Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Aqa Jaan?’

‘He’s bright, and I trust him. As you know, he’s a good boy. It’ll be our little secret. It won’t take long. He’ll remove the television the moment the programme is over.’

‘But if the ayatollahs in Qom find out we had a television in our house, they’ll—’

‘Nobody’s going to find out. It’s our house and our city. We can decide how we do things here. The boy’s right: almost everyone who comes to our mosque has a television. And although it’s taboo in this house, we mustn’t lock ourselves inside and close our eyes to what’s happening in the world.’

The grandmothers watched from behind the kitchen curtains as Shahbal stole through the darkness and carried a box into the library.

Shahbal greeted the imam and Aqa Jaan. Then, ignoring their curious stares, he took a portable television out of the box and placed it on a table by the wall. Next he took out a long cable, plugged one end of it into the back of the television, carried the other end outside and climbed up a ladder to the roof, where he’d already rigged up a temporary aerial. He attached the cable to the aerial, made sure it couldn’t be seen and went back to the library.

First he locked the door behind him, then he placed two chairs in front of the television. ‘You might want to sit here,’ he said.

After the imam and Aqa Jaan had taken their seats, he turned on the television and switched off the lights. Then he lowered the sound and gave a brief introduction: ‘What we’re about to see is actually taking place right now in outer space. Apollo 11 is orbiting the moon. The lunar module will be landing soon. It’s a historic moment. Look, there it is! Oh, my God!’

Aqa Jaan and the imam leaned forward in their seats and stared at the vehicle as it touched down on the lunar surface. There was a hushed silence.

‘Something’s going on in the library,’ Golbanu said to Golebeh. ‘Something important that even we aren’t supposed to know about.’

‘The boy climbed the ladder to the roof, hid something there and hurried back down,’ Golebeh said. ‘Then the lights in the library went out. What are they doing there in the dark?’

‘Let’s go and see.’

They crept through the darkness and stopped by the library.

‘Look! There’s an electrical cord running down from the roof and into the library.’

‘An electrical cord?’

They tiptoed over to the window, but the curtains were closed. They walked softly past the window and stopped at the door. A mysterious silver glow was shining through the crack.

They put their ears to the door.

‘Impossible!’ they heard the imam exclaim.

‘Incredible!’ they heard Aqa Jaan exclaim.

They looked through the keyhole, but all they could see was an eerie glow.

Frustrated, they tiptoed away and vanished into the darkness of the courtyard.

Along with spring comes Nowruz , the Persian New Year. Originally a royal feast, the lavish celebration of spring dates back to the first Persian kings.

Spring cleaning begins two weeks before Nowruz . To welcome the new season, wheat is sown on plates and the sabzeh — wheat sprouts — are placed on the table. New clothes and shoes are bought for the children to wear on their visits to relatives, especially grandparents.

The women of the household are in charge of the preparations. Only when everything has been arranged to their satisfaction do they devote some time to their own appearance.

In the house of the mosque a few extra people had been brought in to help the grandmothers clean the house for Nowruz . An elderly hairdresser had also come over to beautify the women. Her job was to cut their hair, pluck their eyebrows and remove excess facial hair.

She had been doing this for more than fifty years. The first time she had come — she must have been about ten or twelve — had been in the company of her mother. Later, when her mother died, she took over the business. Before long, she had become a confidante of the women of the house.

Whenever she was there, certain sections of the house were off-limits to the men. The women’s laughter could be heard all day long. They walked around the house without their veils and crossed the courtyard with bare legs. The grandmothers pampered them, bringing them lemonade, hookahs and other treats.

The hairdresser told them the latest gossip. Since she made the rounds of the wealthiest families in the city, she had a good idea of what was going on in the women’s world. She always arrived with a suitcase full of perfume, hair dye, make-up, nail scissors, hairpins and other products that were for sale. Her wares were not the run-of-the-mill kind you could buy in the bazaar. Her son was a migrant worker in Kuwait, and every time he came home, he filled his suitcase with exclusive products for his mother’s clients.

Today she had come to cut the hair of Fakhri Sadat, the wife of Aqa Jaan. Fakhri Sadat was popular in the well-to-do circles to which she belonged. Sometimes she helped the grandmothers in the kitchen or sewed clothes for her children. When they were small, she read out loud to them. In fact, she spent most of her time reading, especially the books and women’s magazines that her brother-in-law Nosrat brought her from Tehran.

During the autumn, when there was a spell of good weather, she trapped migrating birds. On those days the grandmothers went down into the cellar and helped her bring up a snare — a large wicker basket attached to a long rope. Then Fakhri Sadat scattered some grain in the courtyard, sat in a chair by the hauz and waited for the birds. Eventually a flock of birds flew in from the other side of the mountains and landed in the courtyard. When a bird pecked its way into the basket in search of food, Fakhri Sadat yanked the rope, and the snare snapped shut.

Fakhri Sadat kept the trapped birds for several days in the Bird Room. She fed them, talked to them, examined their feathers and sketched the intricate patterns on a sheet of drawing paper. When she was working, everyone tiptoed around and talked in whispers. Afterwards, when the drawings were done, she set the birds free.

The hairdresser had just finished waxing Fakhri Sadat’s legs when the crow flew down and perched on the edge of the roof, cawing loudly to bring its news.

No one knew how old the crow was, but references to it in the mosque’s archives went back a century. The crow was part of the house, like the dome, the minarets, the roofs, the cedar tree and the hauz , whose water it drank.

Fakhri sat up. ‘ Salaam , crow!’ she said. ‘Do you have good news? Who’s on the way? Who’s coming to see us?’

As evening fell, the caretaker emerged from the mosque. Behind him was Imam Alsaberi, dressed in festive clothes. They usually entered the house through the courtyard gate, but today they went up the stone steps and walked across the flat roof — perhaps because it was made of a mixture of desert clay and plants that gave off a delightful smell in springtime.

‘Do I have time for a quick nap?’ Alsaberi asked the grandmothers when he reached the courtyard. ‘I don’t feel well.’

‘Yes,’ Golbanu replied, ‘you’ve got about half an hour. We’re waiting for Aqa Jaan. When he gets home, we’ll go to the banquet room. At midnight we’ll all meet in the courtyard for the New Year’s prayer. Meanwhile, we’re going to lay a few carpets on the ground. I’ll wake you up in time.’

A taxi stopped in front of the gate. The children raced outside. ‘Uncle Nosrat’s here!’ they shouted.

Fakhri Sadat opened the window of her second-floor bedroom and looked out. Nosrat wasn’t alone; he had brought along a young woman. Fakhri flung on her chador and went downstairs.