“No, my darling, they haven’t taken Asadollah to prison, a nasty person is keeping the poor thing prisoner . . .”
“O God strike me dead, poor Asadollah Mirza . . . I hope they let him go soon, because he’s going to take me on a trip.”
“What? A trip? Where’s he taking you?”
Still licking her barley-sugarcane Qamar said, “That night at the party he said to me, ‘If you’re a good girl and don’t tell anyone, I’ll take you on a trip to San Francisco’ . . . by the way, mummy dear, is San Francisco nice?”
Aziz al-Saltaneh gave her an angry look to silence her, but Qamar wasn’t going to give up so easily. “Really, mummy dear, is it nice?”
“No, it’s not for children . . .”
Then without getting angry she shook her head and said under her breath, “God cripple him, the things that Asadollah says!”
In a voice shaking with anger Dustali Khan said, “You see? Are you still going to defend this thief of people’s honor?”
Aziz al-Saltaneh gave him a threatening look and said, “You just shut up! The poor thing was making a joke.”
Uncle colonel jumped into their conversation, “Now that the Master has given permission, it’s better that we don’t delay any more. Run, Mash Qasem, run, my man! Go and find that dough-kneader . . . here’s some cash . . . persuade him any way you can to drop his complaint.”
Without raising his head, Mash Qasem said, “There’s a problem with this job.”
“What problem?”
“Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . I saw them takin’ the dough-kneader to his house an hour ago, with his head bandaged, and now Dr. Naser al-Hokama must be at his bedside . . .”
“Then he’s not badly hurt.”
“No, not too bad . . . but the thing is that for ten or twelve days now I’m not talkin’ to this dough-kneader. You remember that time there was a bit of sackin’ in the bread? Me and the dough-kneader had a bit of an argy-bargy about it, and he hit me right here, the cheeky beggar, with one of the weights off his scales . . . it really winded me, so I banged him round the head with my basket, then they came to separate us . . . but from that day till now I’m not talkin’ to him, not a word.”
“What do you mean, not talking? A grown-up man doesn’t go around not talking like a child.”
“Not talkin’s nothin’ to do with how big you are . . . right now isn’t the Master not talkin’ to his own sister’s husband?”
“Don’t talk rubbish, be off with you!”
“Well sir, why should I lie? You could cut my jugular and I wouldn’t spit in that dough-kneader’s face, so how can I be goin’ and makin’ up to him nice like?”
For a while uncle colonel and Dustali Khan and Aziz al-Saltaneh and even Shamsali Mirza begged and insisted, but Mash Qasem wasn’t having it. “We Ghiasabadi folks won’t be doin’ these shameful things. There was a man from our town once who . . . and he wasn’t exactly from Ghiasabad neither. He was from the other side of Qom, over toward the place where they have prayers at Musa Mobaraghe . . .”
Uncle colonel yelled, “All right, so you’re not going, don’t make a song and dance about it, God damn you and the man from your town . . . I’ll go myself!”
At this juncture Dear Uncle Napoleon interrupted. In a severe voice he forbade his brother to go on this lowly mission, but since he saw that everyone was determined that, at whatever cost, the dough-kneader had to be brought round so that Shir Ali would be released, he turned to Mash Qasem, “Mash Qasem, I command you to carry out this undertaking. Just as on the battlefield I gave you my orders and you carried them out, so today I order you to go . . . imagine we are at the Battle of Kazerun.”
Mash Qasem drew himself up to his full height, “Very good, sir, but just look at the power of God, will you . . . at how times change . . . those days you was orderin’ me to fight against the English. Now I have to go after this here dough-kneader. I remember once in the thick of it at the Battle of Kazerun, I’d got my rifle in my hand . . .”
“That’s enough, don’t talk, Qasem! Go! Your commanding officer is giving you an order, execute it immediately!”
By the time Mash Qasem returned all present were regularly pacing up and down the room and were at the extreme limit of their patience; they crowded round him.
“What happened, Mash Qasem?”
“Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . I didn’t speak to him himself, I called his brother to the door so he would give him the message . . . he kept comin’ and goin’ but in the end nothin’ came of it . . .”
“How did nothing come of it?”
“Well, he says that Shir Ali’s to come and kiss his hand in front of all the shopkeepers in the neighborhood before he’ll forgive him.”
Helpless and exhausted, Dustali Khan fell back on a sofa. “No, that shameless bastard’s going to be staying in Shir Ali’s house!”
Mash Qasem continued, “And then I’ve just seen Esmail the master cobbler, and he was sayin’ how he’d seen Shir Ali in the lockup, and Shir Ali’d said to him, ‘Go to my door and tell the wife she’s not to worry and she’s to do everythin’ in her power to be hospitable to our guest till I come back!’”
Uncle colonel shook his head and said, “Well well, well well, he must be a very gracious host to be offering him that kind of welcome . . . really, as the man himself would say, really moment . . .”
TEN
IN THE MIDST of the back and forth of the arguments over Shir Ali the butcher’s fight with the dough-kneader, an unexpected event suddenly occurred which left each person rooted to the spot in astonishment. Everyone held their breath. Perhaps no one could believe what they were seeing: my father had appeared in the doorway of Dear Uncle Napoleon’s sitting room. I glanced over toward Dear Uncle Napoleon. His tall stature seemed to grow even taller. Wide-eyed, stock-still, and with his mouth open, he stared at the new arrival. My father stretched out his hands toward Dear Uncle and said in a voice filled with emotion, “I have come to kiss your hands and beg your pardon . . . please forgive me, sir.”
And he went toward Dear Uncle; he stopped two paces from him but Dear Uncle made no movement. My heart was beating violently. I wanted to shout out and ask Dear Uncle not to leave my father’s gesture unanswered; perhaps everyone there wanted this. What to me seemed an extremely long moment passed. Suddenly Dear Uncle opened his arms. The two strenuously embraced.
Happy voices suddenly rose on every side. My mother threw herself on the two and kissed their faces.
I ran toward Layli’s room, where I knew she had been confined without permission to leave, and shouted, “Layli, Layli, come and see . . . come and see . . . my dad and Dear Uncle have made up.” Layli put a hesitant foot out of her door. When in the distance she saw my father beside Dear Uncle, she took my hand and squeezed it tightly. Quietly I said in her ear, “Layli, I’m very happy.”
“So am I.”
“Layli, I love you.”
Layli blushed and, in a voice I could hardly hear, said, “I love you, too.”
My whole body shook, a burning wave enveloped me, scalding me from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. Without thinking I opened my arms to crush her against my chest, but then I came to my senses and led her toward the sitting room. My father had taken Dear Uncle’s hand in both his own and was in the midst of apologizing for what he had said and done, and Dear Uncle was very calmly shaking his head and saying it was nothing important and that he had forgotten everything. I went over to my father, but I had released Layli’s hand because those present might have noticed.
When everyone had sat down, my father stared at the flowers on the carpet and said in a strange voice, “Today something happened which completely turned my life upside down. I met a well-known person, and when the ta
lk turned toward you he said something which shook me. He said, ‘You should take pride in the fact that you have such an individual in your family.’ I wish you could have heard the passion with which he talked about you. He said he’d heard from Major Saxon, who was stationed here for years during the First World War, that if it hadn’t been for you there were many things in this country that would be quite different. If it weren’t for your struggles and your patriotism the English could have done many things. He said that when the war in the south was going on, the English were ready to give a thousand pounds to anyone who would get rid of you.”
Dear Uncle’s face palpably opened and blossomed, gradually a seraphic smile spread about his lips; he didn’t take his eyes from my father’s mouth. My father went on in the same tone of voice, “This same person talked about your struggles against despotism. He said that if it weren’t for your sacrifices perhaps we wouldn’t now have a constitution . . .”
With childish excitement Dear Uncle asked, “Who is this person?”
