“And what does that mean?”
“It’s a modern German custom. It means ‘Long live Hitler’ . . . especially don’t forget to write that you’re ready to undertake any service on their behalf, and ask him to arrange for your immediate protection.”
With an innocent look on his face Dear Uncle asked, “And then where will they take me?”
“They’ll take you to Berlin. . . . and then a few months later they’ll bring you back here with the German army . . . in any case you’ll have to put up with being separated from your wife and children for a few months.”
“I couldn’t ask them to take Mash Qasem with me, too?”
“No reason why not; add a couple of lines at the end about Mash Qasem saying he’s in mortal danger, too.”
Mash Qasem nodded and said, “Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . them English have really had enough of me, too . . . I killed that many of ’em at the Battle of Kazerun! It’s like it was yesterday . . . with one swipe of my sword I slashed off the head of one of their colonels and it fell at his feet . . . and I hit him so fine he never realized . . . his body fell down, too, with no head on it, and for a good half hour it was swearin’ and cussin’ at me . . . finally I stuffed a handkerchief down his throat . . .”
Dear Uncle angrily interrupted him, “That’s enough, Mash Qasem! And so how did you say you would get this letter to Hitler in a hurry?”
“Don’t worry about that, I know one of their men here who can radio your message, just as you’ve written it, to Berlin. You can be quite sure that they’ll be in touch with you within a couple of days . . .”
“And what am I to do till I get news from them?”
“In my opinion it’s best that you go home, don’t show them that you’re at all concerned about anything, be really friendly with the Indian . . . say the car broke down on the way and you had to come back.”
“You don’t think that . . .”
“Obviously the English won’t reach Tehran before five or six more days are up, and you should act as if you couldn’t care less about them . . . in principle it’s better if this Indian—if in fact he really is one of their agents—should report that you’re in your house, so that they don’t take any further steps before their army gets here. I’ll go back now, and you come in a quarter of an hour or so, looking like someone who’s just got back from a journey. In the meantime make a fair copy of the letter, slip it to me when no one’s looking, and you’re all set.”
My father made a few more recommendations concerning the humble, imploring tone of the letter to Hitler, Dear Uncle’s announcement that he was ready to be of service to the Germans, and the necessity for revealing the connections between Brigadier Maharat Khan and the English, and was then ready to leave.
I immediately got myself to the other side of the yard where I sat down on the step with my back against the door to the street; with an innocent look on my face I pretended to have dozed off.
“Get up, let’s go . . . don’t go to sleep in other people’s houses.”
While we were on the way back home I asked my father, “By the way, Dad, why didn’t Dear Uncle go to Qom?”
It seemed that my father was deeply involved in thinking about his plot, because I repeated the question two or three times before he heard. In an impatient voice he said, “The car broke down along the way and they came back.”
While we were on the way home I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He was talking to himself, though no words were audible. I involuntarily raised my head to the heavens and said under my breath, “O God, put it into my father’s heart not to start any more arguments.”
I had no idea what my father wanted to do with Dear Uncle’s letter to Hitler, but I decided that in any case I was not going to sit idly by; I was going to try to neutralize whatever steps he was taking that might once again lead to battles and rows likely to bring sorrows and suffering down on my head.
The main living room of Dear Uncle’s house was still full of bustle and noise, and the guffawing laugh of Asadollah Mirza could be heard from the middle of the yard.
I saw Layli before anyone else; she was laughing loudly and for a moment I forgot all my worries. When I asked her why she was laughing, she said quietly, “You should have seen how Asadollah has been teasing Dustali Khan.”
Dustali Khan had a grim frown on his face; every now and then he tried to manage a laugh but he wasn’t being very successful. As usual Asadollah Mirza had had a drink or two; he was describing to the Indian his memories of a night on the prowl he had spent with Dustali Khan. “And then after all this arguing Mr. Dustali Khan was left alone with the girl but—God forbid such a thing should ever happen to you, brigadier—it seems his natural vitality was quite bahot wilted . . .”
His lordship gave another great guffaw and, with his shoulders shaking with laughter, went on, “And he was young then too, when his vitality was bahot wilted . . . so now his vitality’s more bahot wilted than ever.”
Asadollah Mirza’s laughter had set the English woman laughing; she constantly praised him with the English word “lovely” and such like expressions and begged him to explain everything to her in English.
Although Asadollah didn’t really know English, he wasn’t a man to let that stop him, and he began, “You know, my dear Lady Maharat Khan . . .”
In a quiet smothered voice Dustali Khan said, “I know a good story about Emamzadeh Qasem.”
Asadollah Mirza assumed a serious face and said, “Ladies, gentlemen . . . ladies and gentlemen . . . silence, please! Our noble friend, that brilliant orator Mr. Dustali Khan, will relate for our esteemed listeners the story of Emamzadeh Qasem . . . and now I hand the floor over to him.”
Dustali Khan knew that his words would never shine anywhere Asadollah Mirza was and, despite the urging of everyone present, he remained silent.
In a reproachful tone Asadollah Mirza said to him, “Dustali you’re making me look silly in front of the brigadier and his wife . . . the brigadier and his wife are my guests tonight, and you mustn’t deprive them of your charming conversation.”
