My Uncle Napoleon
Page 29
“It’s no joke m’dear, the master’s right not to sleep at night. Them godless English are gettin’ closer. And God strike me dumb, who knows if their agents aren’t on their way to do the Master some terrible injury . . . me and the Master won’t be livin’ for much longer . . . though I was sleepin’ with my rifle outside the Master’s bedroom last night he woke up ten times before mornin’. And when he was asleep he was screamin’ out, ‘They’re comin’, they’re here.’ You’d think he felt the blade of a British sword against his throat . . . and my situation’s none too good neither, but I put my trust in the Lord . . . I mean them English have a right to . . . if we was in their place we’d’ve given us such a hidin’ as we wouldn’t’ve got out of it alive.”
“Mash Qasem, I don’t think that you’re in such . . .”
Mash Qasem put his watering can down and said, “What are you thinkin’ of, m’dear, us and them English are like a devil and an angel . . . and just say they’ve forgotten about the Battle of Mamasani, what are they goin’ to do about the Battle of Kazerun, eh? And if they’ve forgotten about the Battle of Kazerun what about the Battle of Ghiasabad? But m’dear, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . as God’s my witness, I’m ready for them English to lash me to a cannon’s mouth so as they don’t bother the Master.”
Mash Qasem spent a long time describing his bravery and the crushing blows he had struck against the British army, and threw out hints about the possibility of the means of their salvation being at hand.
Fortunately the following day was a national holiday. I went a few times to Asadollah Mirza’s house, and the old servant woman there said that the master had given orders that he wasn’t to be woken till an hour before noon, not even if the world were to come to a end. It was gone eleven by the time his lordship woke up. When I went to his room he was eating his breakfast. It was clear that he’d slept well; he was very cheerful and good-humored and was busy wolfing down fried eggs and tomatoes; the sound of the singer Qamar al-Moluk’s voice was coming from the gramophone. He welcomed me with open arms and offered to share his breakfast with me, but I’d no appetite.
“Why won’t you have some? Has being in love blunted your appetite?”
“No, Uncle Asadollah, things are really in a terrible mess.”
When I told him about what had happened at the preacher’s house, and about Dear Uncle’s letter to Hitler, he burst out with a great guffaw of laughter and said, “I don’t know what your father’s planned for this old man. And to some extent he’s got right on his side because when he had the pharmacy he was a wealthy man, and now he’s about at the level we civil servants are. Dear Uncle rubbed his nose in it and he’s rubbing Dear Uncle’s nose in it. If you weren’t in love and stuck in the middle, I’d have just laughed and let them fight it out.”
“But Uncle Asadollah, you have to think of something. I really don’t understand what my father’s up to.”
“Moment, don’t get too upset, your father’s not such a simpleton as to send the letter to Hitler, or to show it to anyone, because he’ll be the first person people will collar demanding to know what all this is about.”
“Then why do you suppose he dictated this letter to Dear Uncle?”
“I suppose he wants to have something in his hands to bring pressure on Dear Uncle, so that he’ll have to dance to his tune, or he just wanted to have something which he could use to make fun of the old man. You said they fixed on a secret password?”
“Yes, the secret password to be used for contacting him later was this: ‘My late grandfather is eating ab-gusht with Jeanette McDonald.’”
Asadollah Mirza laughed so violently that he fell on the floor, and I burst out laughing too. I said, “When Dear Uncle heard the name of his late grandfather he nearly had a heart attack, but my father forced him to accept it.”
“Your father’s no fool . . . they’ve pushed the name of the Master and this late grandfather down his throat so often that this is apt revenge . . . but it’s incredible the Master should’ve gone along with it.”
“He didn’t accept it so easily as all that. At first he said he’d rather mount an English scaffold than have his late grandfather’s name associated with that of a loose woman.”
