My Uncle Napoleon

by Iraj Pezeshkzad

  Shir Ali bowed his head, “ ’S very kind of you I’m sure, sir, but I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble.”

  Dear Uncle Napoleon threw an angry look at Asadollah Mirza and quietly whispered in his ear, “Asadollah, what kind of rubbish are you talking . . . this lout of a butcher’s to come to my brother’s house?”

  Asadollah Mirza answered as quietly, “With your permission, I’ll explain why later.”

  Quietly but in a furious tone Dear Uncle said, “I don’t care if I never hear one of your damned explanations again . . . how can a butcher come and eat with us?”

  Asadollah shook his head and said, “Fine, fine . . . then we can let him take Dustali . . . Mr. Shir Ali Khan . . .”

  Dear Uncle put his hand over Asadollah’s mouth and hissed, “All right, let him come, let him come.”

  Asadollah Mirza went on, “Mr. Shir Ali Khan, if you don’t accept I’ll be really upset . . . and your wife Tahereh is just like my sister to me . . . don’t worry about Dustali, I’ll send him off to bed.”

  A few minutes later uncle colonel’s party had livened up again. Asadollah Mirza made Shir Ali—who was kneeling on the floor at the end of the room—drink two or three of glasses of uncle colonel’s vintage wine.

  After drinking a glass of wine at Asadollah Mirza’s insistence, Dear Uncle Napoleon, who was extremely put out by the presence of a butcher at a gathering of his family, forgot about the family’s high and mighty position, and his expression relaxed.

  After Aziz al-Saltaneh had interceded for him, Dustali Khan was also given permission to be in the room, but he sat sulking and silent in a corner.

  Asadollah kept plying Shir Ali with wine. When the butcher’s thunderous laugh began to resound through the room, Asadollah knew that the wine was taking effect, and suggested that his wife Tahereh should dance; to everyone’s astonishment Shir Ali agreed that his wife should dance.

  They put a record on and Tahereh’s beautiful, elegant body began to sway. Asadollah Mirza was clapping and repeating, “My God, I’d . . . My God, I’d . . .” And those who weren’t too affected by the wine realized what he meant. Even the women in the family were cheered by Asadollah’s cheerfulness and perhaps this was the only time in which malice and spite against Tahereh were not apparent in their glances.

  After supper my father seemed extremely merry and jovial; once again he sat down next to Dear Uncle Napoleon and after a while suggested to him that he tell the rest of the story of the Battle of Kazerun, which, because of the dubious sound, had remained unfinished on the famous night of the party in uncle colonel’s house. Dear Uncle mildly protested that it was a trivial subject, but as my father insisted, he agreed to talk about it. As soon as Mash Qasem heard mention of the Battle of Kazerun he stationed himself near them.

  Dear Uncle adjusted his cloak over his shoulders, “Yes, it was a battle such as used to be fought in those days . . . now with these new inventions like machine guns and tanks and planes, bravery and a man’s initiative take second place. There were us and four decrepit rifles . . . none of my men had the right equipment. Their stomachs were empty, their rations and pay weren’t getting through . . . the one and only secret of our success was our faith in our cause, but the other side was well equipped, you understand. Khodadad Yaghi wasn’t alone, he had the whole British Empire behind him, and if we had two or three good rifles, they were booty we’d taken from them . . . I had one good rifle and I’d given a couple out to my men . . .”

  Mash Qasem interrupted, “You was kind enough to give one of ’em to me.”

  “Yes, I’d given one to Qasem . . . not, of course, that he was a good shot but because he was my orderly, and it was his duty to protect me . . . would you believe that during that time the English frequently plotted against my life . . . especially after Khodadad Khan was killed by me.”

  Mash Qasem said, “That was a good job you did, sir; if you hadn’t killed that bastard, I don’t know what kind of troubles there wouldn’t have been in them parts.”

  My father said, “But you haven’t told us how you were finally successful in killing Khodadad Khan.”

  “That was really God’s work . . . because there were perhaps a hundred paces between us . . . I took aim right at his neck.”

  Mash Qasem objected, “Between his eyebrows.”

