My Uncle Napoleon

by Iraj Pezeshkzad

  Then the door sprang violently open and Mrs. Farrokh Laqa, trembling with fury and her face white as chalk, flung herself out of the room; she ran screaming toward the door to the street, “The shameless wretch . . . with those lecherous eyes . . .”

  A moment later Asadollah Mirza came out of the room after her, still protesting his undying devotion. Once Mrs. Farrokh Laqa had fled from the inner apartments, Asadollah Mirza closed the door and came back. He straightened his tie and clothes and said with a smile, “I’d no choice . . . I had to get rid of her.”

  “Well, Uncle Asadollah, if she’d go along with all your promises of devotion then what would you have done?”

  “Nothing; a trip to San Francisco.”

  “With that old woman?”

  With a smile on his lips Asadollah Mirza nodded his head and said, “She’s not bad. . . . I hadn’t touched her before, she’s got a nice firm chubby body.”

  When we went back to the sitting room everyone was still on their feet looking for the mouse. Asadollah Mirza suddenly threw himself to the floor in the hallway, placed his handkerchief over an imaginary mouse and shouted, “I’ve got it!”

  And he ran toward the outer door and pretended to throw the mouse into the garden.

  The meeting calmed down again. Dear Uncle Napoleon started to smooth things over. “You’ll have to excuse us, ma’am, as you can see this woman isn’t quite right in the head, she’s always such a nuisance.”

  Asadollah Mirza took up the theme, “An old girl left on the shelf like that . . . the frustration’s got to her . . . it’s addled her brains.”

  The cadet officer’s mother said mildly, “It doesn’t matter, sir, there are these crazies in every family.”

  Then she fixed her greedy eyes on Dustali Khan and went on, “Among a hundred flowers it doesn’t matter if there’s one thorn.”

  I was sitting on a big sofa next to Asadollah Mirza and Dustali Khan. I heard Dustali Khan whisper to Asadollah Mirza, “Asadollah, you remember that double-barreled Belgian gun of mine that you really liked? I’ll give it to you on condition that you fix things so that the cadet officer rents a room somewhere else for his mother. I’ll give the rent for the room, too, so she doesn’t come to our house . . . I mean what’s the point of him giving up his house and family for a couple of months and moving his wife and sister from one place to another?”

  Asadollah Mirza whispered back in answer, “Moment, moment, you seem to be implying that the cadet officer and his sister should stay in your house, while his mother buries herself somewhere as far away as possible.”

  “She can take the sister, too. Just think of it—if I see that bearded woman every morning for three months, I’ll curl up and die. You can go through the whole city and you won’t find another gun like that.”

  “I’ll do my best but it’ll be hard to persuade her. This Jeanette McDonald is even now in her imagination seeing you in her arms.”

  Asadollah Mirza signalled the cadet officer to go outside with him, but after a couple of minutes they both came back.

  When the others had begun chatting again, he whispered to Dustali Khan, “I’m very sorry Dustali, he will not agree under any circumstances to be separated from his mother. However much I said it wasn’t worth moving his mother for two or three months, it wouldn’t penetrate his skull. He says they were ready to move anyway and that they were looking for a house.”

  “Asadollah, you didn’t talk to him the way you should have done. I know what a malicious person you are.”

  “Moment, however malicious I might be, I wouldn’t mind having your Belgian gun, but he really wouldn’t agree to it . . . don’t take it so badly, she’s got a beard but it’s a very soft and delicate beard. And then for New Year I’ve a mind to buy her a razor and shaving brush, so you can put your mind completely at rest.”

  Dustali Khan growled under his breath, “God rot your lordship’s ugly face.”

  “Moment, Dustali, you’re resorting to abuse? If you say too much I’ll tell the cadet officer to bring the child he’s left with his other wife with him too!”

  The cadet officer’s mother was warming to her theme, “Believe me, sir, I wanted to see Rajabali married before I died. The other time he got married without me knowing. God strike me dumb for it but I cursed him. And in the war he was hit by a bullet and God strike me dumb but it was touch and go whether he’d live or not. God knows how I prayed and the vows I made . . . thank God and—knock on wood—after the four months when he was lying in hospital, God gave him back to me.”