Asadollah Mirza’s eyes grew round with astonishment, and with a loud laugh he said, “He’s got a nerve . . . Jeanette McDonald’s a great artist, and the whole world would love to kiss her hand . . . he can’t hold a candle to one of her (—)s.”
(The word Asadollah used in this expression, and which is here indicated by parentheses, is too vulgar for me to record. It indicates a gas silently produced by human agency, and with an unpleasant smell.)
“My father said that if Napoleon had found himself in such a situation he would have been ready for such a sacrifice. To cut a long story short, he frightened Dear Uncle so much he agreed that his late grandfather and Jeanette McDonald could eat out of the same dish.”
Wiping his lips and mouth with his napkin, Asadollah Mirza said, “Moment, they talk about this late grandfather as if he were Victor Hugo or Garibaldi; do you have any idea who this late grandfather was?”
“No, Uncle Asadollah.”
“The father of this grandfather was architect to the court, in the time of Mohammad Shah and Naser al-Din Shah; he was someone who’d done quite nicely for himself out of the bricks and mortar he’d knocked up for people. Well, one day he sent a present of five-hundred tomans to Naser al-Din Shah, and Naser al-Din Shah gave him some sonorous seven-syllable title—something like ‘His Dropsical Excellency’ or some such—and he became architect to the court, and his son, this late grandfather who’d taken the money to Naser al-Din Shah on a silver salver, received some six-syllable title like ‘The Royal Disquisition’ . . . and then all of a sudden, from one day to the next, they became members of the country’s aristocracy . . . and it’s natural that the son of the royal leopard should be his excellency the tiger, and his excellency the tiger’s son should be the lion of the state . . . and to cut a long story short, there isn’t now a person in the world they’ll give the time of day to. But, moment, don’t you repeat what I’ve just told you!”
“No, you can be sure of that, Uncle Asadollah.”
“Right, now we must think of something so that, God forbid, Hitler doesn’t send Marshall Goering to the house of this pensioned-off Cossack lieutenant . . . by the way, do you know what this Dear Uncle of yours—who’s now posing as Marshall Hindenburg—actually did? When he was pensioned off he’d just got to the rank of third lieutenant. And he applied to be pensioned off earlier than he was due for it, do you know why?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“You were just a little boy, there’s no reason you should remember. He was so high and mighty around the house, and put on such airs in front of your father, that your father rented that house out—the one he’s now rented out to Brigadier Maharat Khan—to a young second lieutenant. And every time Dear Uncle, who acted in the house as though he were some great historical military commander, was in the street and met this second lieutenant—who was young enough to be his grandson—he had to click his heels together and salute him. At that time military discipline was no joke. And people laughed so much at this that Dear Uncle applied for his pension early. That’s when he first fell out with your father. Right, now get up and let’s think of something.”
Asadollah Mirza continued talking while he was getting dressed.“As we know the secret of how Hitler’s agent is to get in touch with Dear Uncle, we must get in touch with him and neutralize whatever plans your father has . . . but where can we phone from? We can’t do it from your house, and we can’t do it from Dear Uncle’s house either . . . how about we pay a visit to that ass Dustali Khan’s house, I don’t think they’ll be in at the moment.”
We went out hoping that we’d be able to phone from Dustali Khan�
��s house. As we were on our way Asadollah gave me some bad news that made me even more upset than before; everyone who was doing his military service had been demobilized, and this being the case it wasn’t going to be long before Shapur, aka Puri, uncle colonel’s son, turned up again.
When Asadollah Mirza saw my sorrowful face he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Now don’t be so mournful! Trust in the Lord! When I said ‘Don’t forget San Francisco,’ it was for a situation like this . . . don’t worry about it so much. In the end it’ll turn out either that you’re free of it all, or you’ll get to San Francisco, or that blabbermouth will think of some other woman.”
But his words were small consolation to me. We paused for a moment and listened outside the door to Dustali Khan’s house. We could hear nothing of Aziz al-Saltaneh’s racket, which was normally audible from two houses away.
