“Well sir, why should I lie? It’s like it was . . . that, sir.”
Shamsali heaved a contented sigh and a satisfied smile spread across his face, exactly as if, after hours of cross-examining a dangerous witness, he had extracted a confession from him. He glanced triumphantly to right and left and then said, “The answer to the first question has been given. Let us proceed to the second question.”
In answer to the second question, as to which person the sound had originated from, Mash Qasem paused for a while and then said, “Well, sir, why should I lie . . . to the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . I was listenin’ to the Master who was describin’ the Battle of Kazerun . . . he was sayin’ he’d just taken aim at the middle of Khodadad Khan’s forehead, he’d pulled the trigger and the first bullet’d missed and whizzed past Khodadad Khan’s ear . . .”
Uncle colonel interrupted, “Mash Qasem, my brother hadn’t got that far, he’d only got as far as taking aim at Khodadad Khan’s head.”
“Yes indeed, sir, but as I’ve seen it with my own eyes, I was just describin’ the rest of it for you.”
“That’s not necessary. Just answer his excellency’s questions.”
“Well, sir, why should I lie? When the sound came I was payin’ attention to the Master. I turned round and I saw that gentleman was there and also Miss Qamar. Now, was it him or was it her? Why should I lie . . . to the grave it’s . . .”
At this point uncle colonel cut Mash Qasem off, “I’ve thought of something. If Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh will agree to it . . . that is, if she could make a small sacrifice for the sacred unity of the family . . .”
“What have I got to do?”
“Be so kind as to agree that we tell my older brother that this trivial thing originated from Miss Qamar.”
“I don’t follow. What about Qamar?”
“I’m just suggesting that if we tell my older brother that Qamar wasn’t feeling very well that night, the business . . .”
It dawned on Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh what was being suggested. For a moment she pursed her lips and was silent. Then suddenly a storm of screams and curses directed at uncle colonel and the rest of the family began, “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Aren’t you ashamed to say such things to me, with my white hair? My daughter? My daughter do such a thing?”
She screamed so much that everyone was upset and took great pains to calm her down. Her fury abated but she started to cry, “I’ve brought that girl up like a flower . . . and now a suitor’s appeared for her . . . and it’s all ready to be agreed . . . and her own family are ready to throw a spanner in the works . . . they want to drag her name in the mud . . . to think I’d live to see such a thing . . . to hell with their damn family unity . . .”
Everyone was completely silent for a moment, more out of respect for the bad luck of Qamar’s future husband and Aziz al-Saltaneh’s future son-in-law, than out of regret that the matter still wasn’t solved. The first sound to be heard was from Mrs. Farrokh Laqa, one of the family’s foul-mouthed, gossiping busybodies. She interfered in everyone’s business, and her interpretations of the smallest matters set off arguments and fights. Everyone was surprised that she hadn’t said anything until this point. In the complete silence that followed Aziz al-Saltaneh’s yelling and crying she suddenly opened her mouth and said, “You’re quite right, my dear. These people don’t care at all about a girl’s reputation or about her future.”
Aziz al-Saltaneh didn’t let her finish her sentence; wiping her eyes with her handkerchief she said, “Thank you, thank you, dear. They just don’t understand how much trouble’s involved in bringing up a girl and finding her a husband.”
Mrs. Farrokh Laqa, who always wore black and normally only went to religious gatherings, continued in her usual calm, dry voice, “By the way, my dear, how was it that things didn’t work out with Qamar’s first husband? It seems the wedding was never . . . ?”
“Well, my dear, I’ve her family to thank for that, too . . . they put a spell on her husband . . . they padlocked him . . . my poor little orphan waited a year . . . and her husband was dying to have her . . . but there it is, dear, when they padlock a man what a terrible thing it is . . .”
Shapur, uncle colonel’s son, who was quietly sitting in a corner of the room, started to splutter and asked, “Aunty dear, what does padlocking someone mean?”