  Asadollah Mirza said, “Thank God a hundred thousand times . . . God keep him for you.”

  The old woman said, “And his heart’s so pure and clean, God’s always kept him safe . . . and now, praise God, he’s going to come into a bit of money and a nice life . . . God willing, he’ll marry and with Mr. Dustali Khan to look out for him he’ll get rid of that one bad habit he has . . .”

  At this hint of his mother’s, Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi struggled hard to get her to be quiet, but the old woman paid no attention to his objections, “I know that Rajabali doesn’t like me to say this, but I’m a straightforward person. You’re giving your daughter to him, and I want you to know everything . . .”

  With a smile Asadollah Mirza said, “Let’s hope it’s all for the best. Now what’s this habit he has? He plays with himself too much?

  The old woman let out a hideous laugh and said, “Eh, you’ll be the death of me, the things you say!”

  And after laughing for a long time she went on, “No, he hasn’t got any of those bad habits. But for two or three years now he’s had some bad friends, and as a joke they got him hooked . . .”

  Dear Uncle and Dustali Khan said together, “Hooked?”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t smoke that much, half a mesqal of opium a day . . . at the most one mesqal . . . I took him to the doctor once to get him to quit, but he started again.”

  With a laugh Asadollah Mirza said, “This isn’t a fault ma’am, Mr. Dustali Khan smokes a bit himself occasionally . . . now he’s found a nice companion to sit at the opium brazier with.”

  Dustali Khan was lying back on the sofa and he pulled himself upright so violently that he cried out from the pain, “Ow . . . Asadollah, why are you talking such rubbish? When have I ever smoked opium?”

  At the beginning of this conversation Aziz al-Saltaneh had taken Qamar out of the room, and now she returned alone. Once again I saw happiness shining in my father’s eyes. Little by little he was getting to know the groom’s faults and his heart was overflowing with joy. His face all innocence he asked a few questions about the cadet officer’s child from his first marriage.

  The cadet officer’s mother glanced this way and that and said, “Eh, where’s my daughter-in-law. . . .? Miss Qamar, come here my dear.”

  With an innocent look on her face Qamar came back into the room. The old woman sat her down next to herself and kissed her on the face. “My, what a lovely looking bride you are, and what I wouldn’t do for you’s nobody’s business!”

  Qamar got up, went over to her mother, and whispered something which virtually everyone there heard, “Mummy, her beard hurt my face.”

  To cover up the sound of her voice Asadollah Mirza began speaking very loudly, “God willing, after this wedding we’ll be able to eat candies at Miss Akhtar’s wedding too.”

  The cadet officer’s mother’s face broke into a broad smile, “Akhtar’s your devoted servant, sir . . . God willing, with your help we’ll find her a husband too.”

  “Yes, in any case there are lots of eligible young men in this family . . . God willing, we’ll be dancing at Akhtar’s wedding, too . . . no, you can count on us, we won’t leave Miss Akhtar alone.”

  After some time spent discussing the details of the marriage ceremony it was agreed that the cadet o
fficer’s mother would go to Aziz al-Saltaneh’s house the next day in order to discuss moving in their furniture and how the rooms were to be arranged.

  After the groom and his family had left, silence reigned in the sitting room for a few moments. Dustali Khan especially was like a wounded animal, writhing silently.

  Mash Qasem, who had been standing motionless in a corner, broke the silence. “Well, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . This neighbor of mine’s a good feller, but if you want the truth I’m really scared of his mom. Savin’ your grace, did you hear them snorin’ noises she made?”

  A sign from Asadollah Mirza quieted him.

  Then his lordship turned to Qamar, who was sitting quietly and innocently in a corner, and said, “My dear, did you take a good look at him? Did you like the look of your husband?”

  “Yes, Uncle Asadollah.”

  “And you like him?”

  “Yes uncle, I like him a lot . . . now can I talk about my baby?”

