Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

‘What was it about?’

‘The Russian Revolution.’

‘What’s so illegal about that?’

‘It was written by Maxim Gorky.’

‘Who’s Maxim Gorky?’

‘A Russian writer. Any student who’s found with a subversive book like that in his possession gets sentenced to six months in jail. But luckily for your nephew, you and I know each other. We need each other in this town, so I’m letting him go. As a favour to you.’

‘Thank you, I understand. I’ll speak to him when he gets home and warn him not to do it again,’ Aqa Jaan said, and he stood up.

When Shahbal came home a while later, Aqa Jaan called him into his study. ‘You own a transistor radio and you listen to Radio Moscow. What’s the meaning of this? Why didn’t I know about it?’

‘The police overreacted. Everyone has a television these days, and radios are everywhere. People listen to broadcasts from all over the world. I listen to everything I can. Not just the Iranian channels, but also Radio Moscow, the Voice of America and the BBC.’

‘They found a Communist book on you.’

‘It was a novel, a made-up story. Books are books, what does it matter? Besides, the chief constable can’t tell me what I can and cannot read!’

‘Oh, yes he can. He had you arrested!’

‘He can arrest me, but he can’t force me to do what he wants.’

‘What were you doing in the Red Village so late at night?’

‘That’s another story. I should have mentioned it, but I couldn’t decide whether or not to tell you. Something’s been bothering me, but perhaps this isn’t the best time to go into it. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. Then again, not telling you is just as bad.’

‘You can tell me, Shahbal.’

‘I’ve been struggling with this for a long time. I’m filled with so many doubts that it’s all I can think about.’

‘Doubts about what?’

‘About everything! I hesitate to tell you, because I still can’t make up my mind. But the thing is, I… well, I’ve stopped going to mosque.’

‘No, you haven’t. I see you there every day.’

‘I don’t mean physically, I mean mentally. I’m there all right, but when I turn to face Mecca, I’m thinking about completely different things.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘I don’t dare put them into words. That’s why I think that it might be better for me to take a break from the mosque and the prayers.’

‘Everyone has doubts. That’s no reason to get so upset.’

‘I’m past the doubting stage,’ Shahbal said. ‘I don’t feel at home in the mosque any more. I’ve lost my faith.’

Shahbal watched as Aqa Jaan slumped in his chair and slipped his hand in his jacket to touch his pocket Koran.

‘I’ve hurt you,’ Shahbal said softly. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Your news does indeed hurt me,’ Aqa Jaan replied, ‘but I went through a similar phase once. It will pass. Young people are especially prone to doubts. In my day there were no radios or televisions or tempting books, all of which have a great influence on people. But I’m not worried, because I haven’t filled your head with strange ideas that would cause you to turn your back on God. All I can do is wait. But you should remember this: I’m not mistaken, I trust you, I believe in you. It’s only human to have doubts. But you’re tired. Go and get some sleep. We’ll discuss it another time.’

Shahbal turned to leave. He had tears in his eyes. Yet Aqa Jaan surprised him with one last question: ‘Do you know anything about those four escaped men?’

‘No!’ Shahbal said. But Aqa Jaan could tell from the tone of his voice that he was hiding something.

Early the next morning Aqa Jaan was on his way to the bazaar when he ran into Crazy Qodsi.

‘How are you, Qodsi?’

‘Fine.’

‘How’s your mother?’

‘Fine,’ she said.

‘Do you have any news for me?’

‘The Moshiri girl sometimes goes down the street with her bare bottom hanging out.’

He didn’t understand what she was saying. Moshiri was one of the richest carpet merchants in the bazaar. His twenty-four-year-old daughter was mentally ill, which is why he never let her leave the house.

‘The Moshiri girl sometimes does what? Would you repeat that?’ Aqa Jaan asked.

Qodsi brought her face close to his and whispered, ‘You have ghosts in your mosque.’

‘Ghosts? Bare bottoms? Come now, Qodsi. You can do better than that!’

But she had already disappeared through the nearest open door.

The police had received a tip about some suspicious goings-on in the cellar of the mosque. They were convinced that the guerrillas were hiding in the crypt. So one evening two policemen slipped into the mosque disguised as young imams and lined up for the prayer along with the other worshippers.

Afterwards the policemen lingered and struck up a conversation with the substitute imam. They told him that they were from Isfahan, and that they were spending the night at an inn in Senejan before going on to the holy city of Qom.

The elderly imam invited them to his rooms for tea. He explained that he was only filling in for Alsaberi’s son, who, if all went well, would graduate from the seminary at the end of the year and take his father’s place. The policemen sipped their tea and kept their eyes on the courtyard.

‘Does anyone else live here, or do you live alone?’

‘I’m the only one living in the mosque, but the caretaker is around a lot. The mosque is his life. I’m grateful he’s so dedicated; he does the work of ten men. He gets here early in the morning and goes home late at night.’

‘I think I hear a noise in the cellar,’ said one of the policemen, inventing an excuse to go outside and look around.

‘This mosque is old, very old. It has many secrets. Don’t ask me who goes in and out of the cellar. Ancient mosques are always full of mystery. Sometimes I hear strange sounds, like footsteps in the night, or faint voices. The mosque has a life of its own. You have to ignore such sounds when you sleep here. You have to bury your head in your pillow and close your eyes.’

At the end of the evening, the policemen heard footsteps in the courtyard. They stood up, said goodbye and stole through the darkness to the cellar, where they crouched down and peeked through a small window.

The shadow of a man with a candle in his hand glided into the cellar. He seemed to be looking for something, or perhaps he was carrying out a ritual. In any case he was holding an object in his left hand, though they couldn’t tell what it was or see exactly what he was doing. He was either talking to himself or to someone else as he headed towards the darker regions of the cellar. They heard a door open, and the shadow disappeared.

They tiptoed into the cellar, crept cautiously down the stairs and stood stock-still, listening to the silence. They didn’t dare switch on their torches. They inched their way towards the place where they had last seen the shadow, taking care not to trip over the tombstones. As they approached the door, they heard a faint voice and saw a yellow strip of light beneath it.

They stopped. The voice — or voices — wasn’t very clear. It sounded like someone reading something aloud or telling a story. They pressed their ears to the door and heard snatches of something that made no sense to them at all:

Suckle him.

If you fear for him,

Cast him into the river.

Fear not,

And do not grieve,

For We shall restore him to you.

Suddenly they heard a woman scream. They stared at each other in sheer terror, not knowing whether the shriek had come from the mosque or from the cellar. They raced up the stairs, making as little noise as possible, and hurriedly left the mosque.