After more discussion and argument this suggestion was agreed upon.
The next morning an extraordinary amount of activity connected with the preparations for an elaborate party to be held that night, to celebrate the return of my uncle’s son Puri, was going on in uncle colonel’s house.
It was agreed that toward sunset all his close relatives would go to the station in a few horse-drawn carriages, in order to welcome Puri. I was extremely upset. With complete callousness I asked God to delay Puri’s recovery from his illness. At the first opportunity that presented itself I told Layli how upset and worried I was. She repeated very calmly that she could not disobey her father but, if it were decided that she was to marry Puri, on the evening of the engagement ceremony she would do away with herself. This statement of hers was no consolation to me at all and I wracked my brains for some way out of our predicament. Unfortunately my one friend and confidant, Asadollah Mirza, wasn’t at home to sympathize with me.
I heard from Mash Qasem that Aziz al-Saltaneh had phoned the head of the office of criminal affairs and received a promise from him that he would send Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi to her house before noon.
At the same time Mash Qasem told me that they’d agreed that for now they wouldn’t let Qamar set eyes on the cadet officer, and then if he agreed to the marriage, perhaps they would be able to convince him, temporarily, to wear a wig.
“And, I mean, he’s every right, m’dear, there’s no one like folks from Ghiasabad when it comes to dignity and honor. And even these fellers from Tehran who have a hundred nancy-fancy carryin’s on, not one in a thousand of ’em ’ll wear a wig on his head like a woman.”
“Mash Qasem, what has a wig got to do with dignity and honor?”
“Well, good God, a fine feller like you and been to school and all, what are you sayin’ things like this for, m’dear? What’s more shameful than for a man to wear a wig like a woman? I saw once with my own eyes . . . a group had come to Ghiasabad to put the plays on for the martyrdom of the blessed Hosayn . . . one of the women in Hosayn’s family, she had to snatch the veil off her head and tear her hair out . . . they said some feller’ll have to wear a wig to act the part. For twenty days and nights they went round the whole of Ghiasabad and not a man was willin’ to do it . . .”
“So do you think Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi won’t agree to wear a wig?”
“Well, m’dear, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . now he’s been in Tehran so many years maybe his nature’s changed, and he’ll be ready to do these shameful things.”
I was busy chatting with Mash Qasem in the garden when I suddenly saw Dear Uncle Napoleon hurrying out of the inner apartments of his house and going in the direction of our house. His complexion was strangely pale, and I was dismayed to see him like this. I ran after him toward our house.
Dear Uncle was looking for my father and went straight to his room. I made my way to behind the door.
“Have you heard? Have you heard?”
“What’s happened? Why don’t you sit down?”
“I’m asking you if you’ve heard the radio?”
“No, what’s going on? Has something happened?”
“They’re here . . . they’re here . . . they read out the official announcement . . . they said the English have reached Tehran. People must stay away from them and rubbish like that.”
My father tried to sympathize with him. “There’s no point in your getting so upset . . . there’s no reason at all for you to be so worried . . . you know the English better than me, they never attack openly and from the front . . .”
His voice choking, Dear Uncle interrupted him, “It’s because I know this perfidious wolf so well that I’m worried. I know they don’t attack you face to face, I’ve spent my life fighting against them.”
“Now there’s no need for you to be so worried . . .”
“My good sir, I’m not worried on my own behalf. My future is clear. Wherever I go I can’t escape from them. I’m not feeling sorry for myself. May a thousand like me be sacrificed for the nation . . . it’s the nation I feel sorry for:
‘Alas, Iran will be destroyed, a lair
For leopards and wild lions will flourish there!’”
There was a sobbing catch in his voice. When I looked through the crack in the door I saw he was wiping the corner of one of his eyes with a finger.
My father said, “What can we do, though? As you yourself have said:
‘When once a savage lion’s cornered you
Accept your fate—what else is there to do?’”
