My Uncle Napoleon

by Iraj Pezeshkzad

  “Yes . . . write the caravanserai down too . . .”

  Asadollah Mirza couldn’t control himself. With a moved expression on his face he said, “Don’t forget the sheep.”

  Aziz al-Saltaneh whined, “To hell with the bloody sheep . . . he sold the sheep last year.”

  Dustali Khan swallowed and said, “Now . . . now give it to me to sign . . . and all of you must sign it too at the bottom . . . all . . . all of you.”

  Shamsali Mirza brought the pen and paper over but Dustali Khan’s hand didn’t move. With a groan he said, “O God . . . O God give me the strength to sign this . . . lift me up . . . lift my hand out from under the blanket!”

  Shamsali Mirza raised his upper body a little and took his hand out from under the blanket, but the hand fell back lifelessly.

  Dustali Khan seemed to gather all his strength together to scream, “O God . . . O God, my hand . . . my hand.”

  Aziz al-Saltaneh tried to help him, “Do you want me to help you, dear?”

  Once again Asadollah Mirza couldn’t control himself and said, “Moment, even if his whole body gets better this right hand will never move again. Poor devil! Well, it’s obvious if a bullet strikes in the behind the right hand’s going to be paralyzed. The relationship between the right hand and the behind has been scientifically established.”

  Dustali Khan wanted to say something to him, but he seemed to change his mind. He tried, by himself, to raise himself up, but then gave a cry, fell back unmoving and his eyes closed.

  My father, who had remained silent up to this moment, said angrily, “You’re killing him bit by bit. Let him rest!”

  Dear Uncle gave him a furious look and angrily answered him, “Please do not interfere.”

  I didn’t understand why he was angry. Perhaps his nerves were frayed, but my father was very taken aback by this inappropriate outburst and said, “In any case, there’s no point in our staying here. I’m going.”

  And with an extremely preoccupied look on his face he left the room.

  After a few moments’ silence Dear Uncle said, “We’d better leave the patient alone for now. Just his wife should stay with him, and we can have Qamar sleep at our house, too.”

  As we left the room Asadollah Mirza beckoned me over. We walked out of the inner apartments into the garden. I told him what had passed in the conversation between Dustali Khan and the doctor. Asadollah Mirza shook his head and said, “This family is cursed. Some new quarrel’s going to start up tomorrow. Did you notice how today Dear Uncle went for your father a couple of times? And each time I saw such fury glittering in your father’s eyes I’m certain that any time soon he’s going to arrange for some sort of catastrophe to strike this old man. Did you notice?”

  “Yes, that time he said something to my father about lineage and honor.”

  “Then, and he’s just gone for him again now.”

  “I’m really worried about all this, too, Uncle Asadollah. I’m afraid some new quarrel’s going to blow up.”

  “It’s obvious it began with that, but in a covert kind of way . . . if this matter of Qamar’s pregnancy hadn’t come up, your father would have started in at the beginning of the evening . . . it’s really ridiculous, they talk about lineage and honor as if they were descended from the Hapsburgs . . . now, if you can, be sure to get hold of that letter of Dear Uncle’s to Hitler.”

  “I haven’t been able to yet. I think he’s put it in the drawer of his desk, and he’s locked it.”

  Asadollah Mirza remained sunk in thought for a moment. Then his eyes lit up and he said, “I’ve thought of a way. I think I’m going to have to give the office a miss tomorrow. Drop by at my house tomorrow morning.”

  The next morning I called on Asadollah Mirza. We left his house together, setting off in the direction away from our house. After going through a couple of alleyways he suddenly stopped in front of a shoeshine man whose little stall had been set up in the street. He put one foot on the man’s box and asked the man to shine his shoes. I stood silently to one side, waiting for him.

  Asadollah Mirza struck up a conversation with the shoeshine man, who was young and well built, asking after his health and how he was getting on, and I was surprised that he could think of having his shoes shined at such a critical time.

  “But I don’t think you can do much business around here . . . why don’t you go over to the road with the trees, over there? We have to come all this way round to get here, or we have to go round the other way to the main road.”

