My Uncle Napoleon

by Iraj Pezeshkzad

  Then she placed her hand on her belly and said, “They want to kill this baby I’ve got. I love my baby, I want to knit him a matinee jacket.”

  “What? A baby? . . . a baby? . . . a matinee jacket?”

  After this unexpected confession and Dear Uncle Napoleon’s noisy reaction, everyone was frozen to the spot for a moment. Only the sound of Qamar’s snuffling sobs broke the silence. Suddenly Aziz al-Saltaneh hit herself on the head and said in a strangled voice, “God strike me dead so I don’t have to put up with the shame of all this.”

  Dear Uncle turned to her and said, “And so . . . you . . . you . . . the English . . .”

  But he couldn’t finish his own sentence. He pressed his hand against his chest, in the region of his heart, and struggled to take the two steps to his chair. Pale, and with his eyes closed, he sank down into the chair. Everyone ran toward him and began talking at once, “Sir . . . sir . . .”

  “Sir, how are you? Drink a little water.”

  “Mash Qasem, a glass of water!”

  Mash Qasem brought the water. But Dear Uncle’s mouth wouldn’t open. They splashed a little water on his face, but he made no move.

  My father said, “It’s his heart, water’s no use. Mash Qasem, run and fetch Dr. Naser al-Hokama.”

  As Mash Qasem was running out he said, “Eh, m’dears, they’ll be the death of the Master in the end.”

  I went over to Asadollah Mirza and told him about the arrival of the photographer, and Dear Uncle’s getting angry. Meanwhile everyone was talking at the same time and running distractedly back and forth. But Qamar was now utterly calm and was busy enthusiastically eating cookies. With her deficient intelligence the poor thing had no notion that she was the cause of all this confusion.

  Uncle colonel, who had somewhat recovered his composure, abruptly realized there were children present and said, “Children, please, go and play in the next room.”

  Asadollah Mirza interrupted him, “Moment, colonel, we don’t have any small children here. They’re all big enough. Besides they’ve heard the whole affair. If it’s so that no one should hear of the matter you’d better let them stay, but ask them not to mention it anywhere.”

  Uncle colonel had nothing to say to this logical remark. With a smile on his face Asadollah addressed the children, “The colonel is asking you, for the sake of our family honor, to promise not to say anything about what has happened to our dear Qamar.”

  With a noisy laugh Qamar said, “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

  This interruption of Qamar’s started many of those present laughing, and she herself let out another laugh.

  Dr. Naser al-Hokama gave Dear Uncle an injection; a moment later Dear Uncle opened his eyes. When he had quite come to himself the first thing he said was that he had no need of a doctor and that they shouldn’t have given him an injection.

  It was clear that Dr. Naser al-Hokama was upset by this remark and he closed his bag and stood up. “Your good health, your good health . . . but see to it that the Master doesn’t collapse again; because I’m invited out and I’m on my way now. You’ve all been very kind, your good health.” And he left the room with a frown on his face.

  My father said, “These unfortunate things can happen to anyone. You shouldn’t upset yourself so much. At this age any untoward excitement can cost a man his life.”

  Dear Uncle took a sip of water and said, “You’re quite right. We mustn’t lose control of ourselves . . . and Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh, stop all that pointless crying.”

  At this moment my mother took my sister and Layli’s brother out, on the pretext of giving them supper.

  Dear Uncle turned toward Qamar and said gently, “Come here, my dear, and sit by me so we can talk a little . . . and Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh, please leave her alone.”

  Still busy eating cookies, Qamar got up without any hesitation and sat next to Dear Uncle.

  “Now my dear, you tell your uncle how you realized you were going to have a baby.”

  Qamar laughed and said, “Because he moves about in my tummy.”

  “When did you realize?”

  “A few days ago . . . I went and got the money out of my money-box and bought some red wool and knitted my baby a jacket . . . I want to knit another one, too.”

  “But my dear, until a girl has a husband she can’t have a baby. When did you get married without our realizing?”

  “It was around the beginning of summer.”

  In spite of all his attempts to remain calm, it was clear that Dear Uncle was seething inside. He gritted his teeth. And in the same gentle voice he went on, “Who was your husband? Where is he now?”

