Mash Qasem ran to his side. Perhaps mainly to distract people’s attention so they’d leave me in peace he shouted out, “Eh God in heaven, you’ve killed the Master! With relatives like this, why should the English take the trouble to do the job themselves!”
Puri said, “I am absolutely convinced that it was done by this little son of a bitch. I’ll prove it.”
Mash Qasem was busy massaging Dear Uncle Napoleon’s shoulders; in one violent movement he drew himself up to his full height. He pointed the barrels of the double-barreled shotgun at Puri and shouted, “You killed the Master . . . now I’m goin’ to kill the lot of you. God forgive me but I’ve no choice! . . . Say your prayers!”
Puri, uncle colonel and everyone else present turned pale; going backwards step by step, never taking their eyes off the barrels of the gun, they started stammering, “Mash . . . Mash . . . Mash Qasem, dear . . . now don’t . . . now don’t do anything crazy.”
Although I knew that Mash Qasem wasn’t even aware that to shoot the gun he had to pull the trigger, and although I was virtually certain that his gun was not loaded, nevertheless I felt a little anxious. Just at this moment a voice suddenly came from the door leading to the street, “Moment, moment, moment, momentissimo!”
Asadollah Mirza entered, his eyebrows raised in an expression of amazement. Puri started whining, “You’re our one hope, Uncle Asadollah . . . this Mash Qasem wants to kill us.”
Laughing, Asadollah Mirza said, “Good for Mash Qasem! I didn’t know he was also a hunter of domestic livestock!”
But Mash Qasem interrupted him and shouted, “They’ve killed my Master and I have to take revenge for the Master . . . each of these bullets is for one of them and the last’s for me!”
Asadollah Mirza quickly started counting those present, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, with me makes eight . . . Mash Qasem, how many bullets does that double barreled gun have that you want to kill all this crowd? And then you’ve got to have one left over for yourself . . . Well, that’s enough joking, let’s see now, what exactly has been going on? Who wanted to kill your master?”
Mash Qasem said in a loud voice, “Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . I have to kill the lot of them, ’cause they’ve killed my Master.”
“Forgive him for now . . . this boy’s an ass, a fool. He made a mistake . . . what was that you said? They’ve killed the Master? Where’s the Master? What’s happened to the Master?”
And he finally caught sight of Dear Uncle Napoleon’s motionless body. He ran to him and shouted, “And you’re trying to take revenge instead of bringing a doctor and medicine . . . what’s happened? Sir! Sir! How are you feeling, sir?”
Asadollah Mirza sat on the ground and began massaging Dear Uncle’s shoulders; Mash Qasem hoisted the gun up on his shoulder and ran to help him.
Asadollah Mirza said anxiously, “What happened? . . . Mash Qasem, bring that rug over here, we can lay the Master down on it . . . and you, lad, run into the other yard and bring the bottle of ammonia . . . run, lad!”
Asadollah’s emotion had an effect on everyone and a general running hither and thither began. Asadollah Mirza went on massaging Dear Uncle’s hands and feet and shouted, “Isn’t there anyone to tell me what happened? . . . Why has the master fainted?”
Pointing at me with his long finger, Puri spluttered out, “The whole thing’s the fault of that little bastard there . . . he threw a bomb in our house . . . he wanted to kill us . . .”
“Moment, the bomb hit the Master?”
“No, it just made a noise like you’d never believe . . . the glass in the windows smashed, but I wasn’t hit.”
“And then the Master fainted at the noise?”
Puri shook his long face and said, “No, uncle dear, he came later. I said this good-for-nothing had thrown the bomb and he said the English had done it.”
“Now whether he did it or the English did, it’s not something to faint about. It must be that . . .”
Puri interrupted him, “But he got really angry.”
As he was lightly slapping Dear Uncle’s face Asadollah Mirza said, “It’s not at all unlikely that the English did it. I mean, where is this innocent child going to get a bomb from?”
“Uncle Asadollah, don’t look at his butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth appearance. He’s more of a little son of a bitch than you’ll ever know; wasn’t it him last year who . . .” It seemed that Puri suddenly realized he had said too much, and that bringing up the incident of last year’s kick would not be to his benefit.
