Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

‘I’ve never had the time to look through these trunks.’

‘That’s enough for today. Go and wash your hands. I’ve just made tea.’

He washed his hands and face in the hauz and went into the kitchen to drink tea with Fakhri.

‘Be patient,’ Aqa Jaan advised her, when she began to moan about her children’s future.

‘How can I be patient when all three of my children have left home with no future prospects and we don’t even know where they are half the time?’

‘Our children are not the only ones. Thousands of others are suffering the same fate. That’s how life has always been and always will be. The only remedy for that is patience.’

‘Your faith gives you the strength to be patient, but it doesn’t help me. I’m weak and filled with doubts. I hardly dare to say it, but I doubt if God sees our struggles.’

‘Be strong, Fakhri. Don’t stray into the darkness. You need to hold on to your serenity.’

‘Everyone acts out of self-interest, everyone tries to protect his own territory. You’re the only person who’s always been honest, and where has it got you? The cellar! You used to be the most important man in the bazaar, your word was gold, and how do you spend your time now? Rummaging through the junk in the cellar!’

‘I wish you wouldn’t put it like that,’ Aqa Jaan said, stung.

‘I’m sorry, but you know what I mean. My point is, where are your friends, the powerful men of the bazaar? Why aren’t they doing anything to help you?’

‘I don’t need their help,’ Aqa Jaan retorted.

‘Everyone has abandoned you. Where’s Zinat? Where’s Muezzin? And, most of all, where’s your brother Nosrat? Have you heard from him lately?’

At that very moment, Nosrat was standing in the shower, thinking about the contribution he could make to Persian cinema. He knew he’d never achieve anything without Khomeini’s approval.

Then, while the water was pounding on his head, he had a brilliant idea. ‘A cow!’ he shouted out loud. ‘That’s it!’ He turned off the water, grabbed a towel, dried himself, got dressed and hurried outside, where he hailed a taxi and had himself driven to the former palace that now served as Beheshti’s headquarters.

Nine months had gone by since the beginning of the revolution and Khomeini still hadn’t decided what he was going to do about the cinemas. They had been boarded shut and, like the brothels, declared unclean.

Nosrat and Beheshti had worked so closely together that they were on familiar terms. Beheshti had nothing against cinemas. When he lived in Germany, he used to sneak off occasionally to see a film. Still, he didn’t think this was the right time to broach the subject with Khomeini.

‘But I’ve got the perfect solution,’ Nosrat said to Beheshti. ‘All we have to do is take the imam to see a film. That way he can see for himself that a cinema and a brothel are two very different things.’

‘Be realistic,’ Beheshti said. ‘What film could we show him that would make him approve of the cinema?’

‘ The Cow !’ Nosrat said.

‘The cow?’

‘The very first honest-to-goodness Persian film. I’d even go so far as to say that it’s an Islamic film.’

‘And it’s called The Cow ?’

‘Yes, The Cow ! It’s a Persian classic. It’s not a masterpiece, mind you, but it’s the best film to show the imam. After all, the archetype of the Cow is familiar to every Persian, even to Imam Khomeini. I’ll line up a cinema, and you can make sure the imam gets there. Islam could have a great influence on the film industry. I have big plans. If Khomeini approves of the film, an independent film industry will spring up from the heart of our culture. The Shiites have a unique way of looking at things. With our ancient Persian culture as our guide, we’ll soon conquer cinemas all over the world!’

‘We can talk about the rest of the world another time. First we have to convince the imam to see the film.’

‘We’d better hurry. There’s not much time. Now that the cinemas have been boarded up, the carpet merchants have launched a nationwide campaign to buy up the buildings and convert them into mosques.’

‘We’ll never get the imam to set foot in a cinema.’

‘Then we’ll do it the other way round. We’ll bring the cinema to the imam.’

Beheshti smiled. ‘That’s a good idea,’ he said.

‘This is history in the making. Khomeini will like the film. It takes place in the countryside. It’ll remind him of his youth.’

The next evening Nosrat showed up at Khomeini’s residence in the northern hills of Tehran, carrying a projector and balancing a screen on his shoulder.

Beheshti ushered him into the imam’s study. Khomeini was sitting on a rug, leaning against the wall with a cushion at his back.

Since the revolution, Nosrat had grown a beard and his hair had turned grey. He’d also started wearing an artsy kind of hat. People usually knelt before Khomeini and kissed his hand, but Nosrat was an exception. He took off his hat and gave the ayatollah a brief nod.

Beheshti introduced him. ‘This is the cameraman whose coverage of the revolution was broadcast all over the globe. He’s very reliable. He comes from a good, pious family and has interesting ideas about the cinema. I’ll leave you two alone.’

When Beheshti had gone, there was a silence.

Nosrat put down his things and looked for a place to hang up the screen. He took a hammer out of his pocket and, without asking permission, nailed the white screen to one of the walls with two small nails.

He moved a table away from the wall and set his projector on it. Then he placed a chair in the middle of the room and turned to Khomeini. ‘Would you please sit in this chair?’

‘I’m fine where I am,’ Khomeini said, somewhat irritated.

‘I know, but the chair is part of the experience.’

Khomeini stared at him in astonishment. No one had ever spoken to him like that before. But he knew that Nosrat was a photographer, and he also knew that there were two people you should always listen to: your doctor and the photographer. So he got up and seated himself in the chair.

Nosrat closed the curtains and turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness.

Then he switched on the projector.

The reel began to turn. It was an old black-and-white film. The first image to appear on the screen was that of a cow. It mooed — something Khomeini hadn’t been expecting. Then a farmer came into view. He kissed the cow on the head, stroked its neck and said, ‘You’re my cow. My very own sweet cow. Come, let’s go for a walk.’

The farmer set off, and the cow followed him to the pasture. There the farmer took out an old-fashioned pipe, sat down beneath a shady tree and began to smoke. He gazed contentedly at his grazing cow. Then a woman in a headscarf appeared.

‘ Salaam aleikum , Mashadi!’

‘ Salaam aleikum , Baji. Come and sit in the shade, it’s hot today. I was just about to take my cow to the river. It was too hot for the poor thing in the cowshed. How are you doing, Baji?’

The woman sat down beside him in the shade of the tree, and they stared at the cow in companionable silence.

There was nothing fanciful in the film, and yet there were several magical scenes, in which you could see ordinary village life. The story itself was simple, but what made it so moving were the villagers’ primitive living conditions.

It was a fitting film for Khomeini’s new Islamic Republic, because there wasn’t a single sign of modern life in the village. The women all wore chadors and the Koran reigned supreme. There was no running water or electricity. No music could be heard and no one owned a radio. It was the perfect film for Khomeini to begin with. He could recognise himself, his parents and his former fellow villagers in the film.