  Qamar thought for a moment, then answered, “I don’t want to say.”

  “Just whisper it to your uncle.”

  Dustali Khan said, “We killed ourselves but couldn’t get her to say the fellow’s name, don’t wear yourself out for nothing. We must think of something else.”

  Dear Uncle said, “But you’ll tell me. Won’t you, my dear?”

  Everyone stared at Qamar’s mouth and pricked up their ears. In the same artless fashion Qamar answered, “I don’t want to say.”

  And she stood up to get another cookie. Dear Uncle, too, suddenly stood up. He grabbed her by the wrist and yelled, “You have to say! Understand? You have to say!”

  With her free hand Qamar took a cookie from the cookie plate and as she was stuffing it into her mouth said, “I don’t want to say.”

  Dear Uncle’s eyes were popping from their sockets; his lips were trembling. He twisted the girl’s wrist, pulled her toward himself, slapped her hard across the face and yelled, “You have to say!”

  Qamar froze with her mouth open. She sobbed like a little child. A drop of blood, together with a half-chewed morsel of cookie, came out of the corner of her mouth. With her mouth full she said, “I don’t want to say . . . if I say they’ll kill my baby. I want to knit him a jacket.”

  I don’t know what the others felt, but I was close to exploding when I saw this upsetting scene. My heart seemed to be about to burst from my chest. Why didn’t anyone interfere? Why did they allow this innocent girl to be tortured like this?

  My father ran over to Dear Uncle and said, “Sir, it’s not right. Leave her alone. The girl isn’t right in the head.”

  Dear Uncle said angrily, “You keep out of it!”

  And Aziz al-Saltaneh, who had been quietly crying, suddenly stood up and shouted, “Just realize what you’re saying, you; it’s you that’s not right in the head. You’re trying to say my girl’s crazy? God blast and damn you, girl, for putting me at the mercy of this family’s gossip!”

  Asadollah Mirza found a suitable opportunity to interrupt and came forward. “Moment, my good woman, don’t shout, calm yourself. Nothing is put right by shouting.” Then he turned toward Qamar. With a handkerchief he cleaned the blood away from the corner of her mouth. He took her in his arms and in a voice filled with kindness said, “Don’t be upset, my dear! No one can kill your baby. They won’t kill a baby that has a daddy. If the gentleman asks who the baby’s daddy is it’s so they can find him and tell him to come and live with his wife and baby—meaning with you and your baby.”

  Qamar laid her head on Asadollah Mirza’s shoulder and said quietly, “But he isn’t here.”

  “Where is he, my dear?”

  In an angry voice Dustali Khan said, “Leave her alone, it’s impossible this girl’ll say anything. We interrogated her all one night until morning.”

  Asadollah Mirza shouted, “Churchill’s special advisor, shut up!”

  Dustali Khan started up and lunged toward him. With his arm still around Qamar, Asadollah Mirza gave him a push with his free hand and said, “Hey, someone come and sit this donkey Dustali down in his chair.”

  Shamsali Mirza
and my father sat Dustali Khan down. Dustali Khan muttered under his breath, “If it wasn’t out of respect for the Master I’d have given him such a swipe in the mouth I’d have knocked his teeth down his throat!”

  Without paying him any attention Asadollah Mirza went on talking to Qamar in the same kind tone, “My dear, if you say where he is, perhaps we’ll be able to find him.”

  “If I say will you promise not to kill my baby? I’ve knitted him a jacket, there’s just the sleeves still to do!”

  “I promise, my dear.”

  Dear Uncle Napoleon’s complexion had turned deathly pale. He was quiet, but from his gestures and appearance his internal turmoil could be guessed at.

  Qamar’s lips widened in an innocent smile and quietly she said, “His name was Allahverdi.”

  Everyone stared at Qamar’s mouth. But she bent her body forward slightly so that she could reach the cookie plate. She took a cookie and stuffed it into her mouth.

  At this moment Mash Qasem stepped forward and said, “You don’t mean Allahverdi, the servant of that Indian brigadier, do you?”

  With her mouth full Qamar repeated, “Allahverdi.”