“There’s nothing that can be done . . . but . . . but I wanted to ask you that, as there’s no wall between our houses, see you have the front door securely locked. And I’ll tell Mash Qasem not to open the garden door to any strangers . . . and especially don’t let the children go out . . . even though I don’t think they’d have any quarrel with your children. I’m their prey, me and my innocent children.”
Dear Uncle stayed sunk in thought for a moment, and then left the room. He was still in the same state when he saw me and said gently, “My dear boy, you’re a big lad now . . . something is going on around us, the depths of which perhaps you can’t understand, but I’ve one request to make of you, and that is that if any stranger comes asking about me don’t answer him, say nothing. And tell your sister too . . . don’t open the door to any strangers.”
“But what’s going on, Uncle?”
“What do you think? The enemy’s here . . .”
Dear Uncle put his hand on my shoulder and in a voice filled with emotion said, “Every time you see your Uncle it could be for the last time . . . but then that’s one of the rules of war!”
Dear Uncle stared at me distractedly for a few moments, but his thoughts seemed to have wandered off elsewhere. Suddenly he pulled himself together and set off for the garden door.
I quietly followed him.
Dear Uncle strode purposefully toward the garden door, but as soon as he opened it he stood as if rooted to the spot.
I went quietly closer. From a few paces away I could hear his labored breathing. Suddenly he turned and went toward Mash Qasem, who was busy watering the flowers, and in a choked voice said, “Qasem, Qasem, where . . . where is he?”
“Who, sir? Where’s who?”
“The shoeshine man!”
“He’s right here, sir. Isn’t he? When I went to get bread in the mornin’ he’d already come.” Dear Uncle took Mash Qasem by the shoulders and shook him. “Then where is he? Where’s he gone?”
“What d’you mean? . . . If you want your shoes shined give ’em to me and I’ll take ’em down the bazaar and have ’em done so you can see your face in ’em. That feller was no good at shinin’ shoes.”
“Idiot! I’m asking you where he is! Where’s he gone?”
“Well sir, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . I haven’t seen him with my own eyes, I’ll have to have a look around and see where the hell he’s got to.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Run! Get on with it! Find out and come and tell me. And close the door behind you!”
Dear Uncle’s hands were shaking; he began angrily pacing up and down. Like a caged leopard he took a few paces in one direction and then back again. Mash Qasem took his time about leaving the garden. Dear Uncle caught sight of me. In a voice charged with emotion he said, “My dear boy, this Qasem’s a fool, you go and ask, ask the grocer, ask anyone, see where that shoeshine man’s got to.”
Then it was as if he suddenly realized that it wasn’t right for him to show all this agitation in front of me. He found an excuse: “Off you go, boy . . . he has a new pair of my shoes, from Europe.”
I quickly went back home to change out of my slippers into shoes. When I reached the garden door I came face to face wit
h Mash Qasem who was coming back in. I kept pace with him as he went over to Dear Uncle.
“Where’s he gone, where’s he gone, Qasem?”
Slowly Mash Qasem said, “Well sir, why should I lie? . . .”
“Damn and blast your ‘Why should I lie’s! Speak man, where’s he gone?”
“Well, Ebrahim’s just out there and I asked him. Accordin’ to him he says a constable came and took him off to the police station . . .”
“The police-station? Why? What’s he done?”
“Well sir, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . I haven’t seen anythin’ with my own eyes. But accordin’ to what this Ebrahim says, he stole a watch . . . it was obvious from his eyes he was a thievin’, furtive kind of feller.”
“A watch? Whose watch did he steal?”
“That there Indian brigadier went to the police station and complained . . . he said that yesterday when they was havin’ that argy-bargy the shoeshine feller lifted it from his pocket! A gold pocket watch.”
The wind was instantly taken out of Dear Uncle’s sails. His arms fell lifeless at his sides. For a moment he stood thunderstruck, his mouth hanging open. He reached out and grasped at a tree so as not to fall over. Then he closed his eyes and muttered, “The devils! They’ve started. The plan is being put into effect. O God, I place myself in your hands!”
