My Uncle Napoleon

by Iraj Pezeshkzad

  The people who lived in the house were gathered in a circle around Mash Qasem; they were comforting him while Mash Qasem moaned in a low voice, “Aggghhh! It hurts so much . . . aggghhh, the burnin’ . . . I’ll never get to Mecca now, that’s a hope I’ll carry to the grave.”

  When I followed the doctor into the ring of spectators I saw Layli. She was crying and with a handkerchief dabbing water on Mash Qasem’s forehead; he lay there with his cheek against the dirt.

  “Sir, promise to bury me in the courtyard of the sacred Masumeh’s mosque . . .”

  The doctor squatted down beside Mash Qasem but when he tried to turn him Mash Qasem screamed out, “Don’t touch me!”

  “Mash Qasem, it’s the doctor!”

  Mash Qasem turned his head a little. When he saw the doctor, in that same voice that was half a moan he said, “Good day to you, sir . . . after God, sir, you’re my only hope.”

  “Your good health, your good health. What happened, Mash Qasem? Where’s the wound? Who shot you?”

  At this moment my father, who was standing nearby, pointed at Dear Uncle and in a loud voice said, “This man! This murderer! God willing, I myself will put the noose around his neck.”

  But before Dear Uncle could answer, my mother, pleading and pulling, dragged my father away.

  “Your good health, your good health. Mash Qasem, tell me where the bullet wound is.”

  Mash Qasem stayed as he was, lying unmoving on his stomach. With a moan he said, “Why should I lie . . . it hit me in the side.”

  Dr. Naser al-Hokama signalled with his hand for Dear Uncle to come and help him and tried to turn Mash Qasem over.

  “Your good health . . . very slowly . . . slowly a . . . aha . . .”

  “Aggghhh, O God . . . all these wars and battles I’ve been through and I have to die in my Master’s garden . . . doctor, sir, please . . . if there’s no hope just tell me and I’ll say my prayers.”

  When the doctor opened Mash Qasem’s shirt everyone’s mouth hung open in surprise since no spot on his body showed any sign of a wound. “So, where did the bullet hit you?”

  Mash Qasem answered without looking, “Well, why should I lie . . . I don’t rightly know . . . can’t you see it?”

  “Your good health, your good health. You’re healthier than I am.”

  Breath pent up in people’s chests for so long was released and sounds of laughter and joking burst out.

  Dear Uncle kicked Mash Qasem in the back as he was getting up. “Get up and get out! Now even you’re lying to me, are you, you filthy devil?”

  “You mean I wasn’t shot . . . then that pain and burnin’, what was that about? Then where did the bullet hit?”

  “I wish it had hit your head!”

  When Dr. Naser al-Hokama saw that he was going to have to speak to Dear Uncle, he closed his bag and, instead of saying goodbye, simply said once “Your good health” and started to leave. Dear Uncle Napoleon ran after him. He said something in his ear for a few moments. It seemed that he was apologizing to the doctor for the previous night. Finally he flung his arm across the doctor’s shoulders, they embraced and gave each other a formal peck on the cheek. The doctor left and Dear Uncle returned to the group.

  During these relatively safe moments I had gone over toward Layli. Seeing her after the painful incidents of those two days was such a pleasure for me that I was tongue-tied and just stared at her and she too stared back at me with her huge, black eyes.

  Before either of us were able to get a word out Dear Uncle became aware of Layli and me. He came over to us, promptly slapped Layli across the ear, gestured toward the inner apartments of their own home, and in a dry tone said, “You, in the house!”

  Then, without looking at me, he pointed at our house and in a harsher tone said, “And off with you to your house, too, and don’t come this way again!”

  Hurt by Dear Uncle’s bitter tone and with a lump in my throat, I ran toward our house. I went to a distant room and closed the door on myself. I lay down on a sofa. I was really desperate. I couldn’t even think properly. But I was determined to take a definitive decision.

  Suddenly loud noises in the yard woke me; it was around noon. Stretched out on the sofa in that quiet room after the exciting events of the morning I had fallen asleep. I quietly left the room. I became aware of an unusual level of activity and found my mother. “What’s going on? What’s all this noise and coming and going for?”

