“So there’s also the danger of a fight between my father and Dear Uncle breaking out?”
“Yes, that’s my only worry. I feel sorry for you, and if I didn’t, I’d have gone straight over to your father’s side and given this family the fright of its life . . . And now we’ve the chance, tell me what you want to do finally.”
“Meaning what? I don’t understand what you’re driving at, Uncle Asadollah?”
“What I’m driving at is this: first, Dear Uncle’s not going to let you have Layli, because he doesn’t get on with your father. Second, even if he wanted to let you, you’d have to wait at least six or seven years till you could get married. Third, what’s that boy who’s laid up in the hospital going to be doing? To cut a long story short, there are a thousand problems involved. And you aren’t up to San Francisco, either . . . when I think about it properly I see that that Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi . . .”
“Uncle Asadollah . . .”
“Oh damn your Uncle Asadollahs . . . just look how Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi pulled the wool over their eyes . . . he was supposed to take his fee, marry Qamar and then divorce her. Now he’s so well dug in that he’d throw Dustali out of the house a hundred times over before he’d go himself . . . and he’s so stolen Qamar’s heart away that the girl’s ready to leave her mother for his sake .”
“Wow! Look, Uncle Asadollah, Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi and Qamar have arrived.”
Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi, his hand supporting Qamar’s arm, entered ahead of Aziz al-Saltaneh. He was turned out very neatly and nicely, so that there was no comparison between how he looked now and the wretched figure he had cut before. Qamar was clinging to him in a very loving way.
“Uncle Asadollah, so what happened about the wig?”
“The wig problem’s solved . . . he told Qamar about it, and it seems as far as Qamar’s concerned she’s always loved a bald head. Every evening she lights his little opium brazier for him . . . really, the San Francisco cure has put her mind to rights. There’s no denying that for psychological illnesses, San Francisco’s the best medicine!”
Asadollah Mirza went forward a few paces to welcome the cadet officer, “Hello, officer . . . how are you keeping?”
The cadet officer greeted Asadollah with great pomp and ceremony, “Your servant, sir, at your service . . . thanks to your gracious kindness . . . just today I was saying to Qamar, ‘We haven’t called on his excellency for a while, we must ask him to do us the honor of a visit one evening.’”
Asadollah Mirza said, “Officer, sir, why hasn’t your esteemed parent honored us with her presence?”
“She will be coming, she’s waiting for Akhtar, so that they can come together.”
Asadollah Mirza kissed Qamar on the cheek. “Well, well, what a pretty lady you’ve turned out to be . . . what a lovely girl!”
Qamar looked at him kindly. “Look what a beautiful dress I have, Uncle Asadollah. Mother sewed it for me.”
“Extraordinary, Mrs. Aziz al-Saltaneh is artistic to her fingertips.”
“No, Uncle Asadollah, dear Aziz didn’t sew this for me . . . my mother-in-law sewed it, Rajab’s mother . . .”
Aziz al-Saltaneh frowned, but Asadollah Mirza heaped such praises on her appearance and fine qualities that the frown disappeared.
The guests went over to my father. Just then uncle colonel’s servant came up to us holding a tray of glasses of cordial. Asadollah Mirza glanced at the glasses and said, “Thanks, my good man, I won’t drink any of this. Tell Mash Qasem to bring me a glass of that special cordial.”
Uncle colonel’s servant murmured, “Mash Qasem? . . . Haven’t you heard, sir? . . . An hour ago they took Mash Qasem off to the police station.”
“What? The police station? Whatever has he done?”
Uncle’s servant looked this way and that and said, “Well, you didn’t hear it from me because the Master told me no one’s to know . . . but when evening came he threw a brick from off the roof at an Englishman’s head.”
“You’re kidding? A brick at an Englishman’s head?”
“No sir, it’s the truth I’m telling you . . . the fellow’s head was all covered in blood . . . now the Master’s gone to the police station too.”
Asadollah Mirza sprang up and said to me, “Come on, let’s drop by there and see what’s going on . . . I’m worried this might be another of your father’s tricks.”