  “Yes dear, say whatever you want . . . well done, girl, for not talking about your baby in front of them.”

  “I like my baby even more than my husband. I want to knit baby a red jacket.”

  “Did you like his mother and sister too?”

  “Yes, Uncle Asadollah, but his mother had a beard that hurt my face.”

  “That doesn’t matter, dear. Next time I’ll tell her to shave her beard . . . Daddy Dustali’s agreed to buy her a shaving set.”

  The sound of someone knocking at the door came from the direction of the garden. Mash Qasem shouted, “I bet that’s master Puri . . . Sir, give me my tip for bringin’ the good news!”

  And he ran toward the door.

  Layli and I stared helplessly at one another. Fortunately it wasn’t Puri . . . Mash Qasem returned with the evening paper. My father, who was sitting closer to the door than anyone else, took the paper from his hand and in a loud voice read out the headlines on the first page. The Allies had entered Tehran and taken over the railroad system.

  Dear Uncle started up and in a choked voice said, “The railroad system? Why the railroad system before everywhere else? God help my brother the colonel!”

  To dispel Dear Uncle’s anxiety Asadollah Mirza said, “Well, they have to start from somewhere . . .”

  Dear Uncle shook his head and said, “Asadollah, you might be a diplomat but you’ve a very long way to go before you understand the ins and outs of British political maneuverings.”

  “Moment, moment, are you implying that because your brother has gone to the railroad station tonight the English are taking over the railroad system before anywhere else?”

  Dear Uncle muttered, “It wasn’t solely for that, but it’s not unrelated either . . .”

  And then he seemed to start talking to himself, “I’m worried about this innocent family . . . my poor brother the colonel has never put a foot wrong in his whole life and now he has to suffer because of my efforts.”

  Trying to keep a straight face Asadollah Mirza said, “Just supposing they want to make him suffer for your efforts, how are they to know that the colonel was going to the railroad station tonight?”

  With a contemptuous sneer Dear Uncle said, “It’s better we just don’t talk about it! Do you think they don’t know who Puri is? Do you think they don’t know he’s my nephew? . . . You’re really wet behind the ears! I promise you that the dossier on Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi and the subject of Qamar’s marriage is on the head of MI5’s desk right now! Do you think that Indian and the thousands of other agents they have are just sitting twiddling their thumbs?”

  Mash Qasem saw a suitable chance to speak. He nodded his head and said, “Mr. Asadollah Mirza doesn’t know them English. Even me and the Master who’ve been thrashin’ them English for thirty years don’t know them very well, so how can anyone else . . . there was a man in our town who . . .”

  Dear Uncle interrupted him, “If I told you the things I’ve seen from the English, you’d never believe it. In the Battle of Kazerun, when the British commander threw his sword on the ground in front of me, it’s like it was yesterday, he said ‘Congratulations, you have overcome whole regiments of the English army with one thousand and fourteen men, and this will be inscribed in gold lettering in the annals of warfare . . .’ Believe me my mouth dropped open . . . because the day before I’d counted my men and there were exactly one thousand and fourteen . . .”

  Mash Qasem jumped into the middle of his speech, “One thousand and fifteen men.”

  “Why are you talking rubbish, Qasem? I remember very well, the English colonel said one thousand and fourteen men and it so happened that we were exactly one thousand and fourteen.”

  “Well, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . It’s clear in my mind . . .”

  “Will you shut up or not, Qasem?”

  “But sir, I’m not contradictin’ you. That English feller said a thousand and fourteen and he said right too, you’d counted and we was a thousand and fifteen and you’d counted right . . .”

  “Qasem, why are you talking such nonsense?”

  “But sir, you won’t let me talk. The missin’ one was Soltanali Khan, God rest his soul, who was shot exactly on that day.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right . . . to cut a long story short what I meant was that in the middle of all the noise and confusion of the battle they knew exactly how many men we had.”

