Kader Abdolah - The House of the Mosque

That evening the former servant delivered a message to Fakhri Sadat. ‘Some of the women would like to come by and say hello,’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’

‘Which women?’ Fakhri asked, surprised.

‘The ones who used to weave carpets for you.’

The women of the village had always looked up to Fakhri, admiring her beauty and pleasing manners. She was still well liked.

‘What time would they like to come?’

‘Now, if it’s convenient.’

Aqa Jaan retreated to Kazem Khan’s library.

The old women were the first to enter the house. They kissed Fakhri Sadat and seated themselves on the floor. Then more women came in, this time in groups. They too kissed Fakhri and sat down. Fakhri was astonished. She knew most of the women by sight, since they had all worked for them at one time or another, but then a group of seven women came in and embraced her. These were the girls who had once woven sample carpets for her.

‘What a lovely surprise!’ Fakhri exclaimed. ‘Your visit brings the light back into my heart. I wasn’t expecting this. I thought you’d all forgotten me.’

One of the old women stood up to speak. ‘Fakhri,’ she began, ‘you’ve suffered a lot of pain. We know that. You lost your son, and we denied him a burial place. We’ll have to live with that for the rest of our lives. Tonight we’ve come to ask you to stop mourning. We’ve brought you a dress. We beg you to put away your mourning clothes and wear this dress instead. We should have done this a long time ago.’

The woman handed her a brightly coloured floral-print dress. Fakhri looked down at her black mourning clothes with tears in her eyes. She was speechless. She wept silently, her hand covering her mouth.

Just as she was about to go upstairs and show her new dress to Aqa Jaan, she saw a group of men coming up the steps. They were the village elders, all of whom had at one time worked for Aqa Jaan.

One of them knocked on the library door and asked if they could come in.

‘Please do,’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘You’re more than welcome!’

They trooped into the library and sat down on the creaking chairs by the window. After a long pause, one of the men spoke up: ‘Aqa Jaan, almost every family in the village lost a son during the war. Our children are all buried in the cemetery. We refused your son a grave, and that troubles us greatly. Please forgive us!’

‘God is all-knowing and all-forgiving,’ Aqa Jaan said soothingly. ‘I’ve never blamed you. Your visit has eased my pain. I’ve always believed in human goodness. Thank you all for coming here today.’

The old man took out a white shirt. ‘The time for mourning has come to an end,’ he said. ‘Please accept this gift and put your black shirt away.’

That night in bed, Fakhri lay her head on Aqa Jaan’s chest. ‘What a lovely evening,’ she said. ‘I’m so happy! Now I can come and visit our village again!’

They looked out of the window at the star-filled sky.

‘The villagers have made amends. The older ones have learned from their experiences, and it’s made them wise. The rich traditions of this place have served as the basis of their wisdom. They know how to heal old wounds.’

‘Some of the women are coming over tomorrow to put a henna rinse in my hair,’ Fakhri said excitedly. ‘It’s supposed to bring good luck.’

‘I’m glad,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘You deserve to be happy.’

And they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Aqa Jaan was awakened the next morning by the chirping of the birds. After his prayer, he put on the white shirt the villagers had given him and strolled around the garden. He felt good. He looked at the blossom-laden trees and felt the strength flowing back to his legs. He stopped by Kazem Khan’s grave, knelt down, picked up a pebble, tapped it against the tombstone and recited one of his uncle’s poems:

Ruzgaar ast keh gah ‘ezzat dehad

Gah khaar daarad

Charkhi baazigar az-in baazichehaa besyaar daarad.

And so life toys with you,

Sometimes loving you,

Sometimes humiliating you.

A delightful breeze was blowing from the mountains. Suddenly Aqa Jaan remembered last night’s dream. He’d dreamed of Hushang Khan.

Hushang Khan was an old friend of his, a nobleman who lived high up in the mountains. Khan was the man who had come to their rescue that night, the man who had driven up in his jeep and taken Jawad’s body away for burial.

He lived in an old fortress in a village that belonged to him, a village far away from all the other villages in the mountains.

Aqa Jaan had not been back to the mountains since the night that Hushang Khan had driven off with Jawad’s body. He knew that patience was called for, that one day the time would come.

Now, as he knelt by his uncle’s grave, he remembered his dream. The strong scent of the blossoms sent memories of Jawad, of his sweet smell, wafting through Aqa Jaan’s soul.

He led one of the horses out of the stable, heaved himself into the saddle and galloped off towards Sawoj-Bolagh.

Hushang Khan was about sixty years old. The son of a powerful nobleman, he was a remarkable individual who had turned his back on his father and refused to have anything to do with the regime of the shah.

Hushang had four wives, each of whom had borne him five children. He had turned his domain into a kind of closed colony, which was almost entirely self-sufficient. He owned a jeep and a few tractors, and raised cows, horses and sheep. There was a small winery in the cellar of his house, where he produced wine for his own consumption.

He had no contact with the outside world, except for friends who came to see him from time to time. His circle of friends included writers, poets and musicians from such places as Isfahan, Yazd, Shiraz and Kashan. To them his door was always open. They hiked through the mountains with him, smoked his opium, drank his home-made wine and enjoyed the fruit from his garden.

There was no road to his village. Somehow he managed to get his battered jeep over the rocks and up the steep inclines, but no one else even tried. His guests usually took a bus to Jirya and hired mules to take them the rest of the way.

Hushang Khan had once been a student in Paris and had lived there for a long time. One day, however, he’d simply packed his bags and returned to the mountains.

He always wore knee-high boots, a French beret and cologne from Paris. Every morning he climbed to the top of the mountain to see the sunrise. He kept his radio tuned to a French station, so he could listen to the news and the music.

Even though he had four wives, he lived in the fortress by himself, surrounded by his belongings.

The mountains around Sawoj-Bolagh were enveloped in mystery. There was a crater in the highest mountain, and an ancient volcano still belched out smoke. The fortress, which had been built on the slope of one of the mountains, overlooked an arid valley.

On the way to the fortress there were three mysterious caves, each of which housed a remnant of Persian history. In the deepest recesses of the first cave was a simple stone statue of King Shapur, an early Sassanid king. Carved in the wall of the second was a lion battling the king of the Achaemenids, who was seated on a bull. The third cave contained a chiselled relief depicting King Darius — the greatest king of all.

Green flags emblazoned with Koran verses fluttered outside the entrance to the caves, to welcome the pilgrims who made their way up the mountainside on mules to see the carvings.

Eagles soared high above the caves, keeping an eye on all that went on. The pilgrims liked to think of them as the guardians of the caves.