Asadollah Mirza said, “It seems that the old witch isn’t in. If only her maid’s here this is the best place to phone from. We’ll send her packing somehow or other, so that we can get down to business.”
When the door opened Asadollah Mirza’s eyes glittered and a smile transformed his mouth. A pretty young woman of about twenty had opened the door for us. She politely and warmly greeted us and invited us in. At her first “Won’t you come in?” his lordship entered the house and started looking for Aziz al-Saltaneh and Dustali Khan. It was clear that everyone had gone out and that the young woman was alone.
She was wearing a prayer veil over her hair; with a charming smile she said, “Mr. Asadollah, sir, it seems you don’t recognize me.”
As if he had forgotten all about our business and our plans, Asadollah Mirza was eating the girl alive with his eyes; smiling, he said, “Moment, how could I not know you . . . you’re Miss Zahra, aren’t you? . . . How are you keeping? And is your dad well? . . . Where have you been, we never see you?”
The girl laughed again and said, “I’m Fati, Mrs. Khanomha’s daughter . . . Mrs. Khanomha is Miss Qamar’s aunt . . . can’t you remember that when I was little you used to say my lips were like apples from Khorasan?”
“Aha! My dear Fati . . . well well, God be praised, what a fine young woman you’ve grown up to be . . . and where are those red lips? You’d never let me take a bite out of them and now their red’s turned all pale! And now won’t you give your uncle a kiss?”
The girl blushed and hung her head. Asadollah Mirza took her by the arm. Looking her up and down as he spoke he said, “I’ve asked Mrs. Khanomha about you constantly. I think she said you’d got married!”
“Yes, I got married and went to Esfahan . . . but after four years I got divorced . . . he was a bad man . . . he was really nasty to me.”
“May he rot in hell, how could anyone be nasty to such a pretty girl? Any kiddies?”
“No . . . no children came . . .”
“Well well . . . well well . . . splendid . . . and so what are you doing now?”
Asadollah Mirza was so busy with this girl that it seemed that he’d forgotten all about why we had gone there. I signalled to him to draw his attention. Without taking his eyes off Fati’s body he said, “So we’ll just sit here a while until Dustali . . .”
The girl interrupted him and said warmly, “Oh please, treat it as your own house. Come into the sitting room.”
“Fati dear, is there anything cold to drink in your house?”
“Certainly, there’s some cherry cordial, and there’s quince cordial. Which would you like?”
“No my dear, I’d really like some lemonade. If you could just step out and go down to the arcade and fetch us two lemonades, that would be really nice of you! . . . Here’s the money for it!”
“Please, what are you saying? I’ve some money.”
Asadollah forced a bank note that was twenty times the cost of the lemonades into Fati’s hand. As soon as she had gone he went to the telephone and dialled Dear Uncle’s number. He placed his handkerchief over the mouthpiece and waited. When he heard Dear Uncle’s voice on the phone he spoke in a disguised voice, with an accent like that of a White Russian, “Sir, is you alone? . . . Then pays attention . . . My late grandfather is eating ab-gusht with Jeanette McDonald . . . you understand? You not worried. The necessary orders gav comes. The day after tomorrow we was in touch with you . . . whatever anyone says do, you not done; you waited our orders . . . even if the gusband of you sister was saying you not listening . . . completely in the confidence. You not doing anything. You waiting . . . excellent. This is correct. You not speaking with anybody until we gives order . . . you understand? . . . You make promise? Excellent . . . Heil Hitler.”
Struggling hard to control his laughter, Asadollah Mirza put the phone down and said to me, “The poor thing was trembling. But the way things are now if your father wants to prod him any further Dear Uncle won’t fall for it until we can work out what we have to do.”
A moment later Fati came in with the lemonade; she was panting and it was clear she had run all the way.
Sipping at his lemonade and never taking his eyes off her, Asadollah said, “Well, Fati dear, and when are you going to come and visit your uncle? You know where my house is, don’t you?”