  “That’s just what I meant . . . you see my rifle used to fire upward a little, I aimed at his neck so that I’d hit him in the middle of the forehead . . . I entrusted my soul to the Lord and pulled the trigger.”

  Mash Qasem slapped himself on the knee, “Bang bang . . . as God’s my refuge . . . when the bullet hit his forehead he let out such a howl as all the mountains and desert shook.”

  “I realized from the yelling and the commotion the bandits made that the bullet had hit its target . . . all hell broke loose and they were running off in all directions . . . but we stuck with them. We took around thirty or forty of them prisoner . . .”

  With a derisive smile Mash Qasem said, “Sir, what are you sayin’! Forty of ’em? God keep you, sir, you’ve fought so many battles you can’t remember right . . . I counted ’em myself and they was just ten shy of three hundred . . . Khodadad’s brother was one of ’em, too.”

  Asadollah Mirza, who was surreptitiously exchanging glances with Tahereh, said, “My God, what I wouldn’t . . . Khodadad’s brother, eh?”

  Layli and I were near him and, realizing what his words meant, burst out laughing. Asadollah Mirza turned round and gave me a very reproachful look, “My dear boy, you don’t laugh when your elders are talking.” And he went back to ogling Tahereh.

  Dear Uncle, who was vaguely staring into space, said, “Now, do you think after the English had taken all that trouble for all those years setting up Khodadad Khan, they would forget this? A year later, they’d lost one of their pawns, so they opened a dossier on me and it was touch and go they didn’t wipe out my whole family.”

  With a philosophical expression on his face my father said, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going; to a wolf, the dust sent up by a flock of sheep’s a sight for sore eyes.”

  Asadollah, still staring into Tahereh’s eyes, said, “Oh, I’d do anything . . . to a wolf, eh?”

  Dear Uncle asked, “What are you saying, Asadollah?”

  “Nothing, I said that that’s really true . . . that bit about the wolf’s eyes is completely true.”

  My father said, “But then, your troubles weren’t confined to the battles in the south . . . you gave the English a hard time in many places . . . and a wounded leopard is much more dangerous than a healthy one.”

  With a knowing smile Dear Uncle said, “But I’m no weeping willow to tremble in that kind of a wind . . . I didn’t leave a single place for them where they were safe . . . during the Constitutional troubles I’d made so many sacrifices for the cause they wanted to blacken my reputation . . . to drag my name in the mud. They said it everywhere, I even heard they’d written it in the newspapers, that I’d had a hand in Colonel Liakhoff’s bombardment of the parliament building . . . whereas in fact, well, it’s true that I was part of the Cossack regiment but I swear by the sacred soul of my father that not a single bullet was fired from my rifle in all that. Well, why beat about the bush, Mash Qasem here was with me every step of the way, ask him what I said to Shapshal Khan.”

  Without waiting to be asked, Mash Qasem said, “Why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . The Master here, God bless him, said such a thing to that Shapshal Khan, he was ready to melt away like water and hide himself seven yards underground, he was that put out.”

  Asadollah Mirza’s eyes were wandering over Tahereh’s elegant body; quietly he said, “Who was this Shapshal Khan person? . . . my God . . . my God, you’ll come to no good, my little Shapshal Khan!”

  Dear Uncle had heard what he said and
explained, “How can you not know who Shapshal Khan was? Shapshal Khan was a Russian, and the tutor of Mohammad Ali Shah. In the whole of Iran there was no one as opposed to the Constitution as he was.”

  In a loud voice Asadollah Mirza said, “God damn him and may he come to no good!”

  And still staring at Tahereh he said, “God willing, I’ve got big constitutional troubles of my own here . . .”

  Uncle colonel realized what was going on and said in an angry voice, “Asadollah, shame on you!”

  “Moment, moment, and so I’ve no right to be concerned about the constitution . . . and so you’re all for tyranny, are you?”

  For the first time Dustali Khan opened his mouth, “But you mean something else.”

  “Moment, I’m not following. This thief of everyone’s honor is opening his mouth again . . . well, let me see, where is Mr. Shir Ali Khan?”

