Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

The focal point of Senejan was no longer the bazaar, but the new boulevard, where a large equestrian statue of the shah had been erected.

The shah’s voice now reached almost every home in Senejan; even the thick old walls of the house of the mosque could no longer shut it out. Every time the shah gave a new speech in some part of the country, the authorities parked a jeep next to the mosque and broadcast the speech through a loudspeaker. All day long the shah’s voice would echo through the courtyard. Fakhri Sadat couldn’t understand why Aqa Jaan didn’t speak up and why Ahmad didn’t protest.

Recently the shah had visited the grave of Cyrus, the first king of the ancient Persian Empire, and said with great hubris, ‘Cyrus! King of kings! Sleep quietly, for I am awake!’ The jeep outside the mosque had broadcast the speech non-stop for an entire week.

‘Such gruelling days! Such gruelling nights!’ Aqa Jaan wrote in his journal. ‘It’s a great humiliation to us all, but there’s nothing I can do about it! I’m so ashamed that I hardly dare to show my face at the mosque.’

No one could keep the shah out of the house any longer. Even the pictures of him, which a helicopter had scattered over the city, had been blown into the courtyard by the wind. Lizard had picked up a couple of them and put them on Aqa Jaan’s desk.

One day Aqa Jaan was standing in the courtyard when he heard loud music coming from the house of Hajji Shishegar. Music in the house of the pious Shishegar? It must be a special occasion.

Aqa Jaan looked over and thought he saw a television aerial on Shishegar’s roof. A television aerial on the roof of one of the most respected glass merchants in the bazaar? Surely his eyes must be deceiving him?

There was another burst of noise.

Aqa Jaan went up the courtyard steps and carefully picked his way through the darkness until he was directly opposite his neighbour’s roof. No, his eyes hadn’t been deceiving him. A long aluminium aerial was poking up from the roof!

Hajji Shishegar had decided that he and his sons needed to keep abreast of the latest developments. He had been invited to the mayor’s inaugural banquet, where each of the guests had been given a portrait of the shah to take home. And that portrait, now in a gold frame, had been placed on the mantelpiece, directly above the television.

But why was such loud music coming from the hajji’s house?

Aqa Jaan crept over to the edge of the roof and peeked into his neighbour’s courtyard.

The hajji was giving a party, to which he’d invited his many friends and relatives. It was a hot evening — too hot to sit inside. Shishegar’s twin sons, dressed in long cotton tunics, were lying next to each other on a wooden bed, which had been carried out into the courtyard and set down by the hauz . A group of street musicians was playing an American pop song with a strong beat, and a few of the men were dancing hand in hand.

Apparently they were celebrating the circumcision of the hajji’s sons. The mother of the twins was talking gaily to her guests with her chador down around her shoulders and only a wispy scarf on her head. There was no sign of the hajji’s first wife and her seven daughters.

Bowls of biscuits and sweets had been placed here and there, and the children were chasing each other round the large courtyard. The hajji chatted with his guests and offered them biscuits. Every once in a while he snatched the camera out of the photographer’s hands, took a few shots of his sons, then flopped down on the bed beside them for the umpteenth time and shouted, ‘Take a picture of the three of us!’

At a certain point he rounded up a couple of other men, went into the living room and came back out with a huge cabinet television. They set it down by the hauz , under the tree that was sheltering his sons. The hajji switched it on and a group of female dancers from Tehran filled the screen. Everyone crowded round and stared at the dancers in awestruck silence.

Aqa Jaan retraced his steps until he was standing by the big blue dome. He touched its cold glazed tiles, then walked over to the edge of the roof, where he could look down into the courtyard of the mosque and see the hauz and the trees. He looked up at the minarets, but noticed to his surprise that there didn’t seem to be any storks, or even any nests. Maybe it was too dark to see them from where he was standing, Aqa Jaan thought, so he walked over to the other side of the roof to view the minarets from that angle. No, he hadn’t been mistaken: there was no trace whatsoever of the storks.

He opened the trapdoor in one of the minarets, climbed up the narrow stairs and stood at the top. There was a snap of twigs beneath his feet — all that remained of the stork nests. Something inside him snapped as well. He had grown old. This unexpected realisation took him by surprise. He looked out over the city. Coloured lights twinkled everywhere, and the giant portrait of the shah near the entrance to the bazaar was lit by floodlights. The cinema’s red and yellow neon lights were flashing on and off in the new centre of town. Although it was late, he could hear music and women’s voices drifting over from the boulevard.

When had the sounds of surahs disappeared from the city? He knew that the mosque, the bazaar and the Koran were up against a powerful enemy, but he hadn’t expected the regime to conquer Senejan quite so easily.

Where were the ayatollahs who had fought against the shah?

What had happened to the guerrillas who had been organised enough to arrange an escape from prison?

What changes had been brought about by the clandestine books read by Shahbal?

Where were the radios that had once railed against the regime?

Where was Khalkhal, who had fought the shah with such ferocity?

Where were the students who had wanted to change the world?

And where was Nosrat, who could have filmed all these changes?

These were quiet years. How could Aqa Jaan have known that a new era was going to dawn with dizzying swiftness? Or that a storm of destruction was heading his way? A raging storm that would lash him so hard that he would bend in trembling fear.

He climbed down the stairs, shut the trapdoor behind him and went into the courtyard, a broken man. He wanted to crawl in bed beside his wife and forget his troubles, but decided to go down to the river instead.

It was dark and quiet. Even the river wasn’t making a sound. He looked at the vineyards and at the mountains on the opposite bank. All was still. As he walked, he thought about his life.

He had been born in that house. He had devoted his life to the mosque and worked long hours at the bazaar, putting all of his energy and talent into the carpets. His daughters were grown, and Jawad, his only son, was no longer a boy, but a young man, studying for his exams so he could go to university. Aqa Jaan reminded himself that he had not yet been to Mecca, although it was his duty, as a man of means, to make the pilgrimage at least once in his life.

Everything had changed, and on top of that, Ahmad had damaged the reputation of the mosque.

There was an unexpected caw from the vineyard, and the crow flew back across the river. Aqa Jaan heard men’s voices and saw the silhouette of a veiled woman detach itself from the trees and walk towards the bridge.

Crazy Qodsi, he suddenly realised.

The silhouette stopped in the middle of the bridge.

‘Qodsi!’ Aqa Jaan called.

She hurried off. ‘Qodsi! Wait!’ he called. ‘What are you doing here so late at night?’ And he ran after her, stumbling through the darkness.

‘They will all die,’ Qodsi suddenly prophesied in a crow-like voice. ‘All of them except you.’