Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

He would have liked to share his grief with his uncle, but Aqa Jaan looked so preoccupied he didn’t dare disturb him. Instead, he kept driving silently towards the mountains.

‘Do you have a plan?’ he asked after a while.

‘We’re taking him to Marzjaran,’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘Marzjaran?’ Shahbal was surprised. ‘Whatever for? The villagers are all Khomeini supporters. We can’t ask them for a grave!’

Aqa Jaan made no reply, and Shahbal knew from his uncle’s silence that he must have consulted the Koran before leaving, opening it to a random page and letting his finger fall on a random verse. Since his decision was based on faith and superstition, rather than on reality, further discussion was pointless.

The track wasn’t really meant for cars. Actually, it wasn’t a track at all, but a couple of ruts left by the local bus.

Marzjaran, the village closest to the city, lay at the foot of the mountains, behind the first foothill. Shahbal drove up the hill and cautiously wound his way down the other side. He could already see a few scattered houses.

It was cold. The tall mountain peaks were covered in snow. Darkness hadn’t fallen yet, but the mountains cast a dark shadow over the village. The houses were made of stone: if you didn’t know there was a village there, it would be indistinguishable from the rocks. When they got nearer, they saw smoke coming out of the chimney of the bathhouse — the only sign of life.

In a place like this, people were always waiting: for someone to come or for someone to leave, for a birth or for death.

Sleepy Marzjaran was forever waiting for an event of some kind. Only then did it wake up and stir itself.

Shahbal drove into the village. There was no need to announce their arrival. An unfamiliar vehicle driving down the hill was sure to be noticed. After all, who would come here in the dead of winter? It had to be an enemy, a fugitive or a man in search of a grave.

Suddenly they heard barking. A pack of dogs bounded furiously off a boulder and came charging towards them, followed by three warmly dressed men with rifles.

‘Allah!’ Aqa Jaan exclaimed.

The dogs barked and blocked the road, while the men approached the van.

‘Stay here,’ Aqa Jaan said to Shahbal as he got out.

He went up to the men, intending to talk to them, to tell them that he knew the imam of their village. He put out his hand, but they ignored him, choosing instead to march over to the driver’s side and glare at Shahbal. Then they moved to the back, obviously intending to open the rear doors.

Aqa Jaan hurried round to the back, the frantically barking dogs at his heels. Shahbal leapt out of the van, but Aqa Jaan swiftly pushed the men aside and stood with his back to the doors. One of the men grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him away, while the other two swung open the doors. One of the dogs jumped inside and sank its teeth into the shroud. Shahbal grabbed the jack, which had been lying next to the body, and hit the dog so hard that it sprang out of the van, whimpering.

Shahbal was livid. He shoved the men away from the door and positioned himself in front of it, guarding the body, his hand wrapped tightly round the jack.

Outraged at his bold behaviour in their village, all three men attacked him. Aqa Jaan tried to stop them, but they were too strong. Shahbal did his best to ward off the blows until a group of villagers, awakened by the noise, finally separated them.

Aqa Jaan raised his hands in supplication. ‘I’m begging you for a grave,’ he said. ‘I have the body of my son with me.’

No one made a move or said a word. It was as if they were made of stone. Three statues stared at him in disbelief.

‘There are no graves for sinners here!’ one of them exclaimed. ‘Go away!’

‘I’m begging you for—’

‘Go away, I said!’ the man roared, and he strode angrily towards Aqa Jaan. Shahbal snatched up the jack, but Aqa Jaan took it from him. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

They got in the van, and Shahbal turned it around.

When they had put enough distance between themselves and the village, Shahbal glanced over at his uncle. He was huddled in his seat — a broken man. He could tell by the way he was huddled in his seat. Aqa Jaan had turned to his Koran for advice, and it had let him down. He looked like an old bird that no longer dared to fly.

Darkness had fallen. Shahbal drove aimlessly through the mountains, not knowing where to go until Aqa Jaan suddenly sat upright and took the Holy Book out of his pocket. He had obviously found his strength again. He opened his Koran and slid his fingers down the page like a blind man. After a few minutes, he said calmly, ‘We’ll go to Saruq.’ Then he slipped the book back into his pocket.

Shahbal disagreed. There was no difference between Saruq and the village they had just been to. They could go to a hundred different villages, and the result would always be the same.

Aqa Jaan didn’t want to bury his son without honour. He was hoping to find an official grave for him, but it was asking the impossible.

After a while Shahbal broke the silence. ‘They won’t help you there either,’ he said. ‘We need to accept it.’

Aqa Jaan remained silent, pretending he hadn’t heard him.

Saruq’s cemetery lay outside the village, in a remote and bleak spot.

‘Wait here,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘I’d better go into the village by myself.’

Shahbal got out, stood next to the van and watched his uncle walk towards the houses. He’s right, he thought to himself, I’m ashamed I didn’t think of it sooner. We haven’t done anything wrong! Jawad mustn’t be buried in secret!

He picked up the jack and waited. Then he heard voices and saw five men carrying lanterns. They were old men, walking side by side with Aqa Jaan. There were no dogs.

He could tell by the set of Aqa Jaan’s shoulders that he hadn’t been able to convince them either. They were friends, escorting him out of the village as an expression of sympathy. But they knew that there were informers and spies everywhere and that there would be hell to pay if they allowed the body to be buried in their village.

They came up to Shahbal to say hello and offer their condolences, but Shahbal was in no mood for sympathy. He was furious, and filled with a sense of helplessness. He opened the van door and sat behind the wheel. Aqa Jaan said goodbye to the men and climbed in beside Shahbal.

They had just driven off when they heard a shout.

‘Stop!’ said Aqa Jaan.

Shahbal stopped. Aqa Jaan rolled down the window. One of the men came running up, panting. ‘You should go and see Rahmanali,’ he said. ‘He’s the only one who can help you.’

Aqa Jaan nodded a few times to show his agreement.

‘Drive to Jirya,’ Aqa Jaan said to Shahbal. ‘We’re going to see Rahmanali.’

Jirya was indeed the most likely place for them to find a grave, because the village lay within the family’s domain. Many of Aqa Jaan and Fakhri Sadat’s relatives still lived there, and it was also where Kazem Khan was buried.

They should probably have driven straight to Jirya to begin with, but the Koran had not pointed them in that direction. Now that Rahmanali’s name had come up, Aqa Jaan was sure it was the right place.

Rahmanali was a wizened old man with a long grey beard. He was one hundred and four years old and reputed to be a holy man. It was said that he performed miracles and brought dying children back to life. His word was law in Jirya, and everyone knew it. Anybody who asked him for refuge was sure of safety. His house had been declared holy by the villagers, and they were proud of him. When no one else could be counted on, Aqa Jaan could always go to Rahmanali. They knew each other well. Aqa Jaan often stopped by to see him when he was in Jirya and gave him money whenever he needed it.