying a word to either of them. Fifteen minutes later he came back in and took a thick ledger out of a mahogany filing cabinet. He opened the ledger and said solemnly, ‘Golbanu.’

‘That’s me,’ said one of the grandmothers, and she stood up.

He put an old-fashioned ink pad in front of her. ‘Place the tip of your index finger on this ink pad,’ he said, ‘then press it here in this ledger.’

With trembling hands, Golbanu did as she had been instructed.

‘You may be seated.’

He filled in a few lines, then said, ‘Golebeh.’

‘That’s me,’ the other grandmother said in a quavering voice, and she stood up.

‘Press here and here.’