  “Eh, can you beat that! You mean that Indian servant that swiped his master’s money out of his pocket and they fired him?”

  “Yep, Allahverdi.”

  Everyone spoke at once. Dear Uncle had reached the point that he was ready to explode, but at a sign from Asadollah Mirza he controlled himself. After a moment of dumbfounded consternation Aziz al-Saltaneh suddenly burst out, “As God’s my witness, child, I hope I see you in the grave . . . that they bring me the news you’re dead and gone . . . with an Indian servant, God strike me dead!”

  Finally Dear Uncle could control himself no longer; in a voice that sounded as if it were coming from the depths of a well he said,“The servant of that Indian brigadier! It’s obvious . . . it’s obvious . . . I’m the target of all this! So that I and my family will be destroyed!”

  Dustali Khan said, “The English did this too? God help the English then!”

  His face contorted with rage, Dear Uncle turned toward Dustali Khan and through clenched teeth said, “You too? You’re backing them up, too, are you? . . . You, my own cousin?”

  Dustali Khan started to stammer, “I . . . I . . . I . . . ha . . . ha . . . haven’t done anything.”

  Asadollah Mirza placed his hand on Dear Uncle’s shoulder, “Forgive him, sir, the man lacks all basic common sense . . . it’s no time to be talking about such things . . . before everything else we have to find this Allahverdi.”

  Shamsali Mirza jumped into their conversation, “Asadollah’s right, before everything else we have to think about finding Allahverdi.”

  Dear Uncle suddenly shouted, “And when you’ve found Allahverdi, what are you going to do? Marry the daughter of my cousin off to Allahverdi, this lackey of the English?”

  My father said, “If you can see any other way out, then please tell us.”

  “I’ll ask you not to interfere. The lineage and honor of a noble family is not something that . . .”

  Fortunately Dear Uncle did not finish his sentence.

  My heart was in my mouth. I looked at my father with extreme apprehension.

  Asadollah Mirza quickly started talking. It seemed that by making a noise he wanted to head off any confrontation between my father and Dear Uncle.

  He took Qamar’s hand again and said, “So you and Allahverdi got married . . . it must have been one day when you were alone and he came to your house and said ‘Let’s get married.’ Was that it?”

  With a laugh on her face Qamar said, “No!”

  “Then one day when his master wasn’t home he said to you ‘Come to our house and let’s get married.’ Was that it?”

  “No.”

  “You got married in the bazaar in front of the baker’s, the grocer’s and the butcher’s?”

  “No.”

  Mash Qasem couldn’t control his tongue; he shook his head and said, “God help us all, what shameless folks there are about!”

  “Then you describe what happened.”

  With an unconcerned look on her face Qamar went on eating cookies and said nothing. Asadollah Mirza had no choice but to start his questioning over again, but first he told everyone that they had to wait and be patient.

  “Well my dear, so Allahverdi came on the roof of your house?”

  With a laugh Qamar answered, “No. He didn’t come.”

  Dustali Khan objected once again, “Sir, I’ve pointed out to you that you’re not going to hear any reasonable words from this girl. Leave her alone; we have to think of something else.”

  Weeping, Aziz al-Saltaneh said, “Let them ask her. I’m done for. And tonight just like last night I’ll have to lie awake till morning.”

  Asadollah Mirza wiped the sweat from his forehead and said, “Moment, I think the Holy Spirit came again and did a San Francisco!”

  Qamar said excitedly, “Uncle Asadollah, you remember you told me if I was a good girl you’d take me to San Francisco, so why didn’t you take me?”

  In a sarcastic tone Dustali Khan said, “Perhaps this is the present uncle brought you back from San Francisco.”

  Asadollah Mirza, and everyone else, gave Dustali Khan such a look that he directed his gaze at the floor.

  Asadollah Mirza turned to Qamar again, “Moment, Allahverdi didn’t come to your house, he didn’t take you to his house, it wasn’t in the bazaar, it wasn’t on the roof . . . so where was it, when was it?”

  Qamar said simply, “No.”

  “Aha, maybe it was in a car?”

  “No.”

