My Uncle Napoleon

by Iraj Pezeshkzad

  This notion received virtually unanimous support, but three difficulties still remained. The first was that neither uncle colonel nor Asadollah Mirza nor any of the others who were ready to take this upon themselves were anywhere near Dear Uncle on the night of the party. And Qamar’s mother was under no circumstances going to allow her daughter to be sacrificed for the sake of making peace. In sum, the first difficulty was in attributing the sound to someone who was near Dear Uncle Napoleon at the time that it became audible. The second difficulty was in persuading that person to acknowledge that the sound came from him. The third difficulty lay in how those who were interested in resolving the quarrel could convince Dear Uncle Napoleon that this person was telling the truth and that the dubious sound had in fact come from him.

  In the midst of this discussion Shamsali Mirza suddenly shouted, “Wait! If you remember, besides those two, Mash Qasem was standing near the Master on that night.”

  Two or three relatives objected, “But Mash Qasem wasn’t standing next to the Master, he was standing behind him.”

  Angrily and impatiently Shamsali Mirza shouted, “Look, the Master didn’t have a compass with him to tell him which direction the noise was coming from!”

  One after another, everyone present recalled that on that night when Dear Uncle Napoleon was describing the Battle of Kazerun and how he had taken aim at the leader of the insurgents’ forehead—and especially when the dubious sound became audible—Mash Qasem was standing behind Dear Uncle.

  But with a gloomy face uncle colonel said, “But don’t be too optimistic. I know this Mash Qasem very well. He’s not the kind of person to be put upon. He’ll consider this kind of noise to be a shameful matter.”

  Shamsali Mirza also became very thoughtful and after a moment said, “That’s true. If you remember he’s told that story a few times about his niece who killed herself because her body let one fly during a wedding party.”

  “If we give him a nice sum of money, maybe . . . not that he’s very mercenary.”

  I didn’t want the vista of peace that had appeared on the horizon to be obliterated; excitedly I said, “You know, uncle, a while ago Mash Qasem was saying that he has only one wish in all the world, and that’s to build a water cistern in Ghiasabad and donate it to the people there.”

  Everyone noisily confirmed this; Mash Qasem might be ready to help, in order to make the gift to his village possible.

  Before having Mash Qasem come in to discuss the matter, the subject of how to convince Dear Uncle Napoleon was brought up. After a good deal of discussion and argument one of those present said, “Please excuse me . . . I hope that you won’t be very upset by this suggestion that I want to make, but this is the only way to do it . . . I really apologize but we, and everyone who was present on the night of the party, or at least some of us, must swear by the soul of the Late Grandfather that the dubious sound came from Mash Qasem.”

  “By the soul of the Late Grandfather?!”

  “By the soul of the Late Grandfather?!”

  “By the soul of the Late Grandfather?!”

  Two people more or less fainted and an indescribable commotion ensued. After a few moments profound silence reigned. Everyone stared with eyes bursting from their sockets at the person who had made the suggestion. The Late Grandfather was Dear Uncle Napoleon’s grandfather, and within the family no one, not even to claim it was hot in the hottest days of summer, dared swear by his name.

  At a time when Dear Uncle Napoleon, in his own house and with all his strength, was striving to save his family from being dispersed and to preserve its identity and sacred unity, and Asadollah Mirza was inextricably caught in the clutches of the law and of Aziz al-Saltaneh—and in truth was in his own way sacrificing himself for this very cause—at such a time someone dared in this appalling way to take in vain the name of the Late Grandfather, who was the symbol of precisely that identity and sacred unity. It seemed as though the sad moans of the soul of the Late Grandfather were echoing in the ears of everyone present.

  The relative who had made the suggestion that they swear by the soul of the Late Grandfather was so confused and upset that he didn’t know what to say. Finally, with the help of one or two who felt sorry for his condition, he swore by all that was noble and all that was holy that the word “grand” had never crossed his lips and that he had meant “by the soul of the Late Father,” meaning Dear Uncle’s father, not “by the soul of the Late Grandfather.”