It was a stupid question. Even we children had heard the expression so often from Aziz al-Saltaneh, and the women of the family had gossiped about it so much, that we’d realized what was meant. But before anyone involved in the matter could answer, Asadollah Mirza said, “Moment! You, at your age, don’t know what padlocking someone means?”
Shapur, a.k.a. Puri, for all his genius, answered, “How should I know?”
Asadollah Mirza winked and with a laugh said, “It means he couldn’t manage San Francisco!”
With this explanation even the little children, who were clustered behind the door, realized what was implied. Asadollah Mirza had a habit of shouting out, whenever he or someone else was telling a sexy story and the girl and boy went off together, “And then it was San Francisco time” or “And then off they went to San Francisco.”
After his explanation, his loud laugh rang out and he said, “If they’d said before, I could have done something for him . . . whatever happens I’ve a fine bunch of keys for opening these padlocks . . . as far as the family’s concerned, I’m ready to make any kind of sacrifice!”
Everyone burst out laughing at his joke, even the sullen Shamsali Mirza. Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh gritted her teeth for a moment and then suddenly hurled a plate with a slice of watermelon on it into the middle of the room and yelled, “Have you no shame? Aren’t you ashamed in front of me with my white hair . . . God damn you and your bunch of keys!”
And with no further hesitation she stood up and made for the sitting room door. The next moment the door was flung open and we were able to see very clearly what was going on. Uncle colonel wanted to head her off but Aziz al-Saltaneh struck him on the chest with the flat of her hand and left the sitting room in high dudgeon.
After she had gone everyone blamed Asadollah, either by looks or with sharp words, but he wasn’t backing down and said, “Moment, moment . . . don’t attack me unfairly . . . I said this out of pure public spiritedness so that if a new suitor should accidentally find himself padlocked, they’ll know that when it comes to my own kith and kin, I’m at their service.”
And again he roared with laughter.
Uncle colonel quieted him with an angry look and said, “This is no time for joking. Now can you suggest what we should do to get my older brother to climb down from his high horse. Whatever happens, this state of enmity and argument in the family can’t go on.”
To make up for his levity, Asadollah said in a very serious voice, “Let’s get back to the dubious sound. I just want to know how it’s so obvious that the dubious sound didn’t in fact originate with Qamar. A big fat girl like that who—God bless her and keep her and more power to her elbow—eats three times the amount I do, it’s possible . . . it’s possible that for once . . .”
Shamsali Mirza flared up again and angrily said, “As this case is now a matter of laughter and tomfoolery, your humble servant, with his friends’ permission . . .”
“Moment, moment . . . my dear brother, I beg you not to get angry . . . I’m very seriously looking for a solution. I want to ask the colonel here why, in principle, he has to have Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh’s agreement? You yourself can tell the Master that it was Qamar who did it.”
This suggestion set everyone thinking. Well, yes, really and truly, what reason was there that they should tell Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh at all?
After a moment uncle colonel said, “But since I’ve tried so hard to make peace between my older brother and my sister’s husband, he won’t believe me. How would it be i
f we asked Naser al-Hokama to do it?”
This idea pleased everyone and they sent Mash Qasem to find Dr. Naser al-Hokama, who had a house opposite our garden and who had been our family doctor for years. It didn’t take long before Naser al-Hokama, with his puffy eyes and many-layered double chin, appeared; his habitual phrase was “Your good health.”
To everyone present he bowed his head and said, “Your good health . . . Your good health . . .”
When uncle colonel explained the situation to him, he accepted virtually without any objection and even—for the sake of his own conscience—unhesitatingly considered the poor girl to be the actual perpetrator of the act.
“Yes sir, yes, I’ve told Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh so many times that Miss Qamar should be examined. The girl is overweight, she eats too much, things that cause flatulence . . . and she’s not entirely all there. It’s natural that, as she’s not entirely all there, when there’s flatulence in her stomach these unfortunate things will happen.”
Dr. Naser al-Hokama, surrounded by expressions of gratitude from uncle colonel and everyone else, and repeating “Your good health,” set off for Dear Uncle Napoleon’s house.
