Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

Shahbal fired two more shots. Khalkhal’s hand jerked up and he let go of the sill, then keeled over. As he lay writhing on the floor, he chanted almost unintelligibly:

The first to come will be the first to arrive,

And they shall be nearest to Him

In the Gardens of Bliss.

Shahbal raced down the stairs and quickly untied the woman. ‘Go!’ he said. ‘Run to your family!’

The woman fled the house.

Shahbal let himself out, hurried down to the corner and turned left. Then he slowed his steps and walked calmly through the dark alleys to the centre of Kabul. There he bought a loaf of freshly baked bread and a bunch of grapes, then boarded the late-night bus to Pakistan.

The bus drove through the dimly lit streets. Kabul was beautiful. One day he would come back to this mysterious city.

Alef Lam Mim Ra. Years went by, and the house’s sorrow grew like the trees in the garden.

The American hostages had long ago returned to their own homes and their own beds. Khomeini had died.

The war had ended, and America — having failed to achieve its objective through Saddam — had grounded its spy planes.

The migratory birds still flocked to the city and flew over the house of the mosque, but since no grain had been put out for them, they continued on their way.

Aqa Jaan’s daughters were living in Tehran. They had been quietly married during the frantic years of the war and the executions. Ensi had given birth to a son, whom she named Jawad in honour of her brother. She came home from time to time with her husband and laid the baby in her mother’s arms.

Fakhri Sadat, who had once thought she would never get over her grief, kissed her grandson. ‘Aqa Jaan!’ she called excitedly one day. ‘Come and look! He’s the spitting image of Jawad!’

The old crow heard her and circled above the house. The fish in the hauz leapt out of the water for joy, the cedar tree smiled and stood a bit straighter, the birds flew down and perched on its branches, and the wind blew the fresh smell of spring wildflowers down from the mountains. Aqa Jaan put on his hat and coat, picked up his walking stick and went off to the bazaar to buy a box of biscuits.

When was the last time he’d blithely bought a box of biscuits?

It had been the day the grandmothers left for Mecca.

On one of those lovely spring days, Aqa Jaan drove his old Ford out of the garage and, for the first time in his life, washed it himself. He put Fakhri Sadat’s suitcase in the boot and helped her into the front seat, then slid behind the wheel and drove to Jirya.

At one time almost all the women in Jirya, young and old alike, had woven carpets for Aqa Jaan and given him a royal welcome whenever he visited the village. There had also been a time, however, when they refused to give him a grave for his son.

Fortunately, those days were now over, for when he parked his car and he and Fakhri Sadat crossed the village square, the villagers made way for them and bowed respectfully.

Now that the wave of violence had stopped, the war had ended and the dust of the revolution had settled, people were able to take stock. They could see what the years of strife had cost them. Families had been destroyed by political division and death. Prisons were crammed with opponents of the regime. Unemployment had soared and food was scarce.

Aqa Jaan had never told Fakhri what had happened that night in the village, but she had heard the story from her relatives.

‘I still don’t understand how people can change from one day to the next,’ she said, as they walked towards the house that used to belong to her father.

‘They’re simple people. Most of them are illiterate. The shah did nothing to help them, and neither will the ayatollahs. I don’t blame them. Besides, this is where we have our roots. Our dead are buried here. When things go well, we get the credit; when things go badly, we get the blame.’

The Islamic Army had commandeered their ancestral home, so they spent their first night at the house in which Fakhri had grown up. It now belonged to her sister.

The next day they set out for Kazem Khan’s house, strolling side by side through the almond groves. The trees were covered with pale pink blossoms, and the birds twittered merrily, as if they were celebrating the end of the sorrowful era. The old part of the village was the same as ever, but young couples had started building houses on the hills.

Jirya was known for two things: carpets and saffron. Sweet-smelling saffron flourished on these hills. In the old days, when the only way to get to Kazem Khan’s house was by horseback, the hillsides had been covered with yellow saffron plants. Now the lower slopes were dotted with hundreds of simple stone cottages. During the shah’s reign, people had started to build a water reservoir on the highest hill, but the project had long since been abandoned.

‘The almond trees have become old and gnarled,’ Fakhri remarked.

‘So have I,’ Aqa Jaan replied.

Before the onset of winter, the village girls used to go out to the hills and pick the saffron threads, which were as valuable as gold. They sang happily as they worked, and at the end of the day their hands were stained a brownish yellow and their bodies smelled of saffron.

The girls from Jirya were popular with the boys from other villages. Their suitors soon discovered, however, that Jirya girls were reluctant to leave the village.

During the long cold winters, the girls stayed inside and wove carpets. When spring came, they flung open the windows, and then you could hear them giggling and singing.

The windows were open now, but there wasn’t a sound. Singing was no longer allowed.

Aqa Jaan and Fakhri Sadat passed an old walnut tree, a sign that they weren’t far from Kazem Khan’s house, which had been built on an elevation overlooking the saffron hills.

In the distance they saw two men on horseback galloping towards them. When the men were nearly upon them, they reined in the horses, dismounted and led the horses over to Aqa Jaan. There was a strong family resemblance between the two men. They bowed and said salaam to Aqa Jaan, then fell silent.

Aqa Jaan didn’t recognise them. He shot a quizzical glance at Fakhri.

‘It’s the two deaf sons of the couple who used to work for Kazem Khan,’ she said, and she smiled.

Aqa Jaan returned their greeting and, gesturing, asked after their wives and children.

The men signed back that their wives were doing well and that the children had grown. ‘The horses are for you,’ one of the men gestured. ‘To use while you’re staying here.’

Aqa Jaan smiled at Fakhri. ‘They’re offering you a horse,’ he said. ‘Do you think you’re up to it?’

‘Absolutely not!’ Fakhri said, and she laughed. ‘You might still be able to ride, but I can’t. I’m not as young as I used to be. I wouldn’t dare get on a horse these days!’

‘Their wives have invited you for a visit,’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘Good, I accept with pleasure,’ Fakhri signed. ‘Tell them I’ll come.’

The men handed over the reins and started back home on foot.

Kazem Khan’s house glittered like a jewel among the gnarled trees, as was only proper for the house of the village poet. Kazem Khan had been buried at the bottom of the garden, beneath the almond trees. His grave was now blanketed with blossoms.

When Kazem Khan was still alive, the birds used to sit outside the window of his opium room and sing until he opened the window and let out the smoke. After he’d finished his pipe, he’d say, ‘Go home now, birds, and sleep well!’ And off they’d fly.

Kazem Kahn’s former servants had readied the house for Aqa Jaan and Fakhri. They ate outside, talking about Kazem Khan and laughing at how he used to win the hearts of the mountain women by writing them poems.