Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

After Hajji Mustafa’s departure, Aqa Jaan was left alone in the study with Shahbal. ‘I don’t believe for a second that they’re lost or are wandering round Mecca,’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘What do you think happened?’

‘I think they probably hid behind the sacred curtain in the Kaaba. My guess is that they had no intention of coming back.’

‘But why hide?’ Shahbal asked, surprised.

‘They want to die in Mecca. It’s the most wonderful death any Muslim can imagine. I think the grandmothers talked it over and decided they’d lived their lives. They had a choice. They could either go home and wait to die an ordinary death, or they could die in the House of God. Anyone who dies in the Kaaba goes straight to Paradise. So what would you do if you were the grandmothers?’

‘I still can’t believe they decided to stay in Mecca. Why do you think they did?’

‘It’s hard to explain. They’ve lived in this house for over fifty years. For fifty long years they’ve been listening to ancient stories. Now they want to write a story of their own.’

Shahbal smiled.

‘Let’s open the suitcases,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘Maybe they left us a letter.’

Shahbal opened the suitcases to find them full of gifts: watches, rings, gold bracelets, brightly coloured garments that glittered in the light of the overhead lamp — lovely gifts from Mecca for every person in the house.

‘This proves it,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘There are no personal belongings in the suitcases. They didn’t even pack their Mecca shrouds. Everyone dreams of buying a shroud in Mecca. It’s the first thing every hajji buys. The grandmothers must have their shrouds with them. Perhaps they’re even wearing them under their clothes.’

‘But what should we tell the others?’ Shahbal asked.

‘The truth. Please put the suitcases behind the desk and ask everyone to come in here.’

Shahbal dealt with the suitcases and went off to find the rest of the family.

‘Hajji Mustafa was just here,’ Aqa Jaan informed the assembled family. ‘Unfortunately he had nothing new to report. He’s been in touch with the police in Mecca. The moment he hears anything, he’ll let us know.’

They listened to Aqa Jaan in stricken silence.

‘Does this mean we’ll never see them again?’ asked Nasrin, Aqa Jaan’s elder daughter.

‘It’s not as though they could go anywhere,’ said Jawad, Aqa Jaan’s son. ‘The police ought to be able to find them.’

‘I know. Hajji Mustafa is doing all he can. Who knows, they might have taken a train to some other city. There are millions of pilgrims in Mecca, so maybe they got lost in the multitude. Still, the grandmothers have done a very generous thing: they left your gifts with Hajji Mustafa. To me, that’s proof that no harm has come to them,’ Aqa Jaan concluded. ‘Shahbal, open the suitcases!’

Shahbal placed the suitcases on the desk and opened the lids. Everyone marvelled at the splendour and magnificence: watches, alarm clocks, gold necklaces, slippers, headbands, perfumes, colourful chadors, distinctive blouses and handbags. Every gift was labelled with the name of the recipient. For Nasrin and Ensi there were bright blouses; for Jawad a watch and a cap; for Fakhri Sadat a make-up bag; and for Muezzin a collapsible walking stick — something none of them had ever seen before. Zinat Khanom was given a volume of poetry written by poets from Mecca, Aqa Jaan a fountain pen with a picture of the holy Ali on the cap and Shahbal a watch and several yards of a navy-blue pinstripe that could be made into a suit.

They were delighted. They were remarking on the grandmothers’ good taste and noisily discussing each other’s presents when they heard shouts coming from outside. One woman yelled something, and another one began to scold her like a fishwife. Women’s quarrels were never conducted outside, so this was unusual. The two women were apparently standing on the roof of the neighbour’s house, hurling insults at each other. ‘It’s the wives of Hajji Shishegar,’ Zinat Khanom said.

Hajji Shishegar was a man in his early sixties. He had gone to Mecca at the same time as the grandmothers and had therefore returned only recently. He was a glass merchant who owned a large shop in the bazaar.

Hajji Shishegar had two wives: an older one named Akram, and a younger one named Tala. Akram had borne him seven daughters, but he wanted a son and had spent a long time looking for another wife. At last he had found a young woman and married her, but so far she hadn’t produced any children.

‘Don’t!’ Tala begged. ‘Don’t hit me! I’m sorry! I didn’t know, I really didn’t.’

Akram wasn’t about to stop. She screamed and pulled Tala’s hair and struck her again.

‘Don’t! I haven’t done anything wrong! Your children are my children too. I beg you, stop!’

Zinat Khanom had gone up to the roof to see what she could do. ‘What’s going on here?’ she said. ‘What are you two fighting about?’

‘Nothing,’ said Tala, the hajji’s younger wife.

‘Then why is Akram hitting you? And why in God’s name are you quarrelling out here on the roof?’

‘Because Hajji is at home and has company,’ Tala said. ‘And I… I’m…’

‘You’re what?’

‘Pregnant,’ she said softly.

Akram, Hajji’s older wife, burst into tears and ran off into the darkness.

‘Tala is pregnant!’ Zinat cried.

‘ Mobarak! Congratulations!’ Nasrin and Ensi shouted from the dark courtyard.

When Hajji Shishegar was at the Kaaba, he had asked God to grant him a son, and God had answered his prayer by giving him two sons — twin boys.

In the house of the mosque the weeks and months slipped by. And there was still no sign of the grandmothers.

One morning, as Shahbal was going to the kitchen to eat breakfast, he saw a woman with a suitcase sitting on the bench by the hauz . Only when she lowered her chador to her shoulders did he recognise her.

‘Sadiq, is that you?’

When Khalkhal had fled Senejan in the aftermath of the cinema riot, Sadiq had gone to Qom to be with her husband. She had not been home since.

Zinat hugged and kissed her daughter, and asked her what had been going on and why she had come home looking so sad. Sadiq lay her head on Zinat’s shoulder and wept, but offered no explanation for her return.

Zinat knew that her daughter was unhappy with Khalkhal. He had never given her a normal family life or let her have visitors in her own home. She lived in fear of him.

He was away often, leaving her at home all by herself. He never told her what he was doing, and he forbade her to discuss anything with her family.

The smile that had always graced Sadiq’s lips was now gone. A veil of sorrow had fallen over her face.

‘What’s happened?’

Sadiq was reluctant to speak.

‘Have you left him?’

Silence.

‘Did you two have a row?’

She shook her head.

‘Then tell me what’s happened.’

But Sadiq’s lips were sealed.

She walked around the courtyard, pondering her life.

Khalkhal had been gone for several months. He had left her on her own, without saying where he was going or when he would return. One day she got a letter from him. ‘I won’t be coming home for a while,’ he wrote. ‘In fact I’ll probably be gone for a very long time. Go back to your family and don’t breathe a word of this to anyone!’

Sadiq didn’t, but they all knew she’d come home to think about her troubled marriage. She was struggling with a difficult question: if he did come home, did she want to go back to him? Back to that horrible house in Qom? Did she want to live with him again? To share her bed with him? But she knew that, as a woman, she had no choice. If he asked her to come home, she had to go back.