  “Well sir, it’s all God’s will if a man gets by or not; and without that, being in this place or that place’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “Moment, what do you mean this place or that place has got nothing to do with it? If you were nearer I’d come myself twice a day to get my shoes shined. Everyone in my area’s looking for a cobbler and shoeshine man.”

  Asadollah Mirza gave him a thousand reasons why, if he set up his stall opposite our house and garden, his income would double.

  The shoeshine man cheerfully welcomed this suggestion and promised that, from that afternoon on, he would set up his stall in our alleyway, which had large shady trees in it, opposite the entrance way to our garden.

  Asadollah Mirza gave him a tip, besides the fee for shining his shoes, and we set off back toward our house.

  Guessing at what I wanted to ask him, he said, “This shoeshine fellow is going to be very useful to us, you’ll realize why later. For now the main thing is to find somewhere from where we can send a phone call from Hitler to Dear Uncle . . . aha, I remember . . . come on, one of my friends who has a telephone lives around here.”

  An ancient servant opened the door to us. When Asadollah Mirza said we wanted to make a phone call, he immediately led us upstairs to where the phone was. He then went off to the kitchen to make tea.

  Asadollah Mirza promptly dialled Dear Uncle’s number. When Dear Uncle came to the phone, his lordship put on his representative-of-Hitler accent and said, “My late grandfather eating ab-gusht with Jeanette McDonald . . . sir, you listen good . . . it is very important important important what I say . . . first, that our code is changed . . . because it is possible the English spy understood. When our representative say ‘My late grandfather eating Irish stew with Jeanette McDonald,’ you asked ‘What with?,’ and he say ‘With pickled marjoram.’ If you not know him say this then it is clear he is English spy and you kicked him out . . . Second, that we gav placed an agent looking like tradesman in front of your door that he be looking after you . . .while this tradesman was here you not being at all at all afraid . . . you was completely confident he was looking after you . . . but you must not at all talking to the tradesman about this . . . we was being in touch again, before the time for your departing . . .”

  It seemed that Dear Uncle was insisting on some way he could recognize the aforementioned agent. Asadollah Mirza said, “I very very confidential saying to you, is a shoeshine man . . . but you not at all, at all, at all talked to no one . . . gav you understand? God keep you . . . Heil Hitler!”

  When he put the receiver down a satisfied smile played across his lips and he said to me, “Poor thing, he’s a simple-minded fellow, but now his mind’ll be quite made up and your father won’t be able to play any more tricks on him . . . so much for Dear Uncle. Now we must think of something for that poor wretch of a girl . . . Dustali Khan or some other idiot has done a San Francisco and now they want to abort the three- or four-month-old fetus, even if it’s at the cost of that poor girl’s life.”

  “How about if we told Dear Uncle that Hitler would be upset? . . . but he wouldn’t believe that.”

  As we left his friend’s house, Asadollah Mirza said, “Now we must look in on that donkey Dustali Khan and see how he’s getting on.”

  “Are you very worried about him?”

 
“Moment, not in the slightest, I know that a shrapnel bomb wouldn’t harm that tub of lard, never mind three shotgun pellets. No, it’s that crazy half-witted girl I feel sorry for.”

  Mash Qasem opened the door to us and, in answer to Asadollah Mirza’s questions concerning Dustali Khan’s health, said, “Why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . ’slike he’s not doin’ too bad . . . Mrs. Aziz was here till mornin’, now she’s gone over to her own house and then she’ll be back.”

  When we entered the room Dustali Khan, who was lying on his stomach, had raised his upper body and was eating his breakfast with great relish from a tray on the bed in front of him. As soon as he heard the door he pulled the blanket over both himself and the breakfast tray and lay motionless. Asadollah Mirza laughed and said, “Don’t worry, Dustali, it’s only us, Aziz isn’t here. Fill that gross belly of yours.”

  “As God’s my witness, I’m in a bad way . . . but the doctor said I should eat something to make up for the blood I’ve lost . . . but on the soul of your mother, don’t breathe a word to Aziz! On your own death, I swear I’m dying with the pain!”

