Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

And now here he was in Charles de Gaulle Airport, leaning on a trolley by a baggage carousel.

After they had all collected their bags, the owner of the largest Persian carpet emporium in Paris drove them to a house in Neauphle-le-Château, where he had arranged for them to stay.

Approximately sixty years ago, Khomeini had left his native village and gone to Qom to become an imam.

In those days there were no cars in his village, much less roads for them to drive on. He walked through the mountains to the city of Arak, where he was planning to take a stagecoach to Qom, for it was not until decades later that Reza Khan, the father of the present shah, modernised the country and, with the help of the British, built a railway system.

When Khomeini reached Arak, he was surprised to see a lorry filled with pilgrims on their way to the holy city of Qom. The Armenian driver offered him a lift. It turned out to be an unforgettable trip, but when Khomeini finally reached Qom after the bumpy ride through the hills, he felt sick from the diesel fumes.

Later, after becoming an ayatollah, he had himself driven around in an elegant Mercedes, but every time he stepped into the car and caught a whiff of diesel fuel, his nausea returned.

And now, as he was being driven to the quiet suburb through the streets of Paris, he smelled it again.

Beheshti, who had organised everything in advance, pulled out his appointment book and picked up the phone.

He dialled the number of a young Iranian journalist who worked for the American television network ABC and informed her that Khomeini had moved from Najaf to Paris. He explained that from now on the ayatollah would be leading the revolution from Paris and offered her a scoop: ABC could be the first network to interview Khomeini in Paris, but she had to decide quickly, or else he would call the BBC.

The next day an ABC van pulled up in front of Khomeini’s house in Paris.

It was late afternoon in the city, but early evening in Iran.

Am Ramazan rode excitedly into the alley, hopped down from his donkey and hurried into Aqa Jaan’s study. ‘Khomeini is in Paris!’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s going to be on television any moment now!’

‘He’s where?’

‘We can watch it in the Hajji Taghi Khan Mosque. Are you coming?’

Aqa Jaan didn’t want to go to the Hajji Taghi Khan. It was the mosque everyone was going to these days. It had become the centre of political upheaval in Senejan.

Only the elderly still attended Aqa Jaan’s mosque. But the Hajji Taghi Khan Mosque was so full that people had to stand outside. Young imams from Qom held fiery speeches there every night, whipping the masses into such frenzy that they poured out into the streets to demonstrate.

‘I’m sorry,’ Aqa Jaan said to Am Ramazan, ‘I’m busy right now. I’ll come later.’

And yet he was curious. He felt obliged to be a witness. To see everything, record it in his journal and save it for posterity. He had to be there. So he put on his coat and hat and set off for the Hajji Taghi Khan.

The mosque was packed and hundreds of people were milling around outside the gate. He sought a dark corner where he wouldn’t be noticed, then reproached himself: ‘You’re not a thief, so why are you hiding in the dark? Go in and see what’s happening.’

He pushed his way through the crowd. The men were in the courtyard, the women in the prayer room.

At a certain point he realised he wasn’t making any headway, so he turned round and went up to the roof. There he found a spot with a good view of the mosque. Three large television sets had been mounted high up on the wall so everyone could watch the unprecedented event.

Aqa Jaan was reminded of the portable television that Shahbal had brought home years ago so that he and Alsaberi could watch the moon landing. The conversation he’d had with Shahbal was still fixed firmly in his mind.

‘May I have a word with you, Aqa Jaan?’ Shahbal had asked him.

‘Of course, my boy. What’s on your mind?’

‘The moon.’

‘The moon?’

‘No, I mean, television.’

‘Television?’ Aqa Jaan had said in surprise.

‘An imam needs to know what’s going on. He has to keep up with current events,’ Shahbal had replied.

Alsaberi had died and Khalkhal had taken his place. Then Ahmad had come, and now there was this.

There was a flurry of movement by the gate.

‘ Salla ala Mohammad wa ale Mohammad! ’ shouted the men standing in the street.

Aqa Jaan looked down at the gate. A group of bearded men in stylish suits came into the courtyard and ushered a young imam over to the television screens, where Khomeini’s interview would soon be shown. Aqa Jaan recognised the men: they were the merchants who had taken control of the bazaar.

A woman came up to the men in the suits, exchanged a few words with them and went back into the prayer room. It was Zinat, but because she was so far away and wearing a black chador like the other women, Aqa Jaan hadn’t recognised her.

A young bearded man switched on the television sets. The crowd held its breath, and people craned their necks to get a better view.

At first the camera showed the quiet streets of Neauphle-le-Château. Then you saw a couple of French women go into a supermarket. Next a school bus drew up to a bus shelter, where you could see a brightly coloured ad of a sleek young French woman. Two girls with rucksacks got out of the bus and stared straight into the lens. The camera then panned to a house and showed the trees, the pergola, the garden.

At last Khomeini appeared on the screen. He was sitting on a Persian rug.

The crowd in the mosque went wild and shouted in one voice, ‘ Salaam bar Khomeini! Salaam bar Khomeini! ’

Back in those days you couldn’t watch a live foreign broadcast on Iran’s state-controlled television network, but the organisers had put a satellite dish on the roof of the mosque. The images were being beamed in from neighbouring Iraq.

The camera zoomed in on Khomeini’s face. It was the first time people had actually seen the ageing ayatollah who wanted to oust the Americans.

Few people knew Khomeini personally, and no recent pictures of him had ever been published. Since no one knew exactly what he looked like, the camera stayed on his face for a long time. He had a long grey beard, and his face glowed in the light of the cameras, which made him look like a saint.

He started to stand up. Someone — probably one of the camera crew — offered him a helping hand, but he waved it away and got to his feet unaided.

He went out into the garden, where two rugs — a large one and a small one — had already been spread on the ground. He took off his shoes and stepped onto the small rug. Then he reached into his pocket, took out a compass and tried to find the east, but couldn’t see the needle. So he patiently put on his glasses, consulted the compass, and turned to face Mecca.

Beheshti was standing behind him, on the large rug. Khalkhal had deliberately kept out of sight. He knew that, as Khomeini’s most loyal adviser, it would be better to remain anonymous.

Khomeini’s wife, Batul, shrouded from head to foot in a black chador, came out for the prayer and took her place behind Beheshti. The camera focused on her for a moment, and she stood as still as a statue. Then the scene shifted to a green hedge, where a few French women and their children were watching in amazement.

Within days a horde of journalists from all over the globe descended on Neauphle-le-Château, thereby focusing the attention of the world on the approaching revolution.

Until then Beheshti and Khalkhal had been the only men at Khomeini’s side, but within twenty-four hours of the interview seven more arrived from America, Germany, England and Paris. For a while they formed the new Revolutionary Council.