  Shir Ali was busy chatting to uncle colonel’s servant in the hall; he appeared in the doorway, “You wanted me, Mr. Asadollah Mirza, sir?”

  “No, no, we were just saying what a splendid fellow you are . . . you carry on with your conversation.”

  Dear Uncle Napoleon continued with his story. “On the evening of that day, when they’d taken Malek al-Motakalemin and Mirza Jahangir Khan and the rest of those who were fighting for the constitution off to the Bagh-e Shah, Mohammad Ali Shah received Colonel Liakhoff and the officers of the Cossack regiment to thank them for their trouble, as you might say, and just as he was passing me I shouted out, ‘Your majesty, you’re making a mistake, these are good people, don’t spill their blood.’ Mohammad Ali Shah stopped short and frowned and in an undertone asked Mohammad Khan Amir al-Amara, his court minister, ‘Who is this?’ . . . and when they’d told him ‘This is so-and-so, the son of so-and-so, and the present peaceful situation in the south of the country is due to his self-sacrificing efforts,’ as God’s my witness and on the sacred soul of my father, he went as red as a red mulberry. He didn’t say anything, he just left, but the next day I was posted to Khorasan . . . and you can make enquiries about this. I wasn’t alone, lots of people were present and witnessed it . . . God rest his soul, Madvali Khan was there . . . God rest his soul, Alireza Khan Azod al-Molk was there . . . and God rest his soul, Aliqoli Khan Sardar Asad was there . . . there were lots of people . . .”

  Mash Qasem said, “I was there too. Why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . it’s like it was yesterday . . . when the Master said them words I swear by God in heaven that Shapshal Khan, it was like the ground was shakin’ under his feet, every bit of his body was tremblin’ like a willow . . . he didn’t dare say a word to the Master here so he started on sayin’ bad cuss words to me . . . I couldn’t say a thing and I leaves it up to Him who’s up there watchin’ over us all.”

  Without paying any attention to Mash Qasem’s interruption, Dear Uncle continued, “Now given all this, with such a past as I had, one that was so full of self-sacrifice, when they put it about that such and such a person under the command of Colonel Liakhoff had bombarded the parliament building—well, whose work do you think that was? Could it be anybody’s but the English? Was there anybody except the English wanting to get revenge for the defeats they’d suffered?”

  Nodding his head my father said, “Yes, that’s absolutely right . . . and haven’t they acted in exactly the same way toward Napoleon and a thousand other men? That hypocritical old wolf doesn’t easily forget the blows it’s received.”

  Dear Uncle’s face clouded over. “Their hatred of Napoleon reached such a pitch that before he set off for St. Helena, they wouldn’t even let him see his son . . . the day I started to fight against the English the history of Napoleon’s life was there before my eyes, but it didn’t change my decision.”

  Although I was almost drunk with pleasure at being with Layli, I couldn’t ignore the conversation between my father and Dear Uncle. From one moment to the next, I doubted my father’s sincerity more and more. My father was not the kind of person to swallow Dear Uncle’s imaginary exploits, or to encourage him to talk about them. I wished I could plumb the depths of his mind and understand what he was planning.

  Asadollah Mirza’s voice rang out, “Moment, the English haven’t turned up yet tonight . . . leave Hitler to deal with them . . . I want you to put that dance music on again so that Tahereh can dance.”

  The women, who were bored by the monotonous tale of Dear Uncle’s self-sacrificing exploits, added their voices to his, “Run, boy, run, Layli dear, put the dance music record on.”

  A moment later Tahereh started dancing again. Shir Ali was sitting in the hallway more or less drunk, telling Dear Uncle’s servant and one or two of the other domestics the story of his quarrels and brawls.

  Asadollah made good use of Shir Ali’s absence. Snapping his fingers, he circled Tahereh, at the same time letting his gaze travel over every curve and crevice of her elegant and beautiful body, and singing, “Sweet thing, I’m circling you . . . sweet thing, so tall and fine you are . . . sweet thing, such lips you have, sweet thing, such eyes . . .”