Half an hour passed with Asadollah’s jokes and dirty stories. Dr. Naser al-Hokama’s head appeared round the door. He looked very cheerful and satisfied.
“Your good health . . . praise God, the misunderstanding has been cleared up. The Master is very sorry that he judged too hastily. He promised that tomorrow he will make it up to you. Of course I had to work quite hard at it . . . I even swore on the soul of my late father that I myself had heard the sound with my own ears that night and that I had correctly diagnosed its cause.”
Everyone, and especially uncle colonel, was indescribably pleased, but I more than anyone felt I was about to burst for joy. I wanted to kiss the doctor’s hand. Asadollah started snapping his fingers and with a great guffaw promised he was going to propose the doctor as a member of the League of Nations and I laughed at his fooling around from the bottom of my heart. As he was getting up to go Asadollah Mirza laughingly said, “Moment! The unity of the family has been preserved, but be careful that none of this reaches the ears of Qamar’s suitor because this time the padlock will snap shut automatically, and if there’s no San Francisco this time, Aziz al-Saltaneh will be out for everyone’s key and padlock!”
While those present were busy saying goodbye to uncle colonel, I caught sight of the sad, frowning face of Puri, the great genius. I felt in my bones that he was very upset that the crisis had been resolved. But I was so happy that I paid no attention to his situation and I ran toward our house to tell my father the good news. My father didn’t show much pleasure or joy and under his breath he muttered, “It’s really true that ignorance is bliss.”
My mother started begging and pleading again, “Now that he’s calmed down, you calm down, too. God knows I’d die for you, dear, but for your dead father’s sake, let it go.”
It was night and I’d no hope of seeing Layli now, but thinking of her and hoping to see her in my dreams, I lay peacefully down to sleep.
THREE
I DON’T KNOW how long had passed before I was suddenly awakened by the sound of a distant cry. Some one was shouting out intermittently, as if he were being smothered, “Thief . . . thie . . . thie . . . thief . . .”
I jumped up. My mother and father had also both woken up. We listened attentively. There could be no doubt that it was Dear Uncle Napoleon’s voice, calling from the balcony that overlooked the garden. Suddenly the sound stopped and was followed by the noise of running and a general uproar. My mother and father and I and my sister leapt out of our mosquito nets. Our servant grabbed a stake for holding up a mosquito net and ran off toward Dear Uncle’s garden and we ran after him in our night clothes.
Mash Qasem, who had just woken up, opened the door of Dear Uncle’s inner apartments for us. Layli was standing terrified next to her brother in the doorway of one of the rooms.
“What’s happened, Mash Qasem?”
“Well sir, why should I lie . . . I . . .”
“Was it the Master’s voice?”
“Looks like it was the Master’s voice.”
We ran through various rooms toward the balcony where Dear Uncle slept at nights on his great wooden bed. But the door between the verandah and Dear Uncle’s room had been locked from the other side. However much they pounded on the door, no answer came, and the door didn’t open.
Mash Qasem struck himself on the head, “My God, they’ve kidnapped the Master.”
Layli’s mother, who was a relatively young woman, shouted, “Sir . . . sir, where are you? God help us, they’ve kidnapped him!”
My father tried to calm her down.
Layli’s mother was Dear Uncle’s second wife. Dear Uncle had divorced his first wife, after they had been together for thirteen years, because she couldn’t have children. This divorce had had a profound affect on the whole of Dear Uncle’s life, on account of its similarity to the separation of Napoleon Bonaparte and Josephine after thirteen years together as husband and wife. Later we realized that Dear Uncle had foreseen the resemblance between his own fate and the French emperor’s largely on the basis of this analogy.
On my father’s orders, Mash Qasem brought a ladder and up it quickly climbed first Mash Qasem, behind him my father and, with a rifle in his hand, uncle colonel, who had arrived in a shirt and white longjohns, then Puri and me. On one side of the bed the string holding up the mosquito net had snapped, and the net itself which was only attached by two strings had fallen down at the side. But there was no sign of Dear Uncle Napoleon. In a trembling voice Layli’s mother called up from below, “What’s happened? Is the Master there? Open that door!”