  After scorn was heaped on the unfortunate proposer of this idea, and he’d been well and truly lectured on the error of his ways, another suggestion, to add one or two meters to the length and breadth of Mash Qasem’s donated water-cistern, which of course would increase the expense, was discussed. Finally, they decided to have Mash Qasem in and to put the matter to him.

  In moving, poignant language Shamsali Mirza told Mash Qasem that his decision would have a vital effect on whether or not a great and noble family was to be saved from discord and destruction, and then, looking him straight in the eye, he said, “We are asking you for a favor, a sacrifice, Mr. Mash Qasem! Are you prepared to help us for the sake of this sacred goal?”

  “Well sir, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . just four fingers. First, that I’ve ate the bread and salt of this family; second, that the Master—and God keep him the noble gentleman he is—has saved me from the hand of death not once, not twice but an hundred times; third, that I know all about these jobs . . . I remember in the thick of the Battle of Kazerun, a bullet went right between the eyes of one of our men and come out the back of his head, poor devil, he was from Malayer . . . however much I tried to get him down off his horse and off of the battlefield he wouldn’t have it. ‘Mash Qasem, you go,’ he says, ‘I haven’t got long to live,’ but d’you think I’d leave him there, no way . . .”

  Shamsali Mirza impatiently said, “Mr. Mash Qasem, please leave this story for later . . . give us an answer! Are you prepared to help us at this crucial moment?”

  Mash Qasem, who had imagined that at least at this moment they would listen to his story, went very quiet and said, “Of course, I’m your humble servant.”

  Weighing his words, Shamsali Mirza said, “Mr. Mash Qasem, we have more or less prepared the ground for solving the differences between the gentlemen. There’s just one problem left, and that’s the matter of the dubious sound on the night of the party.”

  Mash Qasem suddenly burst out laughing, “The tale of that dubious sound’s not over yet? Please God, what a tale with a tail that’s turned out to be, eh?” And then, seeing the serious, glum faces of everyone there, he controlled his laughter and said, “Damn the fellow what did it! If that fellow what did it had had the guts to hold himself in a bit and not let fly in that shameful way, all this row and carryin’ on would never have started.”

  “Mash Qasem, I’ve heard that you wish to build a water cistern in the village of Ghiasabad near Qom and donate it to the people there. Is this so?”

  “Why should I lie? Ever since I’ve been a nipper knee high to a grasshopper I’ve wanted to, but God hasn’t seen to send the money for the expense of it. The poor folks in Ghiasabad still get water from the creek and it’s all dirty. Just today I asked that detective’s helper if anyone’s built a cistern in Ghiasabad or not. ‘No,’ he says . . .”

  Uncle colonel cut him off, “Now, Mash Qasem, if we were to cover the expenses of this water cistern of yours, would you be ready to help us?”

  “Why should I lie? If you was to say, savin’ your reverence, go climb the Caucasus, I’d go, to get this job done . . .”

  Shamsali Mirza jumped up and said, “Mash Qasem! The help we need from you is that you accept that the dubious sound on the night of the party came from your direction.”

  “You mean from around where I was standin’?”

  “No, you haven’t understood,
no, that the sound came from you . . . of course by accident . . .”

  Mash Qasem suddenly turned crimson and in an extremely agitated voice said, “I swear by all the saints in heaven it weren’t me, I love the Master like he’s the apple of my eye, may I drop down dead if it were me . . . you mean you think I’ve no shame . . . you mean you think I’m that shameless . . .”

  Shamsali Mirza shouted, “That’s enough, Mash Qasem! Why don’t you understand? We all know that you didn’t do it, but we want you to grant us a big favor and say that you did, so that maybe this quarrel will be over and done with.”

  “Me come and tell a lie? Tell a lie, and to the Master as well? God forbid! Just how far from the grave are we?”

  “Think about it for a moment! A water cistern donated by you . . . Mash Qasem’s water cistern, the answer to the prayers of the people of Ghiasabad, an eternal reward . . . how can you not be ready to . . .”