  Mash Qasem interrupted again, “That Allahverdi was no more’n a beggar, what’d he be doin’ with a car? And why should I lie? to the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . The shameless bastard swiped twenty tomans from me and took off.”

  Asadollah Mirza’s patience was at an end; irritatedly he said, “Then my dear girl how was it . . . ? You can’t do San Francisco by registered mail. Where did you see Allahverdi, my dear?”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “How can you have not seen him? We’ve telephones and telegrams but unfortunately tele-San Francisco’s not been invented yet; do you know Allahverdi at all?”

  “No.”

  “Moment, now really moment, so how can your baby’s daddy be Allahverdi?”

  Qamar answered as she was eating a cookie, “Daddy Dustali said my baby’s daddy is Allahverdi.”

  Everyone, all at once, froze as though electrocuted. For a moment mouths hung open in complete silence.

  Aziz al-Saltaneh, her mouth wide open and her eyes round with astonishment, slowly turned her head toward Dustali Khan who was agitatedly looking from one side to another; in strangled tones she said, “Dustali . . .”

  Dustali started stammering, “I . . . I . . . I . . . as God’s . . . as God’s my witness . . . the girl’s crazy . . . she’s a half-wit . . . her mind’s completely defective . . . I . . . I . . . never ever . . .”

  Asadollah Mirza couldn’t stop himself from laughing. He gave a great guffaw and said, “Moment, moment, as the Arabs say, al-moment . . . so this then is the work of We-All-Know-Who?”

  In the middle of the astonished, unmoving group of onlookers Dustali Khan once again tried to exculpate himself, “On the soul of my father . . . on the soul of our late grandfather . . . on the soul . . .”

  With an agility that would have been remarkable even in a sixteen-year-old girl, Aziz al-Saltaneh suddenly leaped toward the glass cabinet at the end of uncle colonel’s sitting room. With a violent gesture she turned the key in the door of the cabinet and snatched up one of uncle’s two double-barreled shotguns that were always in the cabinet. Before anyone could move she pointed the barrel at her husband’s
belly and screamed, “Tell the truth, and if you don’t I’ll drill you full of holes.”

  Uncle colonel had jumped up after her, but he froze in his tracks and shouted, “Be careful, woman, that gun’s loaded.”

  Aziz al-Saltaneh said, “And you sit down as well, because if you don’t I’ll fill your belly full of holes, too.”

  “I swear on Puri’s soul that gun is loaded. In the evening I loaded it, just to test the mechanism, then our guests came and I forgot to take the cartridges out.”

  Neither the noise everyone else made nor Dear Uncle Napoleon’s peremptory commands had any effect on her. Her lips trembling and her face pale, the furious woman screamed out, “All of you shut up! . . . this orangutan has to speak.”

  Such fury was apparent in her voice that no one dared move; Qamar wanted to stand up but Shamsali Mirza held her firmly in her place. Dustali was standing up; his legs began to tremble. Stumblingly, with a voice coming as if from beyond the tomb, he said, “On the holy Quran . . . on my father’s soul . . . just allow me . . . allow me to speak.”

  Aziz al-Saltaneh screamed, “Spit it out . . . speak! Why did you tell Qamar to say it was Allahverdi’s doing?”

  “I . . . I . . . I . . . I . . . because I saw that she didn’t know . . . the man’s name . . . she’d forgotten . . . I said at least . . . at least . . . it’ll save face a bit . . . I mean she herself . . . she said that Allahverdi . . .”

  At this moment Qamar laughed and said, “What a whopping big liar this daddy Dustali is! . . . Didn’t you say to me that if I didn’t say Allahverdi was my baby’s daddy, you’d kill my baby?”

  Dustali Khan shouted, “Shut up! . . . Believe me . . . sir, you say something . . . After all, would I, with my own stepdaughter . . .? I mean, is such a thing possible?”

  No one had any opportunity to intervene because Dustali suddenly and with the alacrity of a young gazelle made a dash for the door and took to his heels. At the same speed Aziz al-Saltaneh went out after him. After a moment’s astonished silence everyone started shouting and running after them.

  “Mrs. Aziz . . . Aziz . . . just think . . . the gun’ll go off . . . put the gun . . .”