My Uncle Napoleon

by Iraj Pezeshkzad

  “Mash Qasem, what would the English want with a creepy drip like him?”

  “Eh m’dear, it’ll be a long time till you understand them English . . . we haven’t had any news yet . . . but you should hear what terrible things they did to the folks in Ghiasabad . . . There was a man in our town who’d said bad things about the English. They got hold of the apprentice who worked in his brother-in-law’s shop in Kazemin; they tied him to a horse’s tail and let the horse go in the middle of the desert . . . What do you know about what the English have done? . . . God help me and the Master . . . and may he have mercy on you, too, seein’ as you’re part of his family!”

  Uncle colonel had gone early that morning to the telegraph office and returned in a good mood, bringing the news that although Puri and Khan Babakhan had purchased train tickets, they hadn’t been able to find places on the train due to the unusual circumstances prevailing at that time, and they were going to come on the earliest train they could.

  EIGHTEEN

  UNFORTUNATELY I don’t have a clear memory of the evening when Qamar was married: an unpleasant incident so distracted me that I couldn’t pay attention to anything except my own concerns. All I remember is that there were about twenty people present from the bride’s family, and from the groom’s side, apart from his mother and sister, the famous detective Deputy Taymur Khan was there. The thing which I remember more than anything else is Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi’s appearance; in a rather loosely fitting off-the-rack suit that Aziz al-Saltaneh had bought for him, and with a bow tie that Asadollah Mirza had tied round his neck, he looked at one and the same time very neat and tidy and rather ridiculous. Apart from our close family, Shir Ali the butcher and his wife came to pay their respects.

  But the unpleasant occurrence that happened to me that night was as follows. In Dear Uncle Napoleon’s house, where the marriage was to take place, I came face to face with Puri, who had arrived the previous evening with Khan Babakhan. He was sitting on the steps, with that long horse-like face of his. He beckoned me to follow him into the garden and whispered, “I want to have a few words with you.”

  He took a folded piece of paper out of his inside pocket, and opened it, all the while trying to keep the paper out of my grasp. My heart nearly stood still. It was a letter I had written to Layli a few days previously, and given to her placed between the pages of a book.

  Puri spluttered, “So sir, how long have you been in love, then?”

  “I . . . I . . . I . . .”

  “Yes, you.”

  Without knowing what I was saying I said, “I have never written any letters. I really . . .”

  “Extraordinary! The gentleman’s never written any letters!”

  And then, keeping the letter carefully out of my reach, he began quietly to read it, “Dear Layli, you know how much I love you. You know that for me life without you has no meaning . . .”

  I whispered, “Puri, I swear on the Quran . . .”

  “Just a minute, listen to the rest of it: ‘ . . . Since I heard that that slobbering Arab horse is coming back . . .’”

  Puri raised his head and said, “If it wasn’t for the wedding, this slobbering Arab horse would knock your teeth down your throat. I’ll give you slobbering Arab horse, so that you won’t forget it for the rest of your life.”

  “Puri, I swear on my father’s soul . . .”

  “Shut up! Your father’s just like you—a good-for-nothing beggar!”

  I couldn’t put up with any more. I punched him on the neck with all the force I could muster and tried to snatch the letter from him; but my strength wasn’t equal to his and he slapped me hard over the ear. I saw red and sprang at him like a wounded leopard; but I met with a second slap. Desperate, I kicked him violently in the groin and then ran like the wind toward my own house. From the way he screamed and the noise that started up, I knew that he’d been seriously hurt.

  I took refuge in the space beneath the roof, where I’d hidden many times as a child, and stayed there motionless. Various people came looking for me, one after another, and didn’t find me. My mother and father, in turn threatening me and pleading with me, came searching for me, but I stayed still and silent in my refuge. I heard them saying, “He’s hidden somewhere, he’ll be found in the end.” When the fuss had quieted down I suddenly heard Asadollah Mirza’s voice; he was going from room to room calling for me. When he got close I whispered, “Uncle Asadollah, I’m here.”

  “How did you get up there . . . well now . . . don’t be afraid, come on down, there’s only me.”

  When I had come down he said with a laugh, “Here’s a fine old mess . . . you’ve given the lad a rupture. Not that that’s so bad. As you’re not going to San Francisco yourself, you’ve stopped that milksop from going to San Francisco, too!”

  “How’s Puri now?”

  “Nothing much wrong, he fell down in the middle of the yard in a faint. They brought Dr. Naser al-Hokama. Now he’s feeling a bit better . . . what were you arguing about?”

  “He’d stolen a letter I wrote to Layli, and he insulted my dad, too . . . By the way, has he said anything to Dear Uncle?”

  “No, but he was talking to your father for a while.”

  “Now what should I do?”

  “For now keep out of sight, till the fuss has died down. The colonel has detailed plans as to what he’s got in store for you! Now you’re gradually realizing that the road I pointed out to you was the easiest of them all.”

  “What road, Uncle Asadollah?”

  “The San Francisco road.”

