“Moment, thinking doesn’t come into it, it’s clear that this is the work of We-All-Know-Who. Since the moment the Master turned on your father I’ve been waiting for your father to stir things up somehow.”
“Why does Dear Uncle want to go and see the head of the office of criminal affairs? Do you think he’ll have recognized my father’s voice? Do you think he’ll tell Dear Uncle as much?”
“I don’t think he knows your father, and even if he did . . .”
For a moment Asadollah was sunk in thought, then he said, “In any case I’m going to have to go and call on this head of the office of criminal affairs before four-thirty and ask him to smooth things over in order to prevent new hostilities breaking out.”
At this moment I became aware that Mash Qasem was coming out of the house carrying a tray on which was a plate of rice. After a few steps he looked this way and that, but he didn’t see us as we were behind a clump of trees. He put his hand into the plate and took out something which I couldn’t see from that far away, but which I guessed was a piece of meat that had been in the rice; then he stretched out his hand and called “Puss, puss.” In the blinking of an eye two of the stray cats that were usually hanging about the garden made their way over to him. He threw the piece of meat in front of one of the cats. Both cats went for the meat at the same time and the air was filled with their meows and the sounds of their fighting. Mash Qasem threatened them, trying not to raise his voice, “Drop dead, you little . . . just eat it and shut up!”
And since the cats went on just as noisily he bent down, picked up a stone and shouted, “Eh these damn stupid donkeys, filthy cats . . . get out of it . . .”
It seemed that the door to the inner apartments was ajar and that Dear Uncle was watching Mash Qasem, because at precisely this moment he stepped into the garden. He angrily went toward his servant; the cats fled.
“Qasem, have you given the meat from that rice to the cats?”
Mash Qasem answered fearfully, his voice trembling, “No sir, what a thing to say. D’you think I’m a heathen to be givin’ good meat to cats?”
“And so this dish didn’t contain any meat?”
“Well now, what can I say? ’Slike it didn’t.”
“Go back to your mistress and I’ll see why she didn’t put any meat in it.”
Mash Qasem hesitated, hung his head and said, “Well now, sir, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . ’slike it did have some but my hand shook and it fell out.”
Dear Uncle ground his teeth with rage, “I hope the undertaker soon gets his hands on that miserable lying face of yours.”
“But sir, why should I lie? To the grave . . .”
“God willing I’ll put you in the grave myself . . . go back and get some meat and take it to him! Why are you so spiteful? . . . What’s this poor tradesman done to you?”
Mash Qasem made his way back to the inner apartments, saying under his breath, “I hope he gets knifed in the belly! It’d be a waste of dog-meat to give it to these shameless thievin’ rascals!”
Dear Uncle followed him back to the inner apartments. I asked Asadollah Mirza to let me know the result of his interview with the head of the office of criminal affairs. Then I went back home.
A little after Dear Uncle Napoleon and Aziz al-Saltaneh had set off Asadollah Mirza turned up. His face was relaxed and cheerful and when he saw me he said with a smile, “I’ve fixed it, this head of the office of criminal affairs is a fine fellow. I recognized him when I saw him, I’d seen him a couple of times in Aziz al-Saltaneh’s late husband’s house . . . when he realized what was going on he promised that he’d do his level best to prevent any kind of quarrel breaking out.”
“On the phone he said it was someone he didn’t know who had a Shiraz accent, he can’t now say it was an Esfahan accent.”
“The two of us gave it a lot of thought. Finally he remembered that he’d said it was someone he didn’t know and that he hadn’t mentioned whether it was a man or a woman . . . we agreed that he’d say to Dear Uncle that it was a woman with a Shiraz accent who had phoned.”
“But a woman with a Shiraz accent, who could it be? They won’t believe . . .”
Asadollah Mirza laughed and said, “Moment, you’ve forgotten Farrokh Laqa and how much she dislikes Aziz al-Saltaneh . . . well, a Shiraz accent or just maybe a Hamadan accent.”
“Bravo, Asadollah . . . you’ve managed it brilliantly. If it weren’t for you, I’m positive a new quarrel a hundred times worse than the old one would have started. And they’d have separated me and Layli again . . . I don’t know how I can thank you.”