“Well, ma’am, why should I lie . . . it’s like the Master’s turned to smoke, he’s disappeared into thin air . . .”
At this moment a faint moaning became audible. Everyone looked this way and that. The moaning sound came from beneath the bed. Before everyone else my father bent double and peered under the bed.
“Well, I . . . what are you doing under there, sir?
Again a voice could be heard but the words were indistinguishable. It was as if Dear Uncle were tongue-tied. My father and Mash Qasem, with everyone else’s help, moved the bed a little to one side, got hold of Dear Uncle under the arms, dragged him out from beneath the bed and then laid him on it.
“Sir, why did you go under the bed? Where’s the thief?”
But Dear Uncle’s eyes were closed and his lips were pale and trembling.
Mash Qasem massaged Dear Uncle’s hands. They opened the door between the balcony and the room, and the women and children came out on to the balcony. Seeing her father in such a state Layli started to cry and her mother struck herself on the head and chest.
Mash Qasem muttered, “Looks like a snake’s bit the Master.”
Layli’s mother said, “And you’re just standing there? Do something!”
“Mash Qasem, run and fetch Dr. Naser al-Hokama. Tell him to get himself here immediately.”
Dr. Naser al-Hokama soon arrived in his nightclothes, clutching his doctor’s bag, and set about examining Dear Uncle; after a few moments he said, “Your good health . . . your good health . . . it’s nothing important. He’s had a bit of a shock,” and he trickled a few drops from a phial of medicine into a glass and then poured them down Dear Uncle’s throat.
After we had waited a couple of minutes, Dear Uncle opened his eyes. For a while he looked in a confused way from side to side. His astonished gaze came to rest on Dr. Naser al-Hokama’s face; suddenly he angrily pushed the doctor’s hand off his chest and in a voice choking with anger said, “I’d rather die than set eyes on a lying, treacherous doctor.”
“Your good health . . . your good health . . . how’s that, sir? We’re making a little joke?”
“Indeed not, I’m completely serious.”
“I don’t understand, sir . . . what’s happened?”
Dear Uncle half sat up in the bed and, pointing to the way out, shouted, “Sir, you can go now. You think news of the plot in my brother’s house hasn’t reached my ears? A doctor who sells his conscience is no longer any doctor of mine and has no place in this family.”
“Now don’t upset yourself , it’s not good for your heart.”
“My heart’s got nothing to do with you, the same way that the flatulence in Qamar’s stomach has nothing to do with you!”
Everyone more or less grasped what was going on. Glances went round looking for the talebearer. I realized Mash Qasem was looking at Puri. Puri was rather uncomfortably looking from side to side so as not to catch anyone’s eye.
In a louder voice Dear Uncle said, “I am completely well, I’ve no need of a doctor. Sir, you can leave now. Go and make another plot to explain your lies!”
To change the subject uncle colonel said, “Brother, what happened? Was there a thief?”
Dear Uncle Napoleon, who had forgotten the matter in hand when he saw the doctor, looked around with a horrified gaze and said, “Yes, it was a thief-—I heard the sound of his footsteps, I saw his shadow. Hey there, close all the doors!”
At this moment he suddenly caught sight of my father. He pressed his lips together in anger, stared into space and shouted, “What is this crowd doing here? Is my house some kind of a hotel?”
And then with a long bony finger he pointed to the door, “Out!”
My father threw a furious look at him and, as he was on his way out, muttered, “It’s our own fault if we’ve lost any sleep. The hero of the Battle of Kazerun was having a heart attack under the bed because he was afraid of a thief!”
With a violent movement Dear Uncle stood up and reached out to grab the rifle from uncle colonel’s hand, but uncle colonel held it back behind his head, out of Dear Uncle’s reach.
My Uncle Napoleon Page 6