In the office belonging to the head of the guard at the station, the first thing we saw was a fairly young man, with a bloodstained face and a handkerchief wound round his head, sitting on a bench. Strands of his curly blond hair were matted with dried blood.
Mash Qasem was standing near the entrance, his head down, opposite Dear Uncle and the head of the guard. An officer was standing to attention next to Mash Qasem.
In a choked voice Dear Uncle Napoleon was saying, “I shall punish him myself. And besides, I’ve no doubt at all that he didn’t do this on purpose.”
The man with the broken head, who had slightly squinting eyes, said in the thick accent of someone from the province of Gilan, “What do you mean, ‘not on purpose’? We’re supposed to believe that, just like that, the brick flew out of his hand and hit me on the head . . . and all those dirty swear words he said came out of his mouth, just like that, too?”
The head of the guard said, “You’ve been given some money and agreed to it. If the gentleman wants to punish his servant himself what’s it got to do with you? Get up and be off with you, attend to your business.”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
The injured man picked up a basket of smoked fish and set off, and we returned with Mash Qasem to our house. As soon as we left the police station a flood of curses and swear words from Dear Uncle’s mouth broke over Mash Qasem’s head. Mash Qasem kept his head down and muttered, “You say whatever you want . . . I’m stickin’ to my story. Even if the rogue wasn’t English himself, he was one of their spies . . . I’ve been livin’ here for thirty years, how come I’ve never seen the rotten bastard before? And besides, after thirty years of run-ins with these English, don’t I know ’em yet?”
In a voice trembling with rage Dear Uncle shouted, “Mash Qasem! Shut up, because if you don’t I’ll shut you up with my own hands!”
“I’ll shut up. But that poor shoeshine feller whose innocent blood was unjustly shed, on Judgment Day he’ll be pluckin’ at your elbow . . . right now that poor devil’s up in the other world waitin’ for you to take revenge on the English for his unjustly shed blood.”
We returned to the party, which was by now thoroughly under way. Many of the guests had arrived, and the sound of the teacher Ahmad’s tar could be heard loudly ringing out. Everyone was being extremely respectful to Mr. Salar, and the place where he was sitting had become the most honored focal point of the gathering. Even Dear Uncle Napoleon, for all his hatred and terror of the English, sat himself down very politely next to him.
My father kept a constant eye on the main entrance. I whispered in Asadollah Mirza’s ear, “Uncle Asadollah, do you see how worried my father is? I think he’s waiting for some more important guests.”
Asadollah took another sip of wine and said with a quiet chuckle, “He’s waiting for His Excellency Asghar the Diesel and Lady Akhtar.”
Out of fear of my uncles, especially uncle colonel who was still giving me angry looks, I didn’t dare get anywhere near Layli, but all the same, whoever I talked to, my wistful gaze was aware of her; and poor child she, too, after my quarrel with Puri, didn’t dare come near me. It was as if we both felt guilty.
A few minutes later my father’s waiting came to an end. Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi’s sister Akhtar entered, accompanied by her mother Naneh Rajab and Asghar the Diesel; Akhtar was wearing a dress of ox-blood red, with a low neckline that revealed her prominent breasts. Even more than he
r too thickly applied makeup, what drew everyone’s attention was the appearance of Asghar the Diesel. He had a thickset body, and a few knife scars shone on his shaved head. He was wearing a green tie (a good guess would be that it was one of Dustali Khan’s) which he was finding difficult to tolerate. His accent as he greeted people and asked them how they were doing immediately revealed his social class.
With their entry my father’s spirits opened like a flower in springtime, and to the same degree the faces of Dear Uncle Napoleon and uncle colonel closed in on themselves.
As soon as the piece of tar music that was being played ended, my father began being elaborately hospitable. “What would you like, Mr. Asghar, sir? Tea, cordial, wine? This is your own house, please don’t stand on ceremony.”
Asghar seemed to be uncomfortable in such company and murmured, “Very kind of you, thanks very much, I’ve eaten.”
Asadollah Mirza said, “Don’t hesitate to say what you’d like . . . there’s beer, too.”