  Mash Qasem sighed and said, “May God destroy ’em, for the sake of the Prophet and his family. Poor Soltanali Khan . . . I mean if it hadn’t been for the Master I’d have been in my shroud seven times by now . . . God keep the master the gentleman he is . . . for me, rotten no-good me, he leapt into the middle of that hail of bullets like a lion, flung me over his shoulder and carried me off the battlefield . . . the English were left there with their fingers in their mouths dumbfounded, wonderin’ what kind of a man this was. With my own eyes I saw tears gatherin’ in them English squint eyes . . .’cause most of these English have squint eyes . . .”

  Dear Uncle nodded and muttered, “But Qasem do you see how fate has worked out? They’ve waited for so long, until they got their second chance. Today we have to pay the debt of that magnanimity, that friendship . . .”

  Dear Uncle was suddenly gripped by emotion and burst out, “Inhuman devils! Come and take your revenge on me! What do you want from my poor innocent brother?”

  With a straight face Asadollah Mirza said, “Now, don’t see everything in such a bad light. Just suppose that they’ve taken over the railroad partly on account of your brother, it’s not at all clear that in all that crush they’ll be able to find him. And the colonel’s not a child to put himself in harm’s way . . .”

  And to change the subject he said, “Now for the Thursday night, have you invited anyone or not? After all, close family will have to be there.”

  Dustali Khan jumped into the conversation, “This marriage ceremony has to be carried out with as little fuss as possible.”

  “That will only cause more of a fuss. Everyone will say there must have been some problem that they made so little of the ceremony.”

  Aziz al-Saltaneh sent Qamar into another room. After her daughter had left, she said, “We can use the excuse that someone has died and we’re in mourning and that’s why we’re doing it with no fuss.”

  “But who? Thanks be to God, these days every member of the family’s enjoying perfect health.”

  “Knock on wood, Asadollah . . . God willing, everyone will stay well.”

  “Moment, that his excellency fellow that Farrokh Laqa was saying had died, what relation was he to us?”

  Dear Uncle said, “Don’t even consider him. He was some distant relation of Farrokh Laqa’s late stepfather . . . and anyway, with those connections he had with the English . . .”

 
Asadollah Mirza said, “Well, in any case we have to find someone. By the way, Dustali, how’s your uncle Mansur al-Saltaneh keeping?”

  At the top of his voice Dustali yelled, “God strike you dumb! What bad turn did my poor uncle ever do to you that you’re hoping he’ll die?”

  “Moment, when did I ever hope he’d die? I suddenly remembered I hadn’t heard how Uncle Mansur al-Saltaneh was for a while, and I just asked how he’s getting on. He’s lived for ninety-five years, and God willing, in spite of all his pulmonary and renal and gastric illnesses, he’ll live for another ninety-five, I’m not jealous . . . and it’s your fault you annoyed Farrokh Laqa, because if you hadn’t, she’d have been able to help us now. She’d have left no stone unturned to find a corpse for us.”

  My father said, “Rest assured that if there had been any funeral in the offing Farrokh Laqa would have told us about it in the few minutes she was here.”

  Asadollah Mirza laughed and said, “How would it be if we asked Ghiasabadi’s mother to go and stand at Uncle Mansur al-Saltaneh’s bedside in the middle of the night ? Maybe he’d be so terrified that . . .”

  Dustali Khan started to shout but Aziz al-Saltaneh cut him off, “Why are we all being so stupid? We can just say that there’s been a death in the groom’s family.”

  This was a good idea and everyone supported it.

  That night everybody stayed up till late, waiting for uncle colonel to come back with Puri. At about midnight uncle colonel and his wife arrived back at the house. My uncle looked extremely worried and his wife’s eyes showed signs of crying. The train had arrived, but Puri hadn’t been on it.

  Dear Uncle Napoleon tried to comfort his brother and said that it must surely have been because unusual circumstances had prevented him from leaving, but he himself had other ideas.

  When I saw Mash Qasem in the morning he said, “The Master was pacin’ up and down till mornin’. And he’s right, too. The English must’ve done somethin’ to that poor young man . . . when the English take against someone they won’t leave the poor devil in peace nor seven generations after him neither . . . God strike their squinty eyes blind!”