Dustali Khan angrily said, “The brigadier and his wife are friends of all of us . . . and in fact it was because I asked that they came tonight.”
“What a nerve you’ve got, Dustali!”
“Oh yes? Well, you invited the brigadier and he didn’t accept, but when I insisted they come, he accepted.”
Asadollah Mirza said with a laugh, “All right, let’s pretend that Mrs. Brigadier Maharat Khan is my guest, and the brigadier is your guest!”
But Dustali Khan was angry, and like a child who stubbornly argues and contradicts himself he shouted out, “You’ve no right to say that! I invited Brigadier Maharat Khan and his wife here tonight and they are my guests!”
At this point I became aware of amazed looks on the faces of everyone present; they were staring at the entrance, and I turned to see what was there. The tall figure of Dear Uncle, who was still wearing his leather travelling goggles, was standing in the frame of the living room doorway; there could be no doubt that he had heard Dustali Khan’s last sentence, because he glared at his face in astonished fury.
There was a short moment of silence, and then the noise of everyone’s questions as to why Dear Uncle had returned set the party in an uproar. With a smile on his lips Asadollah Mirza glanced over at me and winked; I thanked him with a slight nod of the head. Dear Uncle started playing the role he had taken on; after greeting everyone and giving the Indian and his wife a pretended welcome to his house, he told the story of the car breakdown.
My father said, “It’s all for the best, there’s lots of opportunities to go on pilgrimages. God willing, next month we’ll go together.”
And in order to say something the Indian said, “The gentleman could not be putting
up with being away from his lady, so he commanded a return . . .”
And then the joke about Nayshapur, that Asadollah had suggested to him at noon that day, suddenly seemed to occur to him, and he added, “The beloved commanded a return from Nayshapur to Lahavard.”
When he heard the name Nayshapur Dear Uncle gave a start, but he tried to act as if nothing had happened; he gave a forced laugh and then took an envelope out of his pocket and stretched out his arm toward my father. “By the way, the address of that hotel you gave us was no use. You might as well keep it!”
Although I was trying to stay calm I couldn’t tear my eyes from the envelope. My gaze followed its movement from Dear Uncle’s hand to my father’s, and then into my father’s pocket. O God, what had my father trapped our naive Dear Uncle into this time?
Dear Uncle struggled to hide his anger and anxiety at the Indian’s presence, and at his own dark prospects. He spoke even more than usual, and contrary to his usual practice—since he found Asadollah’s jokes difficult to put up with—he tried to get Asadollah Mirza to talk. “By the way, Asadollah, where has Dustali Khan hidden his wife Aziz al-Saltaneh away tonight?”
“I imagine Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh has gone to the shrine of Davud to pray for intercession.”
“Intercession for what?”
“To get rid of Dustali Khan’s infirmity . . . as Brigadier Maharat Khan puts it, unfortunately Dustali Khan’s natural vitality is bahot wilted . . .”
The brigadier protested, “I am never saying such a thing.”
Asadollah Mirza said, “Brigadier, sir, I said as you put it, meaning in your language . . . I didn’t say you had said it. Everyone says it. It’s obvious from his face that his natural vitality’s bahot wilted.”
In a quiet but furious voice Dustali Khan said, “Asadollah, I’ll make you eat your words . . .”
Asadollah Mirza shouted out, “What’s this I hear? All right, all right then. Your natural vitality is not being bahot wilted . . . it is being in complete working order . . . it’s the vitality of the great hero Rostam, the vitality of Hercules, oh yes indeed.”
At the end of the party when everyone stood to say goodbye and leave, Dear Uncle indicated to Dustali Khan that he should stay; my father seemed to guess that he wanted to ask him why he had invited the Indian and signalled to him to change his mind. Dear Uncle let Dustali leave with the others. Only Dear Uncle and my father remained in the living room. I couldn’t go, I wanted to hear what they would say to one another. I pretended to be busy behind the door.
My father quietly asked, “You wrote the letter just as we said?”
“Yes, exactly as you said, but please act quickly. My situation is very dangerous.”
“Rest assured that first thing tomorrow this message will be sent to the city we mentioned.”
At that moment Mash Qasem entered the room, grumbling and muttering under his breath; he went over to Dear Uncle. “Sir, you know what that bastard’s done?”
“Who, Qasem?”
“That Indian brigadier.”
With extreme agitation Dear Uncle said, “What’s he done?”
“Just half an hour ago he came out of the room, looked all round and then goes in the yard . . . I went after him all quiet . . .”
“Get on with it, don’t be so irritating. Then what happened?”
“Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . he went straight to the roots of the big sweetbrier bush . . . then cheeky beggar if he didn’t stand there and do his stuff like.”
“On the roots of the big sweetbrier?”
“Yes, sir . . . on the roots of the big sweetbrier.”
His face contorted, Dear Uncle gripped my father’s arm. “You see that? . . . these English . . . they want to get at me from every side! This is part of their plan, they want to destroy my soul so I’ll submit to them, bound hand and foot. This is the beginning of their war of nerves against me!”