“’S very good of you . . . if there was . . .”
The cadet officer’s sister Akhtar said with a loud laugh, “Your excellency, this Asghar of mine’s a bit shy . . . he’ll drink whatever you’re good enough to give him.”
“Moment, moment, we don’t have any of that kind of talk with each other here. Now please, on the soul of Miss Akhtar here, don’t hesitate.”
With his head bowed Asghar the Diesel said, “Well, seeing as ’ow you insist, if there was a nice drop of vodka . . . but if there isn’t any it doesn’t matter . . . the beer’ll be fine.”
As he stood up Asadollah Mirza said, “But of course there’s some . . . hey, Mash Qasem, bring that bottle of vodka over here.”
Sour faced and frowning, Mash Qasem brought the bottle of vodka and a few glasses and put them down on the table next to some bowls of fruit.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers. Down the hatch!”
Asghar tossed off the glass of vodka in a single gulp. Asadollah Mirza offered some to the cadet officer’s mother.
“Ma’am, won’t you wet your whistle, too?”
The bearded woman, with her black teeth—half of which were missing—gave a hearty guffaw and said, “Eh, God keep you your lordship . . . me drink alcohol?”
“What’s to stop you, on an evening like this . . . such a fine son you have and now you’ve got him married . . .” And he insisted on placing a small glass in the bearded woman’s hand.
Mash Qasem murmured in my ear, “God save us all . . . they were right to say the devil’s a bearded woman”
All the while this hospitality was going on Dear Uncle Napoleon was quivering like a volcano about to overflow with lava. Those who were sitting around Mr. Salar were listening to the conversation in astonished silence. Only Mr. Salar himself was happily staring with smiling eyes at the cadet officer’s sister’s breasts. Asadollah Mirza also offered her a glass.
My father considered this a suitable moment to say in measured tones, “Mr. Salar, tonight we are truly happy, from the bottom of our hearts . . . our dear son-in-law Mr. Ghiasabadi is a high-ranking official in the security service!”
Dear Uncle had a good idea of what my father was thinking; he squirmed in silence.
Mr. Salar had drunk a couple of glasses of cognac and was in a very pleasant mood; he said, “Well, well, and I’m very happy, too . . . I wish the couple all good luck.”
Then he turned to the cadet officer, “Mr. Ghiasabadi, which department of the security service do you work in?”
“The criminal investigation branch, sir.”
“Who do you work with? I mean your superior would be . . . ?”
“Well sir, my superior’s Mr. Taymur Khan, who was supposed to come here tonight; I don’t know why he’s late.”
“Which Taymur Khan, the one who used to be in charge of security in Khorasan?”
“No sir, he was never in charge of . . .”
Dear Uncle Napoleon caught sight of Dr. Naser al-Hokama, who had just come in, and found an opportunity to cut the conversation short, “Well, well, hello doctor . . . do sit down, sit down. Why have you come so late, doctor? Mr. Salar, I don’t know if you’re acquainted with Dr. Naser al-Hokama or not?”
Apparently Mr. Salar and the doctor already knew each other and their greetings and inquiries after each other’s health went on for some time. Asadollah Mirza murmured, “I don’t know where that donkey Dustali’s got to . . . eh! Look, talk of the devil! Mr. Dustali Khan . . . come on in. Where have you been till now, Dustali Khan?”
There was a deep frown on Dustali Khan’s face. I was able to guess that his plan had not been successful. Trying to pretend he was perfectly happy he said, “I went to find a couple of entertainers.”
And then, stressing each word, he went on, “In the Abbas Khan group of entertainers there’s a man called Abdollah who does black-face parts; when he plays that low-life character Kakasiah it’s enough to make you burst your sides laughing.”
I realized what his whole plan had been. The Abdollah he was talking about, who played black-face parts in cheap entertainments, was the grandson of my father’s half-sister. From childhood he had been a lazy good-for-nothing kind of person; when he was a young man he had become addicted to opium and had disappeared from our lives. A year before the party we had seen Abdollah playing the black-face role of Kakasiah at a wedding reception for which a group of entertainers had been engaged.
