Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

They bumped and bounced along a narrow dirt track, afraid that the van would slide into a ravine or get stuck in a rut. Jirya was high up in the mountains, near the snow, and the cold was unbearable. The heater did nothing to dispel the chill. Aqa Jaan kept casting worried glances at the body in the back.

Just before they reached Jirya, Aqa Jaan turned to Shahbal. ‘Switch off your lights and pull in behind this rock. We’re not going to drive into the village. I’ll go and look for Rahmanali, while you stay here.’

‘Let me do it,’ Shahbal said.

‘It will be better if I talk to him.’

‘I don’t want you going there alone.’

‘What else can we do? We can’t leave the body here by itself.’

‘I don’t trust anyone, not even in this village. Times have changed. If someone sees you, they’ll know what you’ve come for.’

Aqa Jaan’s hand slid into his pocket, making sure he still had his Koran.

‘We don’t have a choice. I’ll manage,’ he said, and he left.

He trudged through the snow and across the wooden bridge that spanned the river. By coming in on foot, he wouldn’t alert the dogs. The icy wind blowing across the snow lashed his hands and face.

One thought was uppermost in his mind: let me reach Rahmanali before the fundamentalists see me. If they try to stop me, I’ll yell his name so loudly that Rahmanali will be sure to hear it, even if he’s sleeping more soundly than he ever has in his life.

He entered the village as quietly as he could. There were four blocks to go before he reached the square where Rahmanali lived.

The dogs had picked up his scent. An unfamiliar smell in the middle of a cold winter night spelled trouble. A dog behind him suddenly began to bark. It was bound to wake up the entire village. What should he do: run or keep walking? At the second block a huge black dog jumped over a wooden fence. ‘Allah!’ He burst into a run.

Every dog in the village was now barking like mad. The black dog was chasing after him, so Aqa Jaan speeded up. Ahead of him he saw a group of surprised villagers. Two men tried to bar his way, but he pushed them aside. ‘Rahmanali!’ he shouted. He was running as hard as he could. His heart was pounding in his throat, and his eyes were so filled with tears he couldn’t see a thing. Blindly, he headed towards the square. Everyone knew where he was going.

‘Al-l-a-a-a-a-a-h! Rahmanali! Refuge! I’m seeking refuge for my son!’

Three armed men suddenly came out of an alley. One of them hit Aqa Jaan on the back of his leg, so that he tripped and fell in the snow. ‘Who are you?’ the man demanded, and he shone a torch in Aqa Jaan’s face.

They recognised him immediately, helped him to his feet and walked him back to the van, where a few villagers were gathered on top of the rocks.

This was preposterous. Aqa Jaan couldn’t believe it was really happening. This was his village. His family was buried here. Why were they treating him like this? The revolution had brought out the worst in people. You couldn’t trust anyone any more, not even your own brother or sister. He’d read a lot of books about the lives of kings, so he knew that such people had always existed. Treachery and wickedness were part of human nature.

Aqa Jaan climbed back in and Shahbal turned the van around.

‘Let’s go home,’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘Home?’

‘I’ll bury him in the courtyard, under the cedar tree.’

Shahbal wanted to say something, but he couldn’t find the words.

He carefully wound his way down the mountain. Eagles were soaring overhead — their first flight of the day. They had been awakened by the sun, which was slowly beginning to rise over the mountain peaks. The light wouldn’t reach the city for at least another hour.

They needed to hurry, but Shahbal didn’t dare drive faster. Every time he braked, the van skidded and Jawad’s body bumped against the front seat.

Suddenly, a mile or so behind him, he saw a car. The driver was flashing his lights. Aqa Jaan had noticed it too. ‘Pull over. Something must be wrong.’

Shahbal stopped and they got out. He grabbed the torch and signalled to let the driver know he’d seen him.

The car vanished behind a few rocks, then came back into view.

‘It’s a jeep!’ Shahbal exclaimed.

The jeep stopped. The driver turned off the lights and got out. It was a man, wearing ordinary clothes, except for a French beret and knee-high boots. He rushed over to Aqa Jaan, uttered a gentle ‘ Salaam ’, embraced him and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Give me the body,’ he said. ‘I’ll bury Jawad on my estate. But we’ve got to hurry. It’ll soon be light.’

Shahbal was puzzled. The man was obviously an old friend of Aqa Jaan’s, but Shahbal didn’t know him.

‘Help me get him into the jeep,’ the man said to Shahbal.

Working together, the three of them loaded the body into the jeep.

The man embraced Aqa Jaan again, patted Shahbal on the back, hopped into his jeep, skilfully turned the vehicle around and drove off into the mountains.

Aqa Jaan and Shahbal stood by the empty van and watched until the jeep had melted into the darkness. The eagles circled the van one last time, then flew up high into the sky.

The house was shrouded in grief, as though a black chador had been drawn over it. No one talked, no one cried, no one broke the silence. Except for one person who chanted the All-Wise, All-Knowing surah over and over again:

Oh, you, you are possessed!

There is nothing, but we have its treasures with Us,

And We send it down only in fixed measures.

We send forth the pollinating winds,

While they are heavy laden.

All-Wise! All-Knowing!

It is We who give life and death.

It is We who know those who came before

And those who shall come after.

Sorrow wilted the plants, a few of the fish floated belly-up in the hauz , and the old cat died on the roof of the mosque.

Meanwhile, there had been a wave of executions. The opponents of the regime were buried outside the cities, at the foot of the mountains. No one was allowed to visit their graves. The eyes of the nation were focused on the martyrs at the front. Week after week, hundreds of bodies were transported to the cities during the Friday prayer.

The crow was the first to break the silence in the house. It flew up into the air and cawed loudly, signalling the arrival of a visitor.

Fakhri Sadat was in the kitchen, cooking dinner. Lizard opened the front gate.

An unknown man in a worn suit and hat came in and walked towards the hauz .

Fakhri Sadat stared in surprise at the stranger walking so calmly past her window.

The man stopped by the hauz and stared at the fish. Then he strolled around the courtyard with his hands behind his back, pausing first by the stairs, then peering through the window of the guest room, and at last continuing on to the Opium Room, where he tried the door to see if it was unlocked.

Fakhri Sadat opened the kitchen window. ‘Are you looking for someone, sir?’

He didn’t answer, but moved in the direction of the library.

Fakhri wanted to run after him and find out what he was up to, but she was frightened.

‘Muezzin!’ she called. ‘A stranger is wandering around the courtyard! Will you come up here and find out what he wants?’

Lizard, who had been lying under the tree and keeping an eye on the visitor, scuttled down to the cellar to fetch Muezzin.

The man disappeared behind the tree, where Fakhri couldn’t see him.

Suddenly she heard a loud banging noise.