He fell silent and I took advantage of the opportunity, “Believe me, Uncle Asadollah, I have no idea what happened. You can ask Miss Akhtar, she was here.”
Once again Asadollah Mirza raised his eyebrows, “Moment, moment, what was Miss Akhtar doing in the midst of all this?”
Mash Qasem saw a good opportunity to interfere, “Why should I lie? I didn’t understand what the lass was doin’ here neither. When the bomb went off I saw her dash out the door and go off to her own house . . .”
Uncle colonel jumped into the conversation, “The cadet officer’s sister Akhtar had come to get some advice from young Puri about one of her relatives who had a tax problem . . .”
Mash Qasem shook his head and said, “If I was you I wouldn’t let that lass be alone with young Puri . . . they use these things as an excuse to lead young men away from the straight and narrow.”
I saw my chance and said, “Besides, if Asghar the Diesel realizes that Miss Akhtar has come to see Puri, he’ll split his stomach open . . . he’ll chop Puri into a hundred little bits.”
It was clear that uncle colonel and Puri were troubled by my remark. Uncle put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Look, lad, don’t repeat all this . . . if it should get back to that clod, that lout, he’ll be thinking that . . .”
The bottle of ammonia was brought and Asadollah Mirza took the top off and passed it under Dear Uncle Napoleon’s nose; at this moment Layli arrived. When she saw her father in such a state she immediately burst into tears, “Daddy, daddy dear . . . daddy!”
Seeing her tears and hearing her sobs, my tears were on the point of spilling over, too. Fortunately Dear Uncle opened his eyes. Asadollah Mirza’s voice rang out, “Didn’t I tell you? . . . Praise the Lord, nothing serious has happened . . . he was just a little overcome by the heat . . . sir . . . sir . . . how are you feeling?”
Dear Uncle Napoleon raised his hand to his forehead and said in a weak voice, “Why am I . . . why . . . I seem to have collapsed . . .”
For a few moments Dear Uncle stared blankly around, until he remembered what had been going on. He turned his head toward where the scattered fragments of the glass carboy were lying; suddenly his eyes widened and he shouted, “Idiot, don’t touch it! . . . Who told you to sweep it up? . . . Somebody take the broom away from that fool.”
The servant who’d been about to sweep up the bits of glass froze on the spot. I ran forward and took the broom from his hand. At the same time I bent down and snatched up a bit of blackened firecracker and hid it in my fist.
Dear Uncle, who had with difficulty raised himself into a half sitting position, said, “Someone go and fetch Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi!”
Once again signs of anxiety were plain on uncle colonel’s and his son’s faces. Quickly uncle colonel said, “My dear brother, what do you want with the cadet officer? You don’t want to be listening to his rubbish . . . and in fact it’s been established to our satisfaction that this boy was quite innocent . . .”
Dear Uncle Napoleon interrupted him, “I want to ask the cadet officer his opinion, in his capacity as an expert.”
“But why the cadet officer? . . . I myself know much better than him . . .”
Once again Dear Uncle interrupted him and said in a weak voice, “Don’t tal
k rubbish! You spent your whole life in the commissariat. You don’t know a thing about these matters.”
And Mash Qasem took advantage of Dear Uncle’s weakness and continued the tale, “Besides the Master knows better than everyone . . . me and the Master grew up among artillery and rifles and gunpowder . . . God bless them times! The English themselves, if they got somethin’ stuck in the barrels of their artillery, they’d send for the Master . . . eh, what times they were and no mistake . . . it’s like it was yesterday . . . I remember in the Battle of Mamasani we had a gunner and if you said to him hit Kahrizak he’d hit Ghiasabad . . . he’d wasted all the shells and there was just one shell left . . . the Master, God preserve him, came down like a lion behind that gun . . . he took aim himself . . . and all at once all the tents and flags and banners of the English went up like smoke . . . then when we went forward we saw how the shell had landed smack in the middle of the English tablecloth . . . their bowl of stew and the chicken and rice was all in tiny bits . . .”