“I’m sorry but I can’t say his name . . . since he repeated to me what Major Saxon had said it would be dangerous for him. You yourself know that the English have no mercy, especially now when they’ve started such a huge war and Hitler is raining bombs down on them every night . . .”
Dear Uncle was so transformed that he was on the brink of throwing his arms around my father’s neck and kissing him on the lips.
Mash Qasem, who had been listening carefully to this conversation, said, “Like they say, the moon doesn’t stay behind a cloud all the time . . . I myself know how the Master thrashed them English . . . and right now if they’d let him the Master could whip them English better than three Hitlers . . .”
My father continued, “I really felt proud and privileged . . . and ashamed there’d been such a misunderstanding. This chance event really taught me something new.”
Perhaps everyone there had guessed that my father was lying. All of them knew that Dear Uncle’s struggles against the rebels in the south, his struggles against foreigners, and his struggles on behalf of the Constitution were his own invention, and they knew that my father believed these fantasies less than anyone else.
But these empty words of praise made everyone extremely happy, because they believed that my father was doing all this in order to put an end to their differences and quarrels. But my morale sank further and further from one moment to the next. The vague feeling I had as soon as my father started on his flattering speech became horrifyingly clear as I remembered my father’s conversation with the pharmacist, and my confidence in my father’s good faith disappeared.
O God, let me be wrong! Let it be that my father is really sorry about all the fighting and arguing! O God, I beg you with all my heart that there be no wheels within wheels involved in what my father is saying. The flood of praise was still flowing from my father’s lips, “This same person was saying that if it weren’t for the fact that the English were busy fighting against Hitler they would never leave the Master alone. He said that in the whole of the East there wasn’t a single person who’d done such harm to the plans of the English as you had . . . he said he’s heard from Major Saxon’s own mouth that there were two people who’d really given the English a hard time, one the Master in World War I, and the other Hitler in this war . . .”
If someone had seen the gathering in Dear Uncle’s house an hour before and then seen it again now, it would be impossible for him to recognize it. The sad, frowning faces had completely opened up. Everyone was happy and cheerful. The only sad face was Dustali Khan’s; every now and then he would regret Asadollah Mirza’s absence, but I easily guessed that the thought of Asadollah Mirza being in Shir Ali the butcher’s house tormented him. Basically Dustali Khan didn’t like Asadollah Mirza. Perhaps the reason was that at gatherings and parties Asadollah Mirza used to tease him too much, and in his absence, sometimes referred to him as “that ass Dustali.” There was also the fact that Dustali Khan was lecherous and couldn’t bear Asadollah Mirza because all the women of the family and their friends liked Asadollah Mirza’s company. Every time poor Dustali Khan related a bit of juicy gossip he would be faced with the women’s reproaches, “Please don’t make fun of Asadollah!”
“What a sweet turn of phrase Asadollah has.”
“If a woman’s going to have a fling, it should be with Asadollah. You want someone who’s going to be witty and charming about it!”
Sometimes Dustali Khan lost all patience and let loose a flood of curses against Asadollah Mirza. Another reason for Dustali’s malicious feelings toward Asadollah Mirza was that whenever he became interested in a woman, there were signs of Asadollah Mirza’s already having passed that way before him. Especially in the case of Shir Ali’s wife, with whom he apparently hadn’t been successful.
While my father was having his say about Dear Uncle’s bravery, Dustali once again jumped into the conversation, unable to contain himself, “But give a thought to Asadollah! How long do you want him to stay in that wretched butcher’s house?”
Dear Uncle Napoleon angrily cut him off, “Dustali, where are your manners! Can’t you see the gentleman’s talking? Now, you were saying . . .”
My father continued, “Yes, it was in the middle of the First World War that they sent Major Saxon here . . .”
Mash Qasem, who had been listening carefully, asked Dear Uncle, “Sir, wasn’t he that tall feller who you went for with a sword? Who was squint-eyed?”
Dear Uncle quieted him with a wave of his hand, “Just a moment, let me understand . . . so this person you’re talking about, had he seen Major Saxon recently?”