“You’re still in the old house?”
“Yes, the same place . . . now you’re here you must come and see your uncle regularly.”
“God willing, I’ll come one day with my mom.”
“Moment, moment . . . no need to trouble Mrs. Khanomha with that bad back of hers . . . I couldn’t agree under any circumstances for you to drag that lovely woman all that way . . . she has to rest.”
“Her bad back’s better now, Mr. Asadollah, sir.”
“Moment, moment, she absolutely must not walk anywhere. A person thinks she’s all better, off she goes walking, and then she’s worse off than before . . . Well, it seems as though Dustali Khan and his wife are not coming back any time soon, so we’ll be on our way!”
“Please stay, they’ll be here directly.”
“By the way, you don’t know where they went do you?”
“Well, you know . . .”
Fati hesitated for a moment. Asadollah Mirza pricked up his ears. He sensed that Fati knew something she didn’t want to say. With apparent negligence he stretched out his hand to her.
“Aha, I get it. They’ve gone about that matter . . . that business there was talk of yesterday. But really, the poor devil, what troubles do turn up for him!”
Fati naively said, “Eh! So you know about it too?”
“Don’t be such a child! I was the first person they mentioned it to . . . the whole family more or less knows about it.”
The flood gates opened, “They had guests here last night. The Indian neighbor and his foreign wife had supper here. An hour after they’d gone there was suddenly a lot of noise and I went behind the door to listen and saw that Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh was interrogating Miss Qamar and saying ‘Whose baby is it?’ And Miss Qamar was completely off her head giggling about it. She said the names of the strangest weirdest people you could imagine.”
Asadollah Mirza tried to hide his astonishment. He glanced across at me and then, to get the girl to talk further, said, “Moment, really moment. What dishonorable people there are in this world. To come and do such a thing to a half-witted girl like that!”
Fati looked down and said, “Today they’ve taken her to a doctor to see if he can get rid of the baby . . . Mrs. al-Saltaneh was crying and beating herself on the head all night till morning, but Miss Qamar herself was happy as a lark and laughing and saying she wanted to knit the baby a matinee jacket.”
Asadollah Mirza was clearly affected by the news; he said, “The man who did this to that girl must be found and his head cut off.”
Fati made a moue and said, “But sir, if I say something will you swear you won’t say I said it?”
Once again Fati hesitated for a moment; finally she said, “This morning Mr. Dustali Khan was saying to his wife that this was your doing. Meaning it was your baby.”
Asadollah Mirza started up and shouted, “What? . . . the creep, the impudent bastard . . . I’d come and do such a thing with a girl who’s a half-wit?”
A stream of curses on Dustali flowed from Asadollah Mirza’s mouth. “I’ll destroy that ass Dustali, he won’t know what’s hit him . . . that wretch invites the Indian and his wife here and spreads stories about me behind my back.”
For a moment he was sunk in thought. Then he raised his head and said, “Get up, let’s go now, we’ll deal with Dustali later.”
Fati was very insistent that we stay until her master returned but Asadollah Mirza promised he would look in again later.
When we were outside I said, “Uncle Asadollah, do you think this girl . . .”
He interrupted me, “With Fati it’s all over bar the shouting. With women if you get them in the first few minutes you’ve got them, and if not then leave them be! She’s one of those who’ll come of her own accord. I’m going to have to give you a few lessons. For now let this be your first lesson: when you approach women show them you’re interested, that you’re looking for custom, that you’re ready to buy, and then clear off and don’t give them another thought and they’ll come after you on their own, and then San Francisco!”
“Uncle Asadollah . . . I thought what this girl said . . .”
“Damn you and your Uncle Asadollahs . . . do you want to tell me yet again that your heart’s thumping in your chest for the sake of some heavenly, innocent love? . . . keep telling me rubbish like that till someone else takes the girl off and you sit sighing for her memory!”