  “How should I know, this morning all of a sudden your father decided to invite the whole family over to supper.”

  “But why?”

  Angrily my mother yelled, “How should I know? How should I know? Go and ask him. He’ll be dancing on my grave next . . .”

  At that moment my father, who had left the house, came in. I ran to him. “Dad, what’s happening tonight?”

  With a sly laugh my father said, “Tonight’s the anniversary of your mother’s and my marriage . . . we’re having a party . . . I’m celebrating becoming part of this kind and united family!”

  At this moment I realized that my father was speaking louder than usual and was directing his voice particularly toward the garden. I looked to one side of his head and in the distance saw Puri’s shadow—apparently he was busy reading a book but it was a good guess that he was eavesdropping on our house.

  “Yes . . . I’ve invited some musicians tonight, too . . . everyone’ll be there.”

  Then he turned to my mother and in the same loud voice asked, “By the way, have you told Shamsali Mirza and Asadollah Mirza . . . and what about Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh?”

  My father loudly enumerated all the guests and then added, “It’ll be a great night tonight! I want to tell our guests some beautiful stories . . . music and songs and beautiful stories.”

  I saw what was going on. My father wanted to tell everyone the story of Dear Uncle being afraid of a thief and fainting. The description he had given me was really directed at Puri so that he would pass it on to his uncle. Puri slowly made his way over to Dear Uncle’s house. After a few moments I threw caution to the winds and set off after him. The door to Dear Uncle’s inner apartments was closed and no sound from within the house could be heard.

  I was really curious to know Dear Uncle’s reaction. I thought for a moment. I listened at the door; there was a distant sound of conversation, but it wasn’t comprehensible.

  Finally a way occurred to me. The flat roof of one of my aunt’s houses ran right next to Dear Uncle’s house. With the help of my cousin Siamak, I got myself onto their roof. I carefully lay down at its edge.

  Just as I arrived there Puri left Dear Uncle’s yard, having completed his job as tattletale. Dear Uncle was irritatedly pacing in his yard and Mash Qasem was standing to one side with a thoughtful look on his face. From Dear Uncle’s pallor and face and walk, it was clear that he was extremely preoccupied and upset.

  “In fact the only thing we can do is break that fellow’s party up so that somehow we’ll be able to put things right. I know what his plan is . . . he’ll ruin my reputation and your reputation . . . I’ve known for years what kind of a filthy bastard he is.”

  “It would be good if we could tell the guests that tonight’s the anniversary of your late uncle’s death, then they wouldn’t go.”

  “Why are you talking rubbish . . . it’s another month before the anniversary of my uncle’s death . . .” At this moment it seemed that a thought had occurred to Dear Uncle because he stood still for a moment, and his face brightened. He took Mash Qasem over to the door of his house and said something to him, of which I could only hear the name Seyed Abolqasem. Mash Qasem left quickly. Dear Uncle walked up and down in his yard talking to himself. I waited a while but there was no sign of Mash Qasem. I’d no choice but to quit the roof and go back to the garden to try to find out the secret from Ma
sh Qasem. Since there was no sign of him I went despondently home. Our servant was bringing big carpets into the garden, with the help of a hired laborer.

  My father was involved in a violent counterattack. He even wanted to have his party in the garden so that Dear Uncle could hear it over on his side of the garden.

  By about five in the afternoon the scene was set for my father’s scheme. Lots of cushions had been placed against trees and on the carpets. In one corner bottles of alcoholic drinks were cooling in a big tub of ice under some sacking.

  I kept my eyes fixed on Dear Uncle’s shut door the whole time. I was worried about what had happened in his yard, because I knew that Dear Uncle wouldn’t take my father’s attack lying down, and I felt darkness, thunder and storms were looming on the horizon.

  Not long passed before the door to Dear Uncle’s inner apartments suddenly opened. Helped by Dear Uncle’s maidservant and Puri, Mash Qasem started bringing numerous carpets from the house into the garden, and laying them down about twenty meters from where our party was to be.

  I cautiously made my way over to Mash Qasem, but in answer to my question he only said, “Out of the way, m’dear, let us do our job.”