  And as he circled her he bent at the knees and swayed his hips. Meanwhile Dustali Khan sulkily, and with poison in his gaze, stared at him, and Layli and I clapped and laughed with all the warmth and enthusiasm of young people in love.

  PART TWO CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ELEVEN. In which the British invade, and Dear Uncle Napoleon decides to take a journey.

  CHAPTER TWELVE. In which Dear Uncle Napoleon writes a letter to Hitler, and Asadollah Mirza begins to teach the narrator about life.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN. In which Dear Uncle Napoleon gets rid of a photographer, Qamar makes an unexpected announcement, and Dustali Khan is shot.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN. In which Dustali Khan makes a will, a shoeshine man sets out his stall, and there are worries about uncle colonel’s son, Puri.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN. In which a bridgesgroom is proposed for Qamar, and the shoeshine man is arrested.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN. In which negotiations for Qamar’s marriage proceed, and the shoeshine man is released.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. In which Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi’s mother and sister pay a formal visit.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. In which Qamar is married, the narrator and Puri fight, and Dear Uncle’s cellars are flooded.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN. In which the narrator’s father throws a party for Qamar and her husband.

  ELEVEN

  THE SAMOVAR WAS BUBBLING away on a wooden table beneath the vine pergola in the garden to our house. My mother had just made the tea for breakfast and my father was passing a saucerful of jasmine flowers back and forth under his nose and sniffing them as he waited his turn to be served. It was a Friday toward the end of the summer of 1941, and we were sitting there for breakfast, in our flannel pajamas as the weather was no longer too hot.

  Suddenly the sound of footsteps coming from the yard attracted our attention. For Dear Uncle Napoleon to show up at such a time was unusual, especially as he had a severe frown on his face. His right hand was thrust out from his cloak and rested against his stomach, while with his left hand he angrily shifted the beads of his Moslem rosary back and forth. I had never seen Dear Uncle looking so preoccupied and upset. It was as if the sky had fallen in on his head. In a strangled voice he asked my father for a few minutes’ private conversation, and in answer to my mother’s invitation to sit and drink a glass of tea he shook his head and said, “Sister, it’s far too late for your brother to drink any tea.”

  With a worried face my father accompanied him into the room with the French windows.

  What in heaven’s name could have happened? I couldn’t remember even once in my whole life having seen Dear Uncle looking so melancholy and hopeless! Why was it far too late for him to drink any tea? He was just like someone who was going to have to mount the scaffold in a few minutes’ time. I’d n
o idea what was going on and couldn’t understand it at all. More than a year had passed since that thirteenth of August when I had suddenly fallen in love with Dear Uncle’s daughter Layli.

  In this period nothing extraordinary had happened, except that I had grown more in love with Layli with every day that passed, and had occasionally written her love letters, to which she had sent me loving answers. But we conveyed these letters to each other with a great deal of care. Once every few days Layli would borrow a novel from me, within the pages of which I had placed my love letter, and when she returned the book I would see her answer tucked between its pages. Like all the love letters of that period, ours were very romantic, to the point of morbidity, and talked about death and disaster and “that moment when my helpless body will be laid in the earth’s dark heart.” Apparently no one had stumbled on our secret. The main difficulty along the road of our love was the existence of Shapur, a.k.a. Puri, uncle colonel’s son, who also wanted Layli, but fortunately his military service had intervened and the formal proposal and engagement party had been put off until after his discharge. In her letters to me Layli had written that if one day she were forced to become Puri’s fiancée she would kill herself, and in my letters I had sincerely promised her that I would not allow her to go on such a journey alone. Nothing important had changed in the situation of the other members of the family, except that the examining magistrate Shamsali Mirza, who had been temporarily relieved of his duties with the ministry of justice, had been in this indeterminate state for such a long time that he had resigned from the ministry altogether and set up as an attorney.

  Relations between Dustali Khan and Aziz al-Saltaneh had returned to normal, but the suitor of Aziz al-Saltaneh’s daughter Qamar had, by some divine providence, decided to back out of his chivalrous proposal and had taken to his heels.