  Mash Qasem jumped into the middle of his sentence, “I’m to make myself out to be that shameless so the folks in Ghiasabad can drink water? I don’t care if they don’t drink water for another seventy years! And if them in Ghiasabad was to know I’d built the water cistern with money got from shamelessness, they wouldn’t let that water touch their lips for a hundred years, not even if their dirty creek was to dry up . . . but it so happens I’ve thought of somethin’ that could fix it for you.”

  Everyone stared at Mash Qasem’s mouth. “If you remember, that night at the party, that cute little cat of Miss Layli’s was hangin’ around under everyone’s feet the whole time . . . how come the dubious sound couldn’t be from that cat?”

  Shamsali’s yell went up to the heavens, “There’s a limit to talking rubbish, too, you know, Mash Qasem . . . you expect reasonable adult people like us to go and say to the Master that right in the middle of his story about the Battle of Kazerun, just when he had taken aim at a spot between the eyes of the leader of the bandits, Layli’s cat produced such a noise?”

  The meeting rang with the confused noise of some people’s objections and others’ laughter. Mash Qasem was trying to speak but no one was listening to him. In the midst of all this I was angry; I wanted to hit Mash Qasem on the back of the neck for daring to talk badly about Layli’s cat. It had made me feel similar to how the relatives had felt when they heard “the soul of the Late Grandfather.”

  Finally Mash Qasem was able to get everyone to listen to him. “Let me speak . . . let me speak . . . I’ve somethin’ to say. How come sayin’ I did it’s not bad but sayin’ the cat did it is bad . . . you mean the cat’s reputation’s more important than my reputation?”

  “Think straight, man, it’s got nothing to do with reputation. Look, how could a little cat like that . . .”

  Mash Qasem cut uncle colonel off, “Not at all, not at all, it’s got nothin’ to do with how big or how little. First of all animals do these shameless things; second, why should I lie, I myself I’ve heard these dubious sounds from swallows up to buffaloes. Third, it’s got nothin’ to do with size. That time right in the thick of the Battle of Kazerun I saw a little bastard of a shameless snake. He made such a dubious noise that all of a sudden Deputy Gholamali Khan, who was a bit deaf, too, jumped up from his sleep. One time I saw two greenfinches that it was like they’d got together to . . .”

  Uncle colonel’s shouted, “Will you stop or not? How much rubbish are you going to talk? How much nonsense? I don’t want to hear a word from you ever again! Just get out of here!”

  Sulky and gloomy, Mash Qasem left.

  After Mash Qasem’s departure the meeting more or less fell apart, and with one excuse or another the participants in the family council took their leave.

  No one was left in uncle colonel’s sitting room except the colonel himself, his son, and Shamsali Mirza. Hopeless and upset, I walked up and down in the hallway; without realizing it, I was waiting for a flash of inspiration to strike in either uncle colonel’s or the cross-examiner’s brain, but it was clear from what they were saying that they were completely stuck.

  EIGHT

  WHEN I RETURNED to the garden, Dear Uncle Napoleon was walking up and down with an extremely troubled face, sunk in thought, and Mash Qasem was busying himself by calmly tending to the flowers.

  Dear Uncle Napoleon caught sight of me. His glance frightened me. It seemed that he considered me an accomplice in my father’s crimes. I took myself off to a corner so that I was safely out of the range of his furious looks. For a moment I once again went over ways to escape from love, but nothing occurred to me. For the first time in all this I talked to God from the bottom of my heart. This was the second time I had thought of God in such an intimate way. The first was on the night of the earthquake when I had asked God that the ceiling of our room not fall on us before morning. But this time I didn’t really know what I should do. I didn’t really know what I should ask God for. I asked him to free me from being involved with Layli. Then I immediately bit between my five fingers and blew on them. I don’t know where we children got this way of showing that we were asking for forgiveness. But this was the simplest way, because otherwise I would have had to ask for lots of things. O God, make Dear Uncle open the water channel to our house and my father open the channel to uncle colonel’s house . . . O God, make my father believe in Napoleon’s bravery and genius . . . O God, make Dear Uncle force Seyed Abolqasem to lift the ban on the drugs made in my father’s pharmacy . . . O God, make my father believe that Dear Uncle had done sterling service during the Constitutional Crisis and that the safety and security in the southern regions were due to his bravery . . . O God, make Aziz al-Saltaneh not have designs on her husband’s member . . . O God, make Dustali Khan appear . . . O God, after he appears make him an honorable man who’ll leave Shir Ali the butcher’s wife alone . . .