“Do you want to know how?”
“Yes, Uncle Asadollah.”
“Do a San Francisco so that both your mind and mine will be at rest . . . goodbye till tonight.”
Asadollah Mirza set off without waiting for my reaction.
Half an hour later a horse-drawn carriage drew up in front of the door to the garden and Dear Uncle Napoleon and Aziz al-Saltaneh got down from it. I was so anxious I didn’t dare look at Dear Uncle. He came over toward me. I greeted him and looked down, but as soon as Dear Uncle opened his mouth I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Hello there, lad . . . why are you on your own? Where are the other children? Is your dad at home?”
Nervously I said, “Yes, uncle, do you want him for something?”
“I’ll come and see him myself . . . I’ll change my clothes and come.”
There could be no doubt that Asadollah Mirza’s intervention had been successful and that my father had been cleared of all suspicion. The flood of abuse which then followed, directed against that woman who always dressed in black, that bad-mouthed bringer of bad luck Mrs. Farrokh Laqa, confirmed this.
I hung about the garden for a while. Then it occurred to me to take advantage of Dear Uncle’s good mood and go and see Layli, but a noise coming from the alleyway drew me toward the garden door.
The noise was the Indian Brigadier Maharat Khan arguing with the shoeshine man. The brigadier was angrily and emphatically telling Hushang the shoeshine man that he should pack up his stall and take it off somewhere else. I decided to tell Dear Uncle about the matter at once. At that moment he himself appeared from the inner apartments, wearing his house clothes with his cloak over them.
“What’s going on? What’s happened?”
“Uncle, that Indian brigadier wants to send the shoeshine man packing.”
Dear Uncle stood rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and with his mouth hanging open. Then, through gritted teeth, he said, “What? The Indian brigadier? . . . the Indian brigadier?”
For a moment he closed his eyes and went on under his breath, “Although it’s not surprising! . . . not at all surprising! I should have expected it! . . . he must have got wind of it or suspected something was going on. God damn these English!”
Then he came back to himself. He ran toward the door to the inner apartments, shouting for Mash Qasem, “Qasem, Qasem . . . run . . . run. See what that filthy spy is saying . . . Why does he want to turn that poor tradesman out of the alleyway? Does he think this alley belongs to Chamberlain’s father? . . . Run, now . . . Qasem, if you hold back, God help you! But don’t mention my name . . . I know nothing about all this.”
Biting at the ends of his mustache Mash Qasem set off for the alleyway. “What’s goin’ on? What’s goin’ on, Mr. Brigadier, sir?”
“This shoeshine man is setting up his residency in this place and I am saying to him that he should go and he is disobeying my order.”
The shoeshine man strenuously objected, “The whole alleyway’s next to the Master’s garden . . . does this pigheaded brigadier think he’s bought the alley with that couple of yards of house he’s got?”
“I am someone who is dwelling in this alleyway and I am saying to yo
u frankly that I do not want any shoeshine person.”
“Well, that’s obvious because you either go barefoot or you wear yokel’s sandals, so how would you know what a shoeshine man was for . . .”
Mash Qasem glared at him, “And you watch your mouth when you’re interruptin’ the Brigadier . . . and you, Mr. Brigadier, sir, as an act of charity like, let him stay here and earn enough to keep body and soul together.”
“Let him do his acts of charity for the beggars in his own country. I work for a living, I don’t want no acts of charity from no one.”
I was standing in the doorway, and I could see both them and Dear Uncle who was in the garden angrily pacing up and down next to the wall, beside himself with anxiety. I heard him say under his breath, “I hope I see you in your grave. He’s no idea how to deal with this Indian spy.”
I saw that he was pressing his hand against the leather holster of his revolver, under his cloak.
I went forward and said, “Brigadier, sir, we need a shoeshine man or a cobbler all day long, from morning till night. If he’s really disturbing you he could stay on this side of the alleyway, next to the door to our garden.”