  As soon as the carpets had been spread out in the area in front of Dear Uncle’s house, Mash Qasem and Naneh Bilqis set off for the outer door of the garden, each of them carrying one end of a ladder. Mash Qasem went up the ladder and coolly set up above the garden door the black three-cornered banner which Dear Uncle normally had set up there on evenings when there were ceremonies of religious mourning. The black banner unfurled and the words “Praise Obeidallah Hosayn” appeared on it.

  Astonished, I said, “Mash Qasem, what are you doing? Why have you put the black banner up?”

  “Well now, why should I lie, m’dear? Tonight we’ve a mourning ceremony. Very thorough and complete, too . . . seven or eight preachers’ll be speaking . . . and we’ve a group coming to beat their chests and mourn.”

  “But what night is it tonight?”

  “You mean you don’t know, m’dear? Tonight is the night of the martyrdom of the blessed Moslem ibn Aghil, and if you don’t think so, you go and ask Seyed Abolqasem!”

  I heard a choked sound behind me. I turned round and saw my father, his face white as chalk. With his face contorted, and his eyes popping out of their sockets from the intensity of his anger, he was looking at Mash Qasem and the black banner.

  My agitated gaze went a few times from my father to Mash Qasem and back. Mash Qasem had realized how extraordinarily angry my father was and out of fear hadn’t come down the ladder; he was flicking dust and dirt off the black banner. I was afraid that my father was so angry he would knock the ladder over. Finally, his voice breaking, he said, “Tonight your dad’s died, has he, that you’ve put the black banner up?”

  From the top of the ladder Mash Qasem said in his usual calm way, “I wish my dear old dad, God rest his soul, had died on such a holy night. Tonight is the night of the martyrdom of the blessed Moslem ibn Aghil.”

  “May the blessed Moslem ibn Aghil rot you and your master and every damned liar . . . I suppose when your master was so afraid of the thief he fainted, the angel Gabriel appeared to him and told him that tonight was the anniversary of a martyrdom!”

  “Well now, why should I lie, to the grave it’s only four fingers . . . I don’t know about that . . . but I do know that tonight’s the night of the martyrdom of the blessed Moslem ibn Aghil . . . and Seyed Abolqasem knows, too . . . if you want you can ask him.”

  My father, who was so angry he was trembling, yelled, “I’m going to destroy you and your master and Seyed Abolqasem in such a way that Moslem’s own two children will weep for you . . .”

  And as he was saying this he started to shake the ladder. Mash Qasem’s scream went up to the heavens, “Eh, watch it . . . help, oh blessed Moslem ibn Aghil, help!”

  Terrified, I clung on to my father’s arm and shouted, “Dad, leave him alone . . . it’s not poor Mash Qasem’s fault.”

  When he heard me shouting my father calmed down a little. He flung another angry look at Mash Qasem and hurried back to our house.

  Mash Qasem had been very frightened; breathing heavily he came down the ladder, gave me a grateful look and said, “May you live to enjoy your old age, m’dear; you saved my life.”

  When I got back to the house my father was shouting at my poor mother, “If I’d married into the tribe that lived in Sodom and Gomorrah it’d have been better than this family. Now we’ll see whether my party’s a success or Napoleon Bonaparte’s mourning ceremony!”

  It was the first time I’d heard the nickname Napoleon applied to Dear Uncle on my father’s lips. Their enmity had gone so far that neither side would hold back from doing anything that would harm the other. One out-of-place squeak from a chair leg, or at most one dubious sound, was not only, in the words of uncle colonel, destroying the family’s unity but also shaking the foundations of our whole family life.

  My mother clasped my father’s arm and in a pleading voice said, “As God’s my witness, I’d do anything for you, but let it go! How can you possibly give a party tonight? On that side of the garden people beating their chests and mourning . . . and on this side music and dancing and getting drunk . . . who’d dare to sit at the party . . . those toughs who come to mourning ceremonies from the bazaar would tear you all to pieces.”

  “But I know this business of the martyrdom of Moslem ibn Aghil is just a fabrication! I know that . . .”