SIXTEEN
DEAR UNCLE NAPOLEON was extremely upset on hearing the news that the shoeshine man had been arrested and accused of stealing a watch. His eyes remained shut and his lips were trembling. Mash Qasem anxiously asked, “Who’s started, sir?”
His eyes closed, in a weak voice, Dear Uncle said, “Those cunning wolves . . . those English . . . this is an English plot.”
Mash Qasem thought for a moment and then said, “You mean they want to pretend that we put this Hushang up to stealin’ the Indian brigadier’s watch?”
“No, no, you don’t understand . . . it’s something that you don’t understand, Qasem. The mysteries of politics are more complicated than you can understand.”
“Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah! It’s not that I don’t understand. But if you want to know the truth we have to . . .”
The entrance of Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh into the garden cut Mash Qasem off. “Hasn’t the man come yet? Eh, God strike me dead, sir, what are you looking so pale around the gills for?”
“It’s nothing, it’s nothing . . . a commander has to be able to put up with defeat. As Napoleon said, in the school of war it’s more necessary a commander learn the lesson of defeat than the lesson of victory.”
“What’s happened? Who’s upset you? . . . Mash Qasem, who’s upset the Master?”
“Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah! The shoeshine man what stayed by our door’s pinched that Indian’s watch. They’ve arrested him . . .”
Dear Uncle yelled, “Why are you talking nonsense, Qasem? Why are you so naive? You only see the outside of the matter. Because you don’t know the English.”
Mash Qasem seemed to be offended. In a tone of whining complaint he said, “I don’t know ’em? Well, God keep you, sir, but if I don’t know ’em, who knows ’em? You could say I’ve brought up these English . . . I know ’em better than their own moms and dads do . . . all these wars and battles I’ve had with the English, with you as commander, don’t they count? In the Battle of Kazerun, who talked to that there sergeant who came with a white flag to talk to you? Who said to him ‘What right have you to talk to the Master?’ Who sprang out at ’em like a lion? The English are that thirsty for my blood, and you’re sayin’ I don’t know ’em? God rest his soul, there was a man in our town who always used to say ‘If the English get their hands on you, savin’ your grace, savin’ your grace, savin’ . . .’”
Dear Uncle yelled, “Enough, Qasem! Let me think and find some way out of this.”
Aziz al-Saltaneh took Dear Uncle’s arm and said, “All this fuss and bother’s not good for your heart. Please come and rest for a moment or two.”
Then she began to lead him toward the inner apartments of his house. Dear Uncle suddenly pulled himself together. He drew himself up to his full height, jerked his arm free of Aziz al-Saltaneh’s, and said, “I’m perfectly well. I have no need of your help. A commander leaves the field of battle on his own two feet.”
And he turned to Mash Qasem. “Qasem, go and see if Mr. Asadollah Mirza is at home and tell him to come here as soon as he can . . . I don’t think he’s gone to his office today.”
Then he went into the inner apartments; his stride was as firm and forceful as he could make it. Aziz al-Saltaneh came over to me and Mash Qasem and said, “God strike me dead but the master was so pale! What’s an Indian’s watch and the shoeshine man being arrested got to do with the Master?”
Mash Qasem immediately said, “Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah! You don’t know these English. That woman who had a baby in her house, the English had a hand in that too . . . there was a man in our town who . . .”
I interrupted him, “You don’t realize what’s going on, Mrs. Aziz. That Indian was sulking because Dear Uncle had said the poor shoeshine man could work in our street, so he went and made this accusation against him. Dear Uncle’s angry because the brigadier’s been so mean and sneaky.”
Then I said to Mash Qasem, “Mash Qasem, didn’t Dear Uncle say you should go and see Asadollah Mirza?”
Mash Qasem went over to the door to the inner apartments. He called old Naneh Bilqis, Dear Uncle’s maid, and sent her after Asadollah Mirza. It seemed that he didn’t want to be away from what was going on for a moment. Then he made his way over to Aziz al-Saltaneh who was expectantly pacing back and forth.
