Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

Shahbal was anxious to avenge Jawad’s death. He couldn’t forget the long cold night in the mountains when he and Aqa Jaan had gone in search of a grave. The humiliation was unbearable. He had to do something, or he’d never have another peaceful night. Only after this deed had been done would he be able to pick up the thread of his life again.

Since the shooting of Ayatollah Araki, no one in the family knew where Shahbal was. Aqa Jaan thought he’d fled the country and was living in Europe or America.

But Shahbal hadn’t fled. He was still in Tehran. He’d grown a beard and was driving one of the city’s many orange taxis. It was too risky for the members of the underground movement to drive their own cars, so they generally relied on taxis to get them where they wanted to go.

Shahbal had been driving the taxi ever since he joined the editorial board of the party’s newspaper. He used it not only to get around the city, but also to earn a living.

So as not to jeopardise its security, the steering committee no longer held any meetings. Instead, the handful of members who were left occasionally exchanged information at a teahouse in Tehran’s bazaar. During one of these brief encounters, Shahbal was told that Khalkhal was living in Kabul.

‘I should have guessed!’ he said. ‘Who gave you this information?’

‘The Tudeh Party,’ answered one of the men, and he handed him a piece of paper with Khalkhal’s address on it.

The Tudeh Party had also been disbanded, after having been all but decimated by the regime. However, former members of this Russian-oriented party still had contacts with Iran’s Communist neighbour to the north, the Soviet Union.

Shahbal knew what he had to do.

During the years of the Communist regime in Afghanistan, the leftist underground groups in Iran had developed strong ties with Afghan sympathisers. After the takeover by the Taliban, most — but not all — of the Communists had fled to the Soviet Union. It took Shahbal several months to arrange to be smuggled into the country by a group of Afghan rebels.

One night he rode through the desert on a camel until he reached the Afghan border. He left the camel in the stable of an inn, then walked to a rendezvous point, where an Afghan was waiting for him on the other side of a barbed-wire fence. After they had exchanged passwords, the man showed him where to crawl under the wire and into Afghanistan.

He hopped onto the back of the man’s motorcycle and they drove for half an hour until they reached a shepherd’s hut. The Afghan went in and came back out with a set of clothes. After Shahbal had changed into the traditional Afghan garb, they drove to the nearest town, so he could catch a bus to Kabul in the morning.

Even though it was autumn, it was snowing high up in the mountains. An icy wind lashed Shahbal’s face. The man bought him some fresh bread and dates and made sure he boarded the bus.

After many gruelling hours of winding mountain roads and endless stops, the bus finally reached the centre of Kabul. Shahbal got out and went to a café to get something to eat. He ordered a bowl of thick soup and gulped down several glasses of freshly brewed tea.

He’d hardly slept for the last three nights, so he went to a small hotel near the café and crawled into bed, only waking when the desk clerk knocked on the door the next morning to make sure he was all right. Because the hotel didn’t have a bath or shower, he wandered around looking for a bathhouse. Before he’d gone far, he came across a mosque, where he managed to scrub off most of the dirt and grime. After that he had lunch in a nearby teahouse.

The Municipal Archives were only a few blocks away. The building was closed to the public, but Shahbal could see lights on inside.

Khalkhal’s office was on the top floor. He was the only person there. His desk was by the window, so every time he looked up from his work he could see people walking in the street. He went to work early in the morning like the other employees, but when the building closed at four, he worked on for another hour. He was always the last to leave.

Shahbal recognised him the moment he came out, despite his Afghan clothes. He had gained a lot of weight, but Shahbal knew it was Khalkhal from the way he walked.

Night had just fallen. Shahbal followed him, keeping safely out of sight. Khalkhal went into a bakery and came out with a fresh loaf of bread under his arm. Then he strolled over to a street vendor and bought a bunch of grapes — the last of the season. Shahbal followed him all the way home, then checked the surroundings and returned to his hotel.

The next evening, Shahbal went back to the house. He was hoping Khalkhal would be alone, but when he looked through the window, he saw him sitting on the floor with his Afghan wife, eating dinner.

Shahbal couldn’t wait. He had to act quickly, before the Afghan secret police found out he was here. He walked around for a while, to allow Khalkhal time to finish his meal.

The next time he looked through the window, he saw the woman in the kitchen. There was a light on upstairs. It was now or never, so he crawled through the window and tiptoed towards the kitchen, but the woman, who was doing the washing-up, must have heard him, because she turned. Her eyes widened in fright when she saw a man with a gun standing in the doorway. Before she could scream, however, Shahbal grabbed her and clamped his hand over her mouth. ‘Don’t scream!’ he whispered. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Listen to me. Your husband is an Iranian criminal, who ordered the execution of hundreds of innocent people. Don’t make a sound, and you won’t get hurt. Do you understand my Persian?’

The terrified woman nodded.

‘I don’t have much time. I’m going to tie you up and put some tape over your mouth. If you move, I will shoot you. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

Again, the woman nodded.

‘Good,’ he said, and he tied her up and left her sitting on the kitchen floor. Then he tiptoed up the stairs to the room where he’d seen the light.

At the top of the stairs he peered through the crack in the door, holding his gun firmly in his hand. Khalkhal, wearing his reading glasses, was sitting at a desk, reading a book and taking notes.

Shahbal opened the door softly and went in. Khalkhal, thinking it was his wife with the tea, didn’t look up. But when he didn’t hear her voice, he took off his glasses, turned around and saw an Afghan pointing a gun at him.

‘Don’t move!’ Shahbal ordered.

The moment he heard the Persian words, Khalkhal knew that his attacker wasn’t an Afghan. Dumbstruck, he stared at Shahbal.

Shahbal took off his Afghan cap. ‘Mohammad Al Khalkhal! Allah’s so-called judge!’ he said, his voice as cold as ice. ‘I have been ordered by the Underground Court to execute you!’

Khalkhal recognised Shahbal and tried to speak, but his mouth had gone dry. He knew that the end had come. No one could help him now. He mumbled a few words.

‘What did you say?’ Shahbal asked.

Khalkhal pointed to the glass of water on the table.

‘Go ahead,’ Shahbal said.

His hand trembling, Khalkhal took a sip of water.

‘May I stand and face Mecca?’ he asked, in a flat voice.

‘Yes, you may.’

Khalkhal stood up. He took one step in the direction of the window and, turning towards Mecca in the waning light, began to chant:

The companions of the right,

And the companions of the left.

Shahbal fired. The bullet struck Khalkhal in the chest and sent him reeling. He clutched the windowsill for support and went on chanting:

Oh, he who strives for Him shall meet Him.

When the heavens are rent asunder

And the stars are scattered—