  This event is the reason I was unable to attend the reception for Qamar’s wedding. Late that night, when my father and mother came back, I was in my room. As a precaution I had locked myself in. My father came and knocked on the door and ordered me to open it. His voice was harsh and angry. Fearful and trembling, I opened the door. My father came in and sat on the edge of the iron bedstead. I hung my head. After a few moments silence my father said, “I hear that you and Layli have had something going on between you?”

  “He’s lying. Believe me . . .”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Puri showed me the letter you’d written to Layli.”

  I’d no choice but to be silent. My father was silent for a few moments, too. Then in a mild tone, which was quite contrary to my expectations, he said, “Look, lad, did you never think that if your uncle got wind of this he’d destroy your family?”

  I plucked up my courage a little. I said quietly, “I’m in love with Layli.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since the thirteenth of August last year.”

  “Well done! What a precise date. I bet you know the hour, too!”

  “Yes, from a quarter to three.”

  My father put his hand on my shoulder and in a quiet voice said, “Well now, there hasn’t been any monkey business, has there?”

  I didn’t immediately understand what he was driving at and I said, “I’ve written her a few letters . . .”

  “She likes you, too?”

  “Yes, dad, Layli loves me, too.”

  “I see . . . tell me the truth now, what have you two been up to?”

  “You mean what promises have we made . . .”

  Impatiently my father said, “No, you goose. I want to know whether, as Asadollah Mirza would say, there’s been any San Francisco or not.”

  My mouth dropped open. Hearing such a remark from my father, who never made jokes of this nature and who’d always been serious and distant with me, quite took my breath away. After a few moments of astonished silence I felt embarrassed once again; I hung my head and said, “Dad, what kind of a remark is that?”

  “Don’t beat about the bush; I asked you if anything’s happened or not.”

  My father’s tone was not that of someone who was joking. F
orcefully I said, “Dad, I’m in love with Layli. Dirty thoughts like that have never entered my head!”

  I was slowly beginning to realize what was going on. My father had found another possible way of getting at Dear Uncle. I had the feeling that if my reply had been positive he would not have found this so very upsetting. He was silent for a few moments. Since I had disappointed him, he tried to save appearances. “I was just joking. But my dear boy, this girl has been promised to her uncle’s son, they won’t let her marry you. For now, you have to concentrate on finishing your studies . . . of course if something had happened, the situation would have been different . . . Get these childish thoughts out of your head . . . now that, thank goodness, nothing’s happened, concentrate on school and your studies! Off you go and sleep, lad!”

  My father left and I was alone. Although I was well aware of his spitefulness and desire for revenge, for the first time a new train of thought was forming in my mind.

  It was late when Asadollah’s voice was heard in our house. He had come to look for me. I heard him talking to my mother in the hall. “The boy didn’t come to the wedding tonight. God forbid, he didn’t feel up to it.”

  He came into my room a moment later and said, “Don’t worry, lad, I’ve talked the colonel round . . . and Layli was very upset, too, poor thing . . . it’s obvious she can’t stand that boy.”

  “Uncle Asadollah, Puri hasn’t said anything to Dear Uncle, has he?”

  “It seems he was able to explain away what had happened without any trouble. I don’t think he’s said anything to the Master.”

  I was silent for a moment. Asadollah Mirza laughed and said, “But I don’t think they’ll be thinking about getting him engaged any time soon, you really did some damage to his private prospects . . . for two or three weeks he’s going to have to wear a poultice on the San Francisco area.”

  Without raising my head I said in a quiet voice, “Uncle Asadollah, I want to ask you something.”

  “Say on, lad.”

  “I mean . . . I . . . if I . . . that thing you used to say . . . if Layli and I . . .”

  “If you what? If you marry Layli?”

  “No, I mean, what do I have to do so I’ll marry Layli? What should I do so they won’t give her to Puri?”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times: San Francisco.”

  “If I . . . if San Francisco . . .”

  Asadollah Mirza let out a cheerful guffaw, “Bravo! . . . Bravo! . . . you’re finally becoming a real man.”

  “No, Uncle Asadollah, I mean to say . . .”

  “Moment, you’ve got cold feet again?”

  “No, but . . . but how?”

  “Aha! How you manage it, I’ll teach you. Sit down while I draw you a picture. Give me a purple-colored pencil and a bright pink one and I’ll draw you a picture of it.”

  I had no opportunity to object because just at that moment a tumultuous noise started up in the garden, “Run . . . bring that spade . . . that bucket . . . no, go that way. . . .”

  With Asadollah in front and me following him we ran into the garden; Asadollah bumped into Mash Qasem who was running full tilt. He asked, “What’s happened? What’s going on, Mash Qasem?”

  “Well sir, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . The English have attacked . . . God strike them squinty eyes of theirs blind!”

  Mash Qasem explained to Asadollah the cause of the commotion that had brought us out into the garden. Apparently while everyone had been occupied with the coming and going of their guests, some unknown person had removed the wadding used to block the channel from Dear Uncle’s water-storage tank and the water had overflowed and flooded three of the cellars one after another.

  Asadollah Mirza asked, “You didn’t realize who’d taken the wadding out of the channel?”