Fortunately at this moment Asadollah Mirza appeared in the distance. I breathed a sigh of relief. As soon as he saw the scene of the argument his lordship shouted, “Moment, moment, brigadier, what’s going on? What are you so angry about?”
And he glanced up at the window to the brigadier’s house. His eyes glittered and a smile came to his lips. I followed the direction of his gaze. Lady Maharat Khan was standing on the balcony watching what was going on, her long blonde hair spread over her shoulders. The tone of voice in which Asadollah Mirza addressed the brigadier changed, “My dear brigadier, what are you getting so angry for? You, who are an example to us all of good humor and purity of character . . . I couldn’t even have imagined your getting angry . . . I know this young fellow, he’s not a bad chap, earlier on he was in that alley further down . . .”
“Respected sir, if I have taken up residency in this alleyway it is only for the sake of the peace and quiet and the lack of noise that is prevailing in it. If it is agreed that these louts are to be gathering here . . .”
The word “louts” was too much for the shoeshine man. Despite Asadollah’s signal to him to be quiet he shouted out, “Lout yourself . . . and your dad . . . and your granddad . . . and your wife.”
His face glowing with rage the brigadier made for the shoeshine man and said, “Say that again!”
“Sure I’ll say it again; anyone who calls me a lout is a lout himself and so are all his dad’s family for generations back.”
Without a moment’s hesitation the brigadier gave the shoeshine man a slap on the ear. The shoeshine man, who was young and strong and had an athlete’s build, attacked him and a general struggle ensued. Asadollah’s shouts to calm them down had no effect, and Mash Qasem, who had supposedly intervened as a conciliator, landed a blow on the shoeshine man at every opportunity that presented itself.
Dear Uncle appeared in the door frame and ordered Mash Qasem to separate the two. Meanwhile Lady Maharat Khan was desperately trying to enlist Asadollah Mirza’s assistance.
As luck would have it, at this moment someone with physical authority turned up, and this was Shir Ali the butcher. As soon as he saw him, Dear Uncle screamed out, “Shir Ali, separate them.”
Shir Ali ran toward the Indian and the shoeshine man, who were struggling violently with one another. He handed the leg of mutton that he was carrying to Mash Qasem and, grabbing the neck of each of the parties in different hands, pulled them apart. “What’s goin’ on? Why are you two beatin’ each other up?”
The Indian’s turban had fallen off, and his long black hair reached down to his waist. Panting, he said, “This unconscionable wretch, this thief . . .”
And he attempted to attack him again, but as his neck was fast in Shir Ali’s strong grip he was unable to.
“What’s goin’ on, brigadier? And do your curls up when you’re carryin’ on like this.”
Apparently the Indian was very sensitive about his hair because he suddenly burst out, “Shut up! What has my hair got to do with you?”
He was so angry that he said the rest of what he had to say in Hindi, and in the midst of his talk there was a phrase that sounded something like “low-life” and which came two or three times. Shir Ali’s eyes widened and in a choked voice he said, “Just a minute, are you callin’ me low-life?”
And he suddenly released his hold on the shoeshine man’s neck. He slipped his arms round the Indian’s waist, from behind, and as if he were a sliver of straw lifted him into the air and took a few paces with him toward his house.Then with a violent gesture he flung him into the house, shut the door and grabbed hold of its knocker so that the Indian couldn’t open it.
“And now that Indian’s sayin’ ‘low-life’ to me . . . I’m tellin’ you straight up, it’s only because you were sayin’ leave him alone that I didn’t say anythin’ to him, and if it hadn’t been for that I’d have taken him by the legs and split him in half.”
Dear Uncle was standing between the posts of the garden doorway; a satisfied smile spread over his lips.
Flicking the dust off his jacket, Asadollah Mirza said, “My dear Shir Ali . . . I haven’t had the chance to ask how you are . . . how are you getting on? . . . Well, I hope? And your wife is well?”
“I’m your servant till my dyin’ day . . . now what’s this shoeshine feller got to say for himself?”
Asadollah Mirza quickly said, “He’s a very fine fellow. I know him . . . he came here to scrape some kind of a living together . . . and I’ve a great deal of polishing and repair work . . . leave that door now, Shir Ali, I don’t think the brigadier is going to venture out with you here.”