His voice choking with anger, uncle colonel said, “Mash Qasem, there’s a limit to how much rubbish one can talk . . .”
Mash Qasem was very cheeky when it came to defending his master, and he yelled, “You mean the Master don’t know how to fire artillery . . . you mean he don’t know nothin’ at all . . . you mean the Master’s war with the English is all a lot of hot air?”
Uncle colonel said, emphasizing each word, “When did I say such a thing? . . . I meant that now is not the time for such talk . . .”
Fortunately this argument did not have time to develop. Holding their baby, Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi entered, followed by Qamar.
The cadet officer no longer bore any resemblance to the palsied functionary of a year ago. Although he continued to smoke opium as before, his complexion and appearance and spirits had improved a great deal. He was wearing a purple striped suit. The starched collar on his shirt shone. He had trained long strands of hair from his temples over his scalp so that his baldness was no longer so obvious. Qamar, too, looked better than before. She had lost a little weight. In her eyes there was a glitter of happiness, the enjoyment of good fortune.
Asadollah Mirza shook Dear Uncle Napoleon and said, “Sir, sir . . . the cadet officer’s come. Open your eyes.”
Dear Uncle opened his eyes a little and said in a weak voice, “Cadet Officer, today there was an explosion in this house . . . perhaps the noise of it could be heard in your house . . . as you’re an expert in these matters I want to you to examine the area and tell me what kind of explosives were used.”
“Very strange I didn’t hear the noise . . . though our house is quite a distance from here and I was taking a nap . . .”
Mash Qasem said, “God blind their squinty eyes . . . and save us from them there English . . .”
It seemed that he wanted in this way to give the cadet officer a hint as to how he was to proceed, but the cadet officer said in stern tones, “Silence! . . . it’s a condition that you do not interfere with my work . . . Qamar dear, take Ali and I’ll get down to work.”
The cadet officer put the baby in Qamar’s arms, took a magnifying glass out of his pocket and started examining the fragments of glass. Qamar’s son was a really beautiful child. Although the whole family insisted for one reason or another that he looked just like the cadet officer’s sister, on account of the roundness of his face, he bore a striking resemblance to Dustali Khan.
Dustali Khan’s absence from the group was noticeable. Two or three months after Qamar’s marriage to Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi, the poor fool had used every means he could think of to get the cadet officer to honor his promise and divorce Qamar. But the cadet officer had so stolen Qamar’s heart away that the strongest swordsman in the land could not have separated them, especially since the cadet officer had got wind of the extent of Qamar’s inheritance and he wasn’t going to let such a juicy morsel as that get away.
Despite the fact that they had once given him a considerable amount of money to persuade him to stick to his promise, at the last moment Qamar had made such a fuss that the whole plan had collapsed. The poor child had fallen deeply in love with the cadet officer. Under the influence of all Qamar’s kindness the cadet officer too had gradually become very fond of her. And then there was the fact that the cadet officer’s mother and sister had been the reason why Dustali Khan and Aziz al-Saltaneh had quit their house and set up home in another house which they owned in the same area. Aziz al-Saltaneh had felt obliged to keep up her relationship with her daughter and son-in-law, but Dustali Khan was out for the blood of the cadet officer and his family. This was especially so because, contrary to the cadet officer’s initial pretence of impotence due to his loss of the relevant member, he had clearly demonstrated that he was sexually wholly potent. Not only did Qamar appear to be satisfied with him, but certain of the neighboring women who had normally been part of Dustali Khan’s entourage also seemed to be satisfied with him. It was even whispered about that the cadet officer enjoyed a special relationship with Tahereh, the wife of Shir Ali.
The cadet officer suddenly paused and raised his head, “Let me see now! . . . Who heard the explosion before everyone else?”
Uncle colonel, who was like a wounded bear sitting silent on the steps, said, “What has that got to do with it?”
“I asked who was closer than everyone else to the site of the explosion and heard the noise before everyone else?”
Mash Qasem answered for him, “Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . .”