  “Eh, swear on your own dad’s death, what’s my death got to do with it . . . but you made your bed and now you have to lie on it. You did a San Francisco and now you have to put up with the consequences.”

  “By your death, Asadollah, by my own death, I never did a thing . . . I just feel sorry for the girl. If we could find someone who wouldn’t mind that she’s having the baby, then we could get Qamar married off for a few days and I’d give him whatever he wanted . . . and I’d give a notarized undertaking that we’d bring up the child.”

  “Moment, what simpleton can you find who’d be ready to tie that clog to himself for an hour, never mind a week?”

  Dustali Khan answered in a quiet friendly tone, “Asadollah . . . I’ve been thinking . . . I mean I said to myself that . . . I was thinking that if you . . . if you could . . .”

  Laughing, Asadollah said, “Moment! This would be an expensive business. Dustali, you’d really have to loosen the purse strings.”

  Dustali Khan had not been prepared for such a mild reaction on Asadollah Mirza’s part, and he said excitedly, “I’ll give you whatever you want . . .”

  But suddenly he seemed to realize that his excitement and loud tone of voice were not suitable for a wounded man at the point of death; he went on in a quieter voice, “Asadollah, you and I grew up together. If we leave aside a few small childish differences, you and I have always liked each other. I haven’t long to live now . . . accept this last request of mine.”

  Asadollah Mirza well knew that Dustali Khan was playing the part of a man at death’s door, and with fake emotion he said, “Don’t say that, Dustali, don’t say that, you’re breaking my heart! You’re so young! You had so many high hopes! I promise you that every Friday I’ll put a bunch of hollyhocks on your grave stone. Forgive me that my circumstances don’t allow me to run to camellias . . . never mind, instead of La Dame aux Camélias, you’ll be Le Monsieur aux Hollyhocks . . .”

  “Asadollah, please don’t joke. This is no time for joking. Tell me how much you want!”

  “You’ll give me whatever I want?”

  “Rest assured, Asadollah. To save this poor girl . . .”

  “The property at Mahmudabad, my dear Dustali.”

  “What? The property at Mahmudabad? Have you gone crazy? I have to give you the whole property just so you’ll marry this girl for a couple of days?”

  Asadollah Mirza suddenly realized what Dustali Khan was driving at. With fury in his face he stood up. He picked up a small cushion and said, “Moment, Dustali, I really liked you, you were a very fine fellow, but so that you won’t talk any more of this nonsense I’m going to have bring the angel of death’s job forward a bit.”

  Then he raised his head to the skies and went on, “God forgive me! In all my life I’ve never harmed so much as an ant, but the quicker this man reaches you up there, the better it’ll be for humanity. Please take him back! Damaged goods returned to sender!”

  In the midst of this rhetorical display he placed the cushion over Dustali’s mouth and added, “Farewell, Dustali! I am doing you my last favor in the world of friendship. Because every extra minute you stay here you commit another sin. Ready for departure, Monsieur aux Hollyhocks! To the rendezvous in hell . . . at the Boulevard of the Lord of the Inferno, in the alley named after Ali Asghar the mass-murderer, next to the coal shop belonging to Yazid, slayer of the martyrs . . .”

  With terror in his face Dustali looked at Asadollah. Asadollah played the role of a man beside himself with rage so well that Dustali was really afraid, and he stammered out, “Asadollah . . . Asadollah . . . I was joking . . . on your own soul . . . on your death I was joking . . .”

  Dustali was lying prone and Asadollah brought the cushion down violently on his buttocks. Dustali’s scream went up to the heavens, “Agh, I’m dead! . . . That wasn’t fair, to hit me on the scars!”

  “While you remain alive don’t speak another word of that rubbish!”

  Dustali Khan whimpered, “What was rubbish that I said? You said if I loosened the purse strings you’d agree to . . .”