  “The Master says the English’ve done it. But I don’t think the English would come after our water channel before the sweat’s even dry from their march . . . besides, if they want to be openin’ our water channel, because they’re so squinty-eyed they might muddle it up with that brigadier’s water channel.”

  At this moment Mash Qasem caught sight of me; he lowered his voice and said, “Eh lad, but you’ve the heart of a lion to be seen round here . . . if the Master or the colonel get their hands on you, they’ll tear you into eighty pieces.”

  “Are they really so angry, Mash Qasem?”

  “Why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . If that lad escapes whole and in one piece after that kick you gave him in his privates, he’s a really lucky feller. If I’m not mistaken one of the pair of his private equipment’s completely ruined . . . when he showed the doctor I saw it; savin’ your reverence, it had swollen up like a pumpkin.”

  And Asadollah Mirza pushed me into a corner and said, “That’s right, lad, hide yourself away till things have quieted down. His private parts are no joke!”

  Mash Qasem went on, “Dr. Naser al-Hokama’s put a poultice on it for now, he said in the mornin’ they’ll have to take him to the hospital . . . you hit him so hard it’s like his privates and his lungs are all muddled up with each other.”

  I’d no choice but to hide myself among the box trees as Asadollah Mirza went over to Dear Uncle, who was emerging from his private apartments with a rifle sloped over his shoulder.

  Dear Uncle shouted, “Qasem, what are you standing about for? Run and help get the water out.”

  “Well sir, I was just gettin’ the lady’s bucket.”

  Dear Uncle said, “It’s good the guests had left.”

  Asadollah Mirza asked, “The groom’s gone, too?”

  “Yes, damn him, he’s gone, too, so that he can move to Dustali’s house tomorrow, along with his mother and sister. If Deputy Taymur Khan had been here perhaps he’d have been able to solve the riddle of this crime.”

  Uncle colonel and my father joined them.

  My father said, “But this is really strange! What shameless, unprincipled wretch has done this?”

  Dear Uncle Napoleon interrupted him, “Your question’s childish . . . I know the strategy of the English . . . this isn’t the first time they’ve employed this battlefield trick. In the south, too, on one occasion they diverted the waters of a river beneath our tents and attacked a few hours later.”

  Mash Qasem had been leaving but on hearing these words he came back and said, “God sweep ’em from off the face of the earth! D’you remember, sir, how much water they let loose under our feet? This is like what the evil Shemr did at Karbela; Shemr kept the water back, the English let the water go. Thank God we were first class swimmers and divers, because if we hadn’t been we’d all have been drownded.”

  To calm Dear Uncle down Asadollah Mirza said, “But sir, consider the circumstances. The English have entered this city with their tanks and artillery; if they want to do you some kind of an injury, are they going to come and open your water-storage tank?”

  “Asadollah, Asadollah, please do not give me instructions on the secrets of British tactics.”

  “Moment, moment . . .”

  Dear Uncle shouted, “Damn and blast your moment . . . all right so the English are absolutely wonderful people . . . so they’re completely in love with me and my family . . . so Shakespeare wrote his Romeo and Juliet to describe how things are between me and the English . . .”

  Mash Qasem hadn’t understood properly and said, “May you never see the day . . . God forbid them English fall in love . . . I mean, with them squinty eyes of theirs, can they be sweet on someone? There was a man in our town who said, savin’ your reverence, that the English aren’t men at all . . . and them that are are that squinty-eyed they go after their neighbors’ wives.”

  “Qasem, instead of spouting this rubbish go down to the coffeehouse and tell that shoeshine lad to come here, I need to
see him . . . perhaps he saw who opened the water channel.”

  “The shoeshine man wasn’t by our door during the night.”

  “Don’t talk rubbish! Just do whatever I tell you to!”

  Mash Qasem hurried out of the garden. Our servant and uncle colonel’s and the rest of our people were busy with buckets emptying the water from the cellars.

  At this moment I heard my father say to uncle colonel, “I hope Puri’s injury is better?”

  Uncle colonel answered coldly, “We have to take him to the hospital in the morning. For now the doctor’s given him an injection of morphine to take away the pain.”

  “I’m very sorry this has happened. I’ll punish that boy in such a way that he’ll remember it for the rest of his life.”

  With unexpected mildness Dear Uncle Napoleon said, “No need to punish him too severely. He’s just a child, he doesn’t understand these things.”

  I realized from his tone that he wanted to avoid all subjects except that of the attack by the English. Just then Mash Qasem hurried into the garden and made straight for Dear Uncle.

  “Sir, the coffee-shop owner said the shoeshine man hasn’t been to the shop all night.”

  For a moment Dear Uncle stared at him dumbfounded and with his mouth hanging open. Then he put his hand to his forehead and said, “The plan is complete! They’ve done away with that poor boy, too!”

  Asadollah Mirza asked, “Who’s done away with him?”

  “Nothing, nothing . . . in any case we have to stay awake and on guard until morning.”

  My father backed him up, “Yes, there are wheels within wheels here.”

  Mash Qasem said, “And what wheels they are . . . to tell the truth, I didn’t believe the Master and then I realized that he really is a very wise man. The Master knows them English and that’s all there is to it.”