Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

The interrogator laid the tape down on the table in front of him. Nosrat paled when he saw it. He knew that the game was up and was gripped with fear.

What had he seen in the old woman that had made him suddenly, reluctantly, let his camera roll?

Batul was the wife of the most powerful man in the Shiite world, but she herself was utterly powerless.

Nosrat couldn’t explain how it had happened, but that powerless woman had silently forced him to film her, to record her movements, to preserve her image so that one day she might be shown to the world.

All her life Batul had worn a veil. No stranger had ever seen her hair, her hands or her feet. And that is why she sometimes felt the need to show herself.

At first Nosrat hadn’t realised what was going on. When he knocked on the door of their living room, Batul always opened the door and welcomed him with a smile. She was about twenty years younger than Khomeini, which you could clearly see in her face. She assumed the role of a gracious hostess — something devout wives didn’t ordinarily do — and yet Nosrat knew she wasn’t doing it because of him, but because of his camera.

Batul was beautiful, and she wanted her beauty to be noticed. She yearned to be seen through the lens of a camera.

Her wish was the same as that of every other Iranian woman who had suffered centuries of male oppression and had never been given the chance to display their beauty.

She and Nosrat had reached a tacit agreement. He filmed her in silence.

Thousands of pictures of Khomeini had been printed in the newspapers, but not even one small photograph of Batul had ever been published. It was as if she didn’t exist.

One scene on the videotape showed Batul standing by the window and looking out at the lake. She had exchanged her black chador for a milky white one with blue flowers. Nosrat zoomed in on her face, on the silvery hair that could just be seen. Then she slowly let her chador slip down to her shoulders. It was a revelation.

But it was another scene that sealed Nosrat’s fate. The door to Batul’s room had been standing ajar. He had filmed the room, showing in the corner a single bed and a night-stand, on top of which lay a small hand mirror and a blue tin of Nivea.

The interrogator picked up the video recorder and slammed it down so hard on Nosrat’s head that Nosrat crumpled, unconscious, to the floor.

After that it was silent.

Silence spread across the land.

Saddam Hussein stopped bombing the cities, and Khomeini no longer consulted the Koran to decide whether or not to advance further into Iraqi territory.

Silence reigned supreme. There were no more executions, and no more assassinations. Everyone was tired. Everyone needed a rest.

By the mountain!

Is this sorcery?

Is this sorcery

Or are you blind?

By a book inscribed

On an unrolled scroll.

By the much-visited house.

By the canopy raised high.

By the swirling sea of fire.

Woe, that day, deniers of truth!

The mountain, the mountain!

How many years had passed by? How many months had elapsed?

Who had come? Who had gone?

No one kept track of the years any more, and there was no point in counting the months. Time stood still for the grief-stricken, for the dead and for those who mourned them.

It also stood still for those who gardened to forget their grief and those who prepared hallowed dishes so their sorrow could be divided into more manageable portions.

The country seemed to be at rest. And yet one person, a man with a loaded gun tucked into his belt, was now riding through the desert on a camel so that he could mete out justice to the judge.

Once that had been done, the sorrow might truly come to an end. Only then would time again be set in motion and would we see how many years had passed since some had come and some had gone.

During the long period of silence, Khomeini gradually lost his memory. One day he no longer recognised even those closest to him.

Rafsanjani and Khamenei, the key men in his government, seized power and gradually forced Khomeini into the background.

Khalkhal had been the first to realise that Khomeini was becoming senile. One day he had knelt beside him and noticed with a shock that Khomeini no longer knew who he was.

Khalkhal was the only person at the top who operated independently. He was seen as an extension of Khomeini. As long as he was under Khomeini’s protection, he was powerful, but without it, he was nothing. It was time for him to step down.

Besides, the wave of executions had served its purpose. The regime had flexed its muscles sufficiently. It had driven the Iraqi occupier out of the country and eliminated the opposition. Now stability was called for. There was no more need for a judge as hated as Khalkhal.

The regime would have to find him another position, though that would be far from easy. Many people in the Mujahideen and the leftist movement knew about his role and about the heinous crimes committed on his orders. They were lying in wait, hoping to assassinate him.

If he’d been able to choose, he would have gone back to Qom to teach Islamic law at a seminary, but that was out of the question now. He knew that his mission was coming to an end, just as it had for Khomeini.

Khomeini wasn’t dead yet, but he belonged to the past. Khalkhal had no future, and the present had no need of him. He would have to go back to the past. The only question was how.

Fortunately, Khomeini’s successors did find a way to send Khalkhal back to the past. The Taliban were busy setting up an Islamic regime in neighbouring Afghanistan, using force to impose an antiquated sharia on the country.

In those days there were close ties between the Taliban and the ayatollahs in Iran. They met from time to time to discuss how to go about strengthening their position against their common enemy: the West.

The regime came up with the idea of offering Khalkhal’s services to the Taliban. After all, the fanatical Taliban would consider him an asset.

It was a perfect solution, and Khalkhal eagerly accepted it. The Taliban’s extremism appealed to him, so he packed his bags and, disguised as a merchant with a hat and a beard, took the train to the border city of Mashhad, where he spent the night at an inn. The next evening a Taliban fighter picked him up and drove him — now clad in traditional Afghan garb — across the border and on to Kabul, where the leader of the Taliban gave him a warm welcome and offered him a house.

Khalkhal’s life changed completely. He was now able to breathe more freely. Officially he worked for the Municipal Archives. In secret, however, he was an important figure in the Taliban hierarchy.

He enjoyed the anonymity of Kabul. At last things were quiet enough for him to devote more time to Islamic law. He spent his days in the ancient library of the Municipal Archives, studying the Islamic documents that had been sent to him specially from the royal libraries of Saudi Arabia. After a few months he married an Afghan woman and began to adjust to married life.

He was happy. His new life suited him. He walked freely through Kabul and went into the shops, something he’d never done before. He also spent a lot of time visiting his in-laws. No one knew about his past. To the outside world, he was an Islamic researcher writing a book on the history of Islam.

He didn’t realise that people were still looking for him and that his crimes had not been forgotten.

Shahbal was one of the people searching for Khalkhal. Unfortunately, the trail had gone cold.

Only three members of the steering committee of Shahbal’s party were left. The others had all been arrested or executed or forced to flee. During the last hurried meeting of the remaining members, Shahbal had been ordered to liquidate Khalkhal. Later it appeared that this was the last decision ever taken by his party.