Then he suddenly thrust aside his jacket, put his hand on the leather holster of the revolver at his belt, and shouted, “I’ll kill that Indian with my own hands . . . on the roots of my big sweetbrier! This is really hitting below the belt! Even if I die under the tortures of the English, I have to pay this Indian back for what he’s done.”
My father put his hand on Dear Uncle’s shoulder and said, “Calm down.
‘An ant that’s slithering in a slippery bowl
Needs skill not strength to save his soul.’
Be patient, when your friends arrive, they’ll sort this Indian fellow out.”
Dear Uncle muttered under his breath, “With my own hands I’ll string them all up on the vine trellis.”
Mash Qasem raised his eyes to the heavens and said, “God help us all . . . I didn’t want to say everythin’ . . . the bastard did somethin’ even worse.”
With his eyes bulging from their sockets Dear Uncle said, “What else did he do? Why didn’t you say everything?”
“Well now, why should I lie? To the grave . . . Never mind he did that, that was nothin’, savin’ your grace and rose water on your face, but he let fly one of them shameless noises like that I heard a good four yards off.”
Dear Uncle clutched his head in his hands and said, “My God, just give me the chance to be revenged on these English wolves for this insolence!”
A few minutes later, when we’d gone back to our own house, Dear Uncle turned up again. He signaled my father to go into the room with the French windows.
I had already made up my mind that I would not miss what they were up to at any price. I quickly made my way to my hiding place.
“There’s always something wrong when things are done in a hurry. I’ve just realized that I didn’t put anything in my letter about how I was to recognize their representative. Just imagine their representative wants to get in touch with me, how’s he to introduce himself and how am I to understand that he’s come from them?”
My father wanted to dismiss the matter as trivial, but it seemed that he straightaway realized that Dear Uncle’s question was a logical one, and after a moment apparently spent sunk in thought he said, “You’re quite right. In such a situation one has to think of everything. You must establish some kind of secret sign. How about if . . . ?”
“I thought I’d specify a sign that would be a special password for when we got in touch.”
My father stroked his chin and said, “That’s not a bad idea, but you’d have to write the password down and this is not a good time to be writing things down; you have to think of the enemy’s agents. If you ask me, I think . . .”
He remained deep in thought for a few moments. Dear Uncle said, “How about if we used the name of one of my family?”
My father’s eyes lit up, “Not bad. For example we could use your late grandfather’s name, but it would have to be in such a way that it couldn’t be copied. How about, ‘My late grandfather is eating ab-gusht with Jeanette McDonald’?”
In a choked voice Dear Uncle said, “I don’t think this is the right time to be making jokes.”
“I’m not making a joke; just as I suggested, it has to be a sentence that it would be impossible for the enemy’s spies to guess at.”
His voice trembling with anger, Dear Uncle said, “I’d rather mount an English scaffold than put my late grandfather’s name next to that of some loose woman.”
My father shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, you can’t have your cake and eat it, too . . . if you really don’t want to . . . then we can just leave everything in the hands of fate . . . after all, it’s not certain that the English want to take revenge on you. Perhaps after all this time they’ve forgiven your sins.”
“It looks as though you’re trying to torture me. You know better than anyone else what horrible plans the English have for me. The roots of my s
weetbrier bush aren’t dry yet from that filthy Indian’s evil plot against me . . .”
“Then why are you being so difficult? Do you think if Napoleon could have escaped from all his troubles on St. Helena under such conditions he would have hesitated? You’re not alone in this. A great family, a city, a nation are all waiting for your self-sacrifice.”
Dear Uncle closed his eyes for a moment; clutching his temples in his hands he said, “I accept, for the people’s sake! Give me the letter and I’ll add the secret password.”
My father handed him the letter and placed pen and ink before him. “Write as follows: ‘Finally it is requested that in order to establish contact with me it be established that the following secret password is to be used . . .’ Have you written that? Now write between quotation marks, ‘My late grandfather is eating ab-gusht with Jeanette McDonald.’”
When Dear Uncle raised his head from the paper his brow was covered in sweat. He said under his breath, “God forgive me that in order to save my own soul I’ve made my late grandfather turn in his grave like this.”
“Rest assured that if your late grandfather were alive he would be completely behind you.”
After delivering himself of a short speech about his own innate bravery, together with a few anecdotes drawn from the life of Napoleon, Dear Uncle returned to his own house.
I was really confused and at a loss. However hard I tried to guess what my father’s plan was, my brain couldn’t come up with anything. I spent a restless night. It occurred to me to turn to Asadollah Mirza again. But although I went to find him early next morning, he had already left the house and still hadn’t come back late that night, so I had to spend the whole day—which seemed endless to me—alone with my own thoughts and wild imaginings. The thing which particularly caught my attention that day was my father’s expression and general manner. I thought I saw in his glance a certain mental self-satisfaction, as if he’d triumphed over an enemy.
I didn’t see Dear Uncle for the whole day. Toward dusk, when Mash Qasem was busy watering the flowers, I was able to have a few words with him. He too seemed filled with anxiety and alarm, under the influence of Dear Uncle’s hints.
My Uncle Napoleon Page 28