“Yes, oh yes, just two or three months ago in Istanbul . . . I didn’t really follow, it seems he’d come from Cairo and was on his way somewhere . . . God willing, when these problems are out of the way I’ll have to invite him to my house and then you can hear from his own mouth the things Major Saxon has said about you. I’m sorry to say he did a lot of cursing . . . he even said you had connections with other political developments.”
Dear Uncle was in seventh heaven; with a seraphic smile he said, “That’s very natural . . . it would have been surprising if he had said anything else . . . of course, I don’t personally recall this Major Saxon. But then the English don’t push their people forward . . .”
Mash Qasem interrupted, “Sir, how can you not remember? He’s that tall feller who we saw once two or three years ago in Cheragh Bargh Street. Don’t you remember I said to you ‘Why’s that foreigner lookin’ daggers at you?’ Right then I said you’d think . . .”
Dear Uncle impatiently cut him off, “No, Mash Qasem, don’t talk rubbish . . . though perhaps he was one of their pawns . . . anyway, I can’t remember the face of this foreigner you’re talking about.”
“How’s it possible you don’t remember him? But why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . it’s like he’s standin’ before my eyes right now . . . he’d eyes like bowls of blood . . . he gave you such a look my stomach turned over. Right there I said ‘Blessed Morteza Ali, save the Master from these evil English!’”
Dear Uncle didn’t pay much attention to what Mash Qasem was saying. He stared into space with the same seraphic smile on his face. “Yes, I’ve done my human and patriotic duty, and I was aware of the consequences. You think I didn’t know what it means to fight with the English? You think I didn’t know they’d block my career? You think I didn’t know they’d never forget their hatred and enmity for me! On the contrary, I knew all this but I anointed my body with the fat of every hardship and humility and I fought . . . now how many go-betweens they’ve set up, how many people they’ve sent, well, never mind . . . I remember my last commission in Mashhad . . . one day toward sunset I was walking home, perhaps it was Mash Qasem here following on behind me.”
“Of course it was me, sir.”
“Yes, just as I was
going along I saw someone like an Indian trailing me. Well, I paid no attention; then in the evening I was at home and there was a knock at the door. A private went to the door . . . I think it was Qasem here . . .”
“Yes, it was me, sir.”
“He went to the door and came back and said, ‘There’s an Indian come who says he’s on the pilgrimage, but a problem’s turned up and he wants to talk to the Master for a moment’ . . . I immediately suspected he was one of their pawns . . . I swear by the soul of Layli I didn’t even go to the door . . . I shouted ‘Tell the gentleman he can only see my corpse’ . . . I wasn’t even prepared to say one word to him.”
Mash Qasem interrupted, “I remember very well . . . when the Master said that, I went and slammed the door in his face and his turban fell off on the ground.”
Dear Uncle continued excitedly, “I sent him off with a flea in his ear, and I shouted after him, ‘Go and tell your masters that this one’s not for sale.’”
Mash Qasem nodded his head and said, “That Indian gave such a look as he was goin’ that a shiver went down my spine . . . right there I said ‘Blessed Morteza Ali, I’m lookin’ to you to save the Master from this crowd.’”
My father said, “And instead today you walk with your head held high. Your family respects you.”
Dustali Khan, who was in a constant state of excitement, said,“But once respect and reputation have been acquired, you can’t allow a shameful blot to stain it. At the moment an individual from this family is in the house of a lout of a butcher and no one is even . . .”
Shamsali Mirza said in a forceful voice, “Mr. Dustali Khan, stop making such offensive references to my brother. The poor wretch has taken refuge with the butcher because he’s afraid of your violence and your foul mouth. If you’re worried about the butcher’s wife, that’s another matter.”
Aziz al-Saltaneh suddenly jumped up, “God damn him and his worries . . . if he talks rubbish behind my cousin’s back once more I’ll knock his false teeth down his throat . . .” Then she sat down again and said, “I talked to Asadollah; poor thing, he doesn’t want to leave Shir Ali’s wife and children alone without anyone to look after them.”
My Uncle Napoleon Page 22