“Missus, not meanin’ to be rude like, I wanted to ask you that when this feller from our town comes you leave him to me to convince him. We folks from Ghiasabad understand one another.”
“Eh! Damn your cheek! You talk about convincing this stinking baldy to accept my lovely girl . . . God, that girl, she’s ruined my life she has, I hope she never sees another happy day.”
“Did you tell Miss Qamar she’s not to suddenly start talkin’?”
“I’ve worn my tongue out talking to her, but she still can’t shut up about his thick black hair.”
“I’ll manage all that about his hair. You don’t know these folks from Ghiasabad, if he gets wind that somethin’ like this is goin’ on, it’s impossible he’ll agree to it . . . Why, that’s nothin’, once I saw there was a man in our town who . . .”
A noise at the door cut Mash Qasem’s story short, “’S like that’s him, from our town. Now you say nothin’, leave it to me.”
As soon as he opened the door Mash Qasem stepped back in astonishment. “Eh? What? It’s you? . . . But . . .”
“Yes, yes, it is I . . . I myself . . . Out of my way! Silence!”
A hand landed on Mash Qasem’s chest and thrust him aside. Aziz al-Saltaneh and I stood stock-still with astonishment.
Deputy Taymur Khan, the detective from the criminal affairs office and Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi’s superior, who had come to our house last year in order to investigate the disappearance of Dustali Khan, came through the doorway.
Two paces behind him Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi, with his ancient porkpie hat pulled down over his eyes, set foot in the garden.
Involuntarily Aziz al-Saltaneh said, “Deputy, sir . . . you?”
“Good day, ma’am . . . Yes, it is I, you are surprised? It seems you were not expecting me! . . . Silence!”
“But . . . but . . . why . . . but we didn’t imagine that . . . we didn’t think of troubling you . . .”
“Silence! Time is golden . . . explain what article of yours has been stolen! . . . Your answer? Quick, now, immediately, at the double!”<
br />
Deputy Taymur Khan said these words in such a curt way that Aziz al-Saltaneh was thoroughly confused, and started to stammer, “I . . . it was . . . I mean . . .”
“What? What about you? . . . What has been stolen? Explain! Quick, immediately, without any hesitation! Yes? What?”
“It was . . . I mean . . . it was . . . a watch belonging to my late father. . . .”
“Gold?”
“Well . . . of course . . . yes, yes.”
“With a chain? Quick, now, immediately, at the double!”
“Yes . . . I mean, its chain was . . . yes, with a chain . . .”
“Silence! . . . Don’t you suspect anyone? Yes? Well? Silence!”
Mash Qasem was so taken by surprise by Deputy Taymur Khan’s unexpected arrival that he was staring at him, thunderstruck and with his mouth wide open. The deputy leapt toward him. “What’s your name? What?”
“Well now, why should I lie . . . lie . . .”
“You told a lie? Why did you tell a lie? . . . Confess! Quick, now, immediately, at the double.”
“I didn’t tell no lie. And why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . My name, at your service, is Mash Qasem.”
“Aha! Aha! I remember . . . suspect number two in last year’s crime . . . silence!”
I attempted to shift my position slightly. Deputy Taymur Khan’s voice rang out, “Halt! Who gave you permission to leave? Stay precisely here!”
Mash Qasem started to exchange greetings with Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi. The deputy interrupted him, “Silence! You wish to suborn my second in command? . . . For what purpose? Yes? Answer! Quick, immediately! Silence!”
And then he brought his enormous face close to Mash Qasem’s face, “So, Mr. Mash Qasem, you said that . . . You are well?”
“Thanks be to God, thank the lord, very kind of you, I’m sure.”
“Let me see, Mr. Mash Qasem, have you eaten lunch?”
Mash Qasem laughed, “What things you’re sayin’, sir, it’s still two hours till noon . . .”
My Uncle Napoleon Page 37