And then, pointing at Puri and me, he went on, “With my own eyes I didn’t see nothin’ but I heard the noise . . . seems like these two young masters here heard it before me . . .”
The cadet officer turned to Puri. “What was the noise you heard? Was it like the sound of an ordinary firecracker or like something else . . .”
“Like the noise of an ordinary firecracker but . . .”
I hurriedly interrupted him, “No, it was nothing like the noise of a firecracker . . . it was just like the noise of a bomb.”
The cadet officer whirled round to me. “Where have you heard the noise of a bomb? . . . Answer, quick, now, immediately, at the double!”
“In those war films they show in the cinema . . . you know, newsreels of the war.”
Puri said angrily, “He’s talking nonsense, it was nothing like the noise of . . .”
I didn’t let him finish, “No, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You can ask whatsaname who was here . . . ask whatsaname . . .”
“Ask who? Answer! Quick, now, at the double!”
Puri realized who I was referring to, and to shut me up he said in a flustered way, “Well, it was a bit like the noise of a bomb . . . like this Boom! Boom! . . .”
But the cadet officer wouldn’t let go. “Speak! You said we could ask who? Who? Quick, now, at the double!”
I’d no choice but to prevaricate and said, “Ask Mash Qasem . . . he was very close by . . .”
Uncle colonel yelled, “Sir, how long is this ridiculous spectacle going to go on for? Leave us to go about our business.”
In imitation of his former superior, Deputy Taymur Khan, the cadet officer shouted, “Silence! Speaking is forbidden during the period of the investigation! . . . I mean till I’ve asked a question . . . Mash Qasem! Speak! What kind of a noise did you hear?”
Mash Qasem raised his eyebrows and answered, “Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . What I heard with my own ears was a noise that . . . you’d think it was artillery and a rifle and a bomb all mixed up together . . . it was somethin’ between a rifle and a bomb and the roar of a leopard . . . there was the noise of a balloon mixed up in there too, like it was . . .”
Asadollah cut him off with a laugh, “Moment, wasn’t there also a bit of a folk song with a Persian fiddle mixed in as
well?”
The cadet officer threw an angry look at him. But the goodwill he felt because of Asadollah Mirza’s friendly behavior toward him stopped him from shouting. In a mild tone he said, “Your excellency, would you allow your humble servant to continue his investigations?”
And after once more bending over the ground with his magnifying glass he said in measured tones, “It is very clear . . . this bomb was of the kind that they refer to as a ‘grenade’ . . .”
Wide-eyed, Dear Uncle Napoleon half sat up and asked violently, “Made where?”
The cadet officer scratched his head and said, “Well now . . . that’s a bit . . . I mean it was either made in Belgium or made in England . . . I mean there was a time when the English had a lot of these . . .”
Dear Uncle Napoleon once again fell back on the cushion that had been placed beneath his head and said, “Now do you see? . . . Now do you understand . . . ? Now has it been proved to you who are so certain that I don’t understand anything? Are you still unsure? Is the English hostility toward me still all a fantasy? As Napoleon once said, ‘The one thing that is limitless is stupidity.’”
Dear Uncle’s voice was getting gradually louder and louder. Her voice trembling, Layli cried out, “Daddy, don’t get angry, it’s not good for you . . . please, for my sake, don’t get angry!”
But Dear Uncle’s emotion was not to be calmed down. “When I, poor devil that I am, say something, shout something, scream something, not one person bothers to listen. Not one person wants to understand the truth, not one person pays attention . . .”
The door and windows shook with Dear Uncle’s yells, foam appeared at the corner of his lips. “But . . . but . . . the English will not get me . . . I shall smash them into pieces . . . I shall consume them with fire . . . let them throw bombs, let them throw grenades . . . ach.” Dear Uncle’s eyes closed; his body shook with spasms for a few moments and then he fainted again.
General confusion ensued. Voices were raised on every side, and Asadollah Mirza’s rang out over them all, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you want to kill the old man? . . . Mash Qasem, run and fetch Dr. Naser al-Hokama.”
My Uncle Napoleon Page 48