  I was struggling with these thoughts when the garden door, which had been left unbolted, opened and Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh entered. When she was face to face with Dear Uncle Napoleon she frowned like a fighting cock and stared at him without saying a word. Finally Dear Uncle anxiously asked her, “Madam, what’s happened?”

  Without answering his question, Aziz al-Saltaneh said, “Can I telephone from here?”

  “Who do you want to telephone?”

  “The head of the police.”

  And then after a moment’s silence she screamed, “Those detectives are torturing my young man! However much I tell that stupid deputy that the poor child is innocent, he won’t listen. Now I want to phone his boss and tell him that this poor helpless little waif Asadollah is innocent. I want to tell him that one of you has done away with Dustali. I want to tell him that poor Asadollah is sacrificing himself to save the lot of you . . . God, I wish there was just one scrap, one hair, of the goodness of Asadollah in you. Good God! Such a gentleman, so noble . . . how could such a sensitive person possibly kill someone?”

  “My dear madam, please don’t shout so loud . . .”

  “Oh, I’ll shout, I’ll scream . . . do you imagine I don’t know what’s going on . . . either you have done away with Dustali and framed that poor innocent child . . . or you’ve hidden him somewhere so that you can get him for that dried-up sister of yours . . .”

  With a great deal of effort Dear Uncle calmed Aziz al-Saltaneh down somewhat and said, “Madam, I’ve no idea what base wretch has put these ideas in your head . . . no one has killed Dustali . . . Dustali’s more healthy than either you or me . . . he’s gone off and hidden because he’s afraid of you . . .”

  Aziz al-Saltaneh sprang at Dear Uncle and screamed, “So now I’m frightening, am I, and Dustali’s hidden because he’s afraid of me? Do you have any idea what you’re talking about, old man? It’s a pity poor Asadollah belongs to the same family as you! Are you going to let me phone or shall I go down the bazaar?”

  Once again Dear Uncle exerted himself for a while until Aziz al-Saltaneh c
almed down. Then he said in an extremely mild voice, “Madam, I don’t know where Dustali is but I promise you upon my honor that he hasn’t gone far and that by tomorrow I shall deliver him to you safe and sound. With your permission I’ll send someone for the deputy. When he comes, you tell him that you’ve found Dustali, meaning you know where he’s gone . . . if you waste any more time they’ll take poor Asadollah off to prison!”

  “May God strike me dead if they put such a sweet young man as that in prison. I’ll tell the detective I’ve completely withdrawn my complaint . . .”

  “Madam, that won’t do any good. You have to say that Dustali’s alive and that he’s talked to you, meaning he’s phoned you and talked . . . I promise you that by tomorrow Dustali . . .”

  Aziz al-Saltaneh angrily interrupted him, “I don’t care if I never see him alive for another seventy years. If I don’t want to live with that Dustali of yours, what on earth am I supposed to do, eh?”

  Aziz al-Saltaneh was silent for a moment, then she said, “Heh, Mash Qasem! Come here and God bless you and run along to Asadollah’s house and say that madam says come quick because Dustali’s been found.”

  Mash Qasem put his watering can down and said, “Well, that’s good news and no mistake, ma’am, and don’t you be forgetting my tip . . .”

  “Just you wait, my lad, just wait till Dustali really comes back and then your tip’ll be a cleaver and I’ll smash his head and yours in with it.”

  It was almost dark when Deputy Taymur Khan, followed by Asadollah Mirza with Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi and Mash Qasem, entered the garden. As soon as the detective arrived he shouted, “Silence! Where is the murder victim? Quick, now, immediately, at the double! Silence!”