Asadollah Mirza’s guess was correct, because there was no further sign of the Indian. Shir Ali rolled up the Indian’s turban, which had fallen into a puddle, threw it over the wall into his house, and then went on his way.
Asadollah Mirza sympathized with the shoeshine man, “Never mind, my dear fellow . . . wherever a man goes this kind of fuss happens for the first few days . . . the Master’s shown you kindness and that’s enough.”
The shoeshine man had calmed down. In a mild voice he said, “I put my trust in God, and after God in you . . .”
Then he turned to Mash Qasem. “But you, you mean sneak, you got in a good swipe at my head in the middle of the fight.”
Out of fear of Dear Uncle, Mash Qasem assumed an innocent face. “Me? Now why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . I swear by God in heaven that if he hadn’t stopped I’d have torn him to bits . . . I don’t like raisin’ my hand in anger like, and if it weren’t for that I could take on a hundred of these here Indians. There was a man in our town who . . .”
Dear Uncle cut him off, “All right so there was a man in your town. Run and fetch a glass of cordial to freshen Hushang’s throat.”
Then he turned to the shoeshine man. “Don’t you worry yourself, from tomorrow on everything will be all right.”
“No sir, I’m not a willow to be trembling with every wind . . . the one who’s above has told me to stay here and I’m staying here.”
His mouth wide open, Dear Uncle stared at him. Then he muttered, “The one who’s above told you . . .?”
“Yes sir, the one who’s up there keeping an eye on each man’s business, and who sees that a man gets his daily allowance.”
Dear Uncle gave him a meaning look, gestured stealthily and repeated, “Yes, yes, of course you have to stay where you’ve been appointed to . . . why don’t you come in, my dear sir?”
Before going back to his house Dear Uncle asked the shoeshine man where he slept at night. When he heard that during the night he stayed in a coffeehouse at the end of the alleyway, he felt c
ompletely reassured.
We were about to go into the garden when a horse-drawn carriage pulled up, and uncle colonel hurriedly jumped down.
“Brother, good news, good news . . . I’ve just been at the telegraph office sending a telegram to Khan Babakhan, and he said that dear Puri’s health is much better and that together with Khan Babakhan himself he’ll be here tomorrow by train . . . I’ve got to run and tell my wife the good news, poor thing she’s been going crazy with worry.”
As I was walking in the garden beside Asadollah Mirza he quietly said, “Tomorrow night Julius Caesar will arrive . . . watch out for yourself, Marc Antony! Don’t be lolling about so free and easy, they’ll take your Cleopatra.”
In deep distress I said helplessly, “But what can I do, Uncle Asadollah?”
“What I told you to.”
I was so upset I didn’t try to remember what he’d said and asked, “What did you say?”
“Open your ears: San . . . Fran . . . cis . . . co!”
“Uncle Asadollah, I’m really in no mood for joking.”
“Moment, then just say you’re in no mood for anything . . . as the brigadier says, your vitality’s bahot wilted.”
A few people gathered in Dear Uncle’s house to discuss the family’s problems, which now that the news of Puri’s recovery had arrived were limited to the subject of Qamar’s pregnancy. Asadollah Mirza, Shamsali Mirza, uncle colonel, the injured Dustali Khan and his wife were present. My father arrived a little later.
One thing I realized from the atmosphere in the house, and more particularly from the atmosphere of that meeting, was that they no longer had any strong desire to go into who was responsible for Qamar’s baby. The matter had more to do with Aziz al-Saltaneh than anyone else, but either because of the crime she’d committed in going after her husband with a loaded shotgun, a crime that had almost resulted in his losing his life, or because she didn’t want to go through any further public humiliation, she accepted the story that the real perpetrator was that wicked Allahverdi, and from time to time in the midst of the conversation she denounced and cursed him. As a result of Aziz al-Saltaneh’s turning a blind eye, Dustali Khan also felt easier in his conscience. The person who saw himself as having suffered most in all this was Dear Uncle Napoleon.
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