  “You know, but people in general don’t know! The men beating their chests don’t know . . . all our good name in the neighborhood will be destroyed . . . they’ll tear you and the children to pieces.”

  Gradually my father sank into thought. My mother was telling the truth. It was impossible that someone would dare to be living it up on one side of a garden when there was a religious mourning ceremony and chest-beating in progress on the other side. My father would have had to be both the guest and the host all by himself, besides which there was danger involved.

  At this moment Mash Qasem, who was carrying the end of the ladder with Naneh Bilqis, passed by the door on the way into the garden and became aware of this conversation. Mildly he said, “If you want the truth, your missus is right . . . you put your party for another night.”

  My father threw him an angry look, but suddenly his face changed. Trying to give a normal tone to his words, he said, “Yes, yes, you’re right . . . it’s a holy evening . . . you said it’s the martyrdom of the blessed Moslem ibn Aghil?”

  “God rest his soul, what he went through . . . God rest his soul, I’d die for him if I could, all innocent he was when those bastards cut his head off from his body . . .”

  “Just tell your master that they threw Moslem ibn Aghil off a tower . . . and one of these days another person’s going to be thrown off a tower and his bones will be smashed to bits!” And with pretended piety he added, “But when all’s said and done, it’s a holy evening. Although I’d arranged to have guests over, I’ve cancelled the party so that I can come to your master’s mourning ceremony . . . I’ll certainly be there tonight. I couldn’t not come on such a holy evening! I’ll certainly be there.”

  Without thinking Mash Qasem said, “Oh yes, sir, do come, it’ll do your soul good!”

  But as though he’d suddenly become aware of a special motive on my father’s part, he set off in a worried way for the inner apartments of Dear Uncle’s house.

  I waited a few moments, and then I went to find Mash Qasem, who was putting the ladder away in a shed at the corner of the garden. “Mash Qasem, you must know what my father’s thinking of.”

  Mash Qasem looked worriedly around, “M’dear, run along and play. If the Master gets to know I’ve talked to you, he’ll skin me alive.”

  “Oh, Mash Qasem, we’ve got to do something to end this
argument . . . this quarrel’s getting worse every day. I’m afraid of how it’s all going to end.”

  “Well, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . I’m really afraid, too . . . and this is nothing compared to every day I’ve to carry a hundred buckets of water to the colonel master’s house to water his flowers.”

  “But anyway, we’ve got to do something so that dad doesn’t go to the mourning ceremony tonight, or that he doesn’t mention last night’s thief . . . because I know it’ll start another argument that’ll end God alone knows how.”

  “Don’t you worry about tonight, m’dear, the Master’s already thought about all that. I don’t think he’ll let your father speak . . . but don’t you go telling your father what I’ve said!”

  “No, Mash Qasem, you can rest assured; I’ve made a vow that if this argument comes to an end I’ll light a candle to one of the saints.”

  “So don’t you worry too much about tonight . . . the Master’s made an agreement with Seyed Abolqasem that if your father comes he’s not to let him speak.”

  It was clear that Mash Qasem felt I was one of those who really did want the quarrel resolved; he said to me frankly, “And you, m’dear, you do something to stop your father from talkin’ too much!”

  At this moment Puri’s head appeared. Mash Qasem muttered, “Eh, m’dear, watch it, Mr. Puri’s come. Now with that muzzle of his that’s just like a carthorse’s he’ll go to the master and say I’ve been talkin’ to you; off with you, m’dear, get back to your own house.”

  My mother hurriedly sent various messengers to people to say that tonight’s party had been cancelled due to its falling on the same night as the mourning ceremony. Of course, after they’d received Dear Uncle Napoleon’s invitations to take part in the mourning ceremony, the guests had already guessed my father’s party would be cancelled and were not very surprised. Dear Uncle’s mourning ceremony got going after sunset. Dear Uncle sat dressed in a black cloak on a cushion near the entrance. On the other side of the arbor a carpet had been spread out for the women. When my father was ready to go to the mourning ceremony I felt very peculiar. On the one hand I was really worried about a confrontation between him and Dear Uncle, and on the other my heart was filled to the brim with happiness and joy at the thought of seeing Layli.