Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

No, I won’t go, she thought. And if he makes me, I’ll scream until everyone in the mosque runs up to the roof to see what’s going on.

She went into the kitchen. It felt so empty without the grandmothers. When they had lived here, the kitchen had always been neat and tidy. Now it was a mess. Nothing was where it should be. The rubbish bin was full, the spice jars were all over the place instead of in the cupboard where they belonged and the kitchen was no longer filled with the delightful smell of fresh fruit, which had always stood in the bowl on the counter. Sadiq began to clean up. She carried out the rubbish, wiped off the spice jars and arranged them on the shelf. She put away the dishes, swept the floor, washed the windows and watered the plants.

Then she got out a frying pan and began to cook.

That evening, when everyone came home, they saw a light on in the kitchen, and the house was filled with the tantalising smell of food.

Sadiq set the dining-room table. For the first time in a long while the family ate together.

They were careful not to ask her any questions or to mention Khalkhal’s name. They knew that Aqa Jaan would talk to her when the time was right.

It had been an enjoyable evening, and they all mentioned how much they had missed eating good food. After dinner Sadiq went back to the kitchen and stayed there until bedtime. After doing the washing-up, she sat by the window for a long time and stared into the darkness. Her suitcase was still by the hauz . Zinat had offered her a bed in her room, but she didn’t want to share with her mother.

Sadiq peered at herself in the kitchen mirror, the same one the grandmothers had always used. The mottled old mirror told her that a new phase of her life was about to begin. She’d been dithering all day long, but now she’d finally made up her mind. Sadiq stood up, switched off the kitchen light and went down to the cellar.

‘Who’s there?’ Muezzin called.

She jumped.

‘Is that you, Sadiq?’

‘Yes, it’s me.’

‘I wasn’t sure at first. Your footsteps have changed so much I almost didn’t recognise them. What are you doing down here in the middle of the night?’

‘Looking for a key. It must be in one of those old trunks.’

‘The key to what?’

‘The room next to the stairs. The one between the stairs and Aqa Jaan’s study.’

‘Do you need it right now?’

She searched through the trunks, but didn’t find the key.

‘Look behind that archway,’ Muezzin said. ‘There’s another trunk in there. Take the lantern, or you won’t be able to see a thing.’

There was a lantern in a niche, with a box of matches beside it. Sadiq lit the candle in the lantern and used it to light her way to the trunk, which she rummaged through without finding the key.

‘There’s a box in here, in the cupboard,’ Muezzin told her. ‘The key might be in that.’

She switched on the light in the studio and saw Muezzin taking some vases out of his kiln.

‘Don’t touch them,’ he said. ‘They’re still hot.’

She edged her way past the newly fired vases and opened the cupboard. Inside were a couple of old-fashioned men’s jackets and two walking sticks.

‘Did you find it?’

‘No, all I can see are clothes.’

‘It has to be in there somewhere. I heard keys jingling once when the grandmothers were clearing out the cupboard.’

She pushed aside the jackets. Suddenly she heard a dull jangle.

‘You found them!’ Muezzin exclaimed.

Sadiq went back to the courtyard. She walked past Aqa Jaan’s study and stopped in front of the third door. She tried the keys in the lock, one by one. Only one key in the bunch fitted, but she couldn’t get it to turn.

She went back to the cellar to get Muezzin. He oiled the lock and tried the key again, but it still wouldn’t budge. ‘This room hasn’t been used for ages,’ he said. ‘The key and the lock are rusty.’

He was dying to ask, Why does the door have to be unlocked now , in the middle of the night? If you want to sleep, use the guest room. But instead, he poured a little more oil in the lock and tried it again.

‘I think it’s loosening up, yes, here it comes, it’s turning. No, wait, it’s still stuck. I need to tap it with a hammer, but I’m afraid I’ll wake everybody up.’

And yet he had no choice, so he went back to his room and got a hammer. He gave the key a couple of taps, then turned it. There was a sudden click. ‘At last!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s unlocked now, though heaven only knows why you’re so anxious to get in here at this time of night!’ Then, without waiting for an explanation, he went back to his room and shut the door behind him.

Sadiq gently pushed open the door.

The room was dark. She felt around for the light switch, but it wasn’t working. So she went back to the cellar, got the lantern and returned to her room.

White sheets had been draped over everything, even the carpet. They were covered with a thin layer of dust. Sadiq carefully removed the sheets and piled them up outside.

There was a bed, and next to that an old mirror. A chador was hanging on a coat-rack, and beneath it lay a worn pair of slippers. On the bedside table was a comb, a compact and a small make-up bag. The two shelves on the wall above the bed held a number of books. There was also a wood-burning stove — on top of which stood a tea glass and a bowl — and a cupboard with several dresses hanging inside.

Sadiq took two clean sheets out of the laundry room, fetched her suitcase, went back to the bedroom, set the suitcase down beside the cupboard, made up the bed, crawled under the covers, closed her eyes and went to sleep.

Early the next morning everyone saw her giving the room a thorough cleaning. She beat the carpet and washed the windows, and also had Shahbal fix the wiring.

That evening a light could be seen in the window of the room by the stairs. The coloured panes of glass cast a red, green and yellow glow on the ground beneath the window.

One night, after Aqa Jaan had seen Sadiq standing in the doorway with the red, green and yellow lights shining on her abdomen, he wrote in his journal, ‘Sadiq is pregnant.’

At the entrance to the bazaar policemen were busy putting up WANTED posters. Underneath the black-and-white pictures of four men with glasses and moustaches was written: ‘Escaped prisoners! Armed Communists! A reward of 10,000 toman offered for any tips as to their whereabouts.’

The same pictures had been printed on the front page of the local newspaper. ‘Four dangerous terrorists at loose in our city!’ read the caption.

People had crowded round the entrance to the bazaar and were standing in little groups, talking. They didn’t know the first thing about Communism, but they did know that Communists were dangerous people who didn’t believe in God.

The paper also printed an interview with a goatherd, who claimed to have seen the fugitives.

‘Were they armed?’ the interviewer asked.

‘Yes, they had rifles slung over their shoulders.’

‘Where did you run into them?’

‘I didn’t run into them. I was gathering my flock, chasing after a goat, when suddenly I saw four men on horseback. I could tell right away that they were strangers, because they were sitting in the saddle like sultans. You don’t see people like that in the mountains very often.’

‘Did you talk to them?’

‘Not at first. Only later. I didn’t get a look at their faces. They were going up the mountain, so I only saw them from behind. They were heading for the pass. I guess they were hoping to cross the border into Afghanistan. Suddenly one of them turned, rode down to where I was standing and asked me if I could give him some bread and milk.’