Dustali Khan had turned the whole city upside down trying to find this black-face actor Abdollah in order to bring him to the party and pay my father back for what he’d done, but as luck would have it he couldn’t find Abdollah anywhere, and he couldn’t put his plan into effect; all the same he had decided that at least he would add his measure of poison to my father’s scheme.
He tossed off a glass of vodka and went on, “Yes, he makes a very funny black-face . . . of course, he’s a drug addict and a really good-for-nothing character. But very funny . . . it’s a pity I couldn’t find him.”
Mr. Salar jumped into the conversation, “I wish you’d been able to find him. I love those Kakasiah parts. If you know where he might be found, my chauffeur can take the car and go and look for him.”
Asghar the Diesel had just tossed off a glass of vodka and was feeling very merry. With a loud laugh he said, “I swear on the soul of Mr. Salar here that I really get a kick out of those Kakasiah turns, too. If I knew where he was I’d go and fetch him myself.”
Dustali Khan scratched the back of his ear and turned to my father, “You don’t know where we might be able to find him . . . ? Because . . . it seems as though . . . he’s some relation of yours. Isn’t he your sister’s grandson?”
My father snapped his jaws together so violently that the sound was audible. He opened his mouth to say something but it seemed that he was unable to.
Asadollah Mirza jumped into the middle of this cold war. “Since we have the gramophone here, why don’t we put a record on? . . . Although Ahmad Khan’s here, too . . . Ahmad Khan, why are you sitting there doing nothing? Play something, man!”
And to put an end to the quarrel, the poor fellow jumped up and started swaying his hips and singing, “What a night tonight is—these two get wed tonight. The bride with her groom—under the blanket in bed tonight . . . Good luck go with them now, God willing, good luck . . .”
The teacher Ahmad Khan started to accompany him on the tar and, with his mouth full, sang along. The cheerful sound of singing and fingers being snapped filled the air and the party took on a different aspect; this would have been an ideal opportunity for my father to suppress his anger.
Finally Asadollah sank back into his chair, exhausted and with his forehead shiny with sweat, and the noise quieted down again. My father—who had gathered his forces in the interval and prepared a new line of attack—t
urned toward the cadet officer’s mother, as he was refilling Asghar the Diesel’s empty glass, and said, “The cadet officer’s late father, God rest his soul . . . now his soul’s in heaven looking down on us. Every father wants to attend his son’s wedding.”
The cadet officer’s mother had drunk two or three glasses of vodka at Asadollah’s insistence and her flushed face showed, in spite of the dark hair on it, how merry she was feeling; after a loud burst of laughter she said, “God rest his soul . . . one day toward the end of his life he was in his shop near the stove and he was overcome by the heat; he came home and collapsed and we brought the doctor to him. He said to me, ‘Naneh Rajab, you know I’ve only one wish in all the world, and that’s to see our Rajab married ’fore I die’ . . . but this lad was so pigheaded that, God rest his soul, he took that wish to the grave.”
To stop anyone from interrupting and the breaking thread of the conversation, my father immediately asked, “Near the stove? But, God rest his soul, what was your husband’s profession?”
“God rest his soul. At the end of his life he cooked sheeps’ heads . . . mind you, when he was young he was a laborer and used to dig wells, then . . .”
Suddenly Naneh Rajab seemed to realize that perhaps she shouldn’t be talking in this fashion and she stroked her beard and said in a contrite tone, “You really must excuse me . . . I mean, it’s his lordship here’s fault who’s been giving me all this vodka . . . I’m really ashamed of myself . . . my lips haven’t touched a drop for years.”
My father wasn’t going to let a good opportunity slip and said, “What’s this I hear, ma’am, you mean to say that you’re ashamed because your late husband used to cook sheeps’ heads? . . . In these times now such words have no meaning at all. Didn’t the Prophet say that it’s the most pious who are the dearest to God? A profession’s no way to decide on someone’s worth . . . isn’t that so, Mr. Dustali Khan?”
My Uncle Napoleon Page 44