  Asadollah Mirza cut him off, “You ignorant animal! I thought you expected me to find someone to marry your stepdaughter. Are you telling me that even at death’s door you can’t give up your wicked ways . . . if Monsieur aux Hollyhocks goes on with his filth and philandering I’m going to have to fix all that . . . you wretch, even in your wretchedness you’re lucky your wife shot bullets into your lacerated backside, so that now she has to shut up, otherwise you’d have been in prison for fifteen years.”

  “Asadollah, believe me, on your death I swear that if it was me . . . on my own death, on your death . . .”

  Asadollah was standing at his bedside, and kicked him in the leg with the toe of his shoe, saying, “On your dad’s death, on all your ancestors’ deaths . . .”

  Dustali Khan screamed with pain. Layli’s room was across the corridor from the room where we were, and the sound of his voice brought her running into the room; anxiously she asked, “What’s happened? What’s happened?”

  Asadollah Mirza’s face widened in a smile. In a voice filled with kindness he said, “Don’t worry, my dear, nothing’s happened. Dustali has departed . . . God rest his soul, he’s now chasing after the gatekeeper of hell’s wife.”

  Dustali moaned, “If I could just get up, I’d give you such a hiding you wouldn’t forget it for your whole life.”

  Layli stared at me with an inquiring look on her face. “Don’t worry. Uncle Asadollah and Dustali Khan were joking around.”

  With the same smile still on his face, Asadollah Mirza placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “Off you go to Layli’s room for a moment, lad . . . I want to talk to this aging Don Juan about that poor girl for a moment.”

  Nothing could have pleased me more and I took Layli’s hand. We went to her room together. For a moment Layli’s warm intimate glance wiped all memory of the various events of the past day and night from my mind. We were silent for a little while. The sound of Asadollah Mirza and Dustali Khan talking in the next room brought us back to the real world again. Anxiously I said to Layli, “You know, Layli, I’m really worried . . . did you notice how last night they were talking again about Puri coming back?”

  Layli’s face clouded over. She hung her head. Quietly she said, “Last night I didn’t sleep till morning. I’m really afraid . . . last night when I got home daddy talked about the same thing, too.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Just the same as uncle colonel said, about getting engaged. If daddy wants to force me to, I daren’t say no. But I’ve one way left . . .”

  “But why? I mean, can they force a girl to . . .”

  Layli interrupted me, “It’s imposs
ible for me to answer daddy back. But I can do away with myself . . .”

  My heart nearly stood still, but I tried to comfort her—and myself at the same time.

  “No, Layli, we’ll find a way . . . we’re sure to find a way . . .” At this moment we heard Dear Uncle’s voice calling for Layli from the other side of the yard. Layli said, “Stay here till I get back.”

  From the window I watched her go over to her father. It seemed that Dear Uncle was entrusting her with delivering some kind of message, because Layli gave a stealthy glance at the window to her room and then after a moment’s hesitation went off toward the big garden.

  Dear Uncle went toward the room where Dustali was convalescing; as he reached the doorway he was confronted with the glowing face of Asadollah, who was just coming out. I could hear their conversation.

  “How is Dustali?”

  “He’s flirting with the angel of death.”

  “I don’t think this is a suitable time for making jokes, Asadollah.”

  “I’m not joking at all, but luckily it seems that Aziz al-Saltaneh’s bullet has done in his noble member . . . mind you, we’re at fault there, if we’d let Madam Aziz cut it off that other time, a bullet wouldn’t have gone to waste this time.”

  Asadollah Mirza left the room and Dear Uncle entered it. I pricked up my ears. The door was ajar. Though I couldn’t see them I could hear their conversation well enough. After asking him how he was, Dear Uncle was silent for a few moments; then in a very cold, serious tone he said, “Dustali, I’m going to ask you something and, for the sake of all the kindness I’ve shown you, I expect you to answer me completely honestly! It’s natural for mankind to sin . . .”

  “As God’s my witness, on your soul, on the soul of Aziz . . . on the spirit of my late father . . .”

  “Dustali, talk sense . . . last night I felt you wanted to tell me something but those whose interests were not served by your talking prevented you from speaking . . . now tell me: What did you want to say?”