My Uncle Napoleon

by Iraj Pezeshkzad

  Asadollah Mirza went over to the kitchen door, behind which Mash Qasem was hiding, and called out, “Mash Qasem, Mash Qasem, come out and kiss the master’s hand and say you’re sorry!”

  “I’ve no objection, you tell the master to promise I’ll be safe! I’m the master’s servant . . . I’m his to command . . .”

  Dear Uncle yelled, “Thieving spy! Say your prayers, either you’ll have to die of hunger in there or I’ll fill your empty head with lead.”

  Mash Qasem’s voice was heard again, “Master, I swear by the blessed Qamar-e bani Hashem. I’ve never seen the English in all my life . . . I mean me who’s been fightin’ with the English for a hundred years, as you yourself have witnessed, how would I . . .”

  Asadollah Mirza said, “Mash Qasem, it’s no good denying it. The Master’s understood everything. You’d do better to ask for forgiveness for your sins.”

  “But sir, why should I lie? . . . I haven’t done nothin’.”

  Quietly, so that Dear Uncle wouldn’t hear, Asadollah Mirza said, “Mash Qasem, don’t be so stubborn, just say you were wrong and you’re sorry.”

  “I’ve spent a lifetime fightin’ against the English and now I’m to come and say I’ve turned into one of their spies? Will God like that? . . . and then how am I to look the folks in Ghiasabad in the eye? The folks in Ghiasabad, who are thirsty for the blood of the English . . . !”

  All Asadollah Mirza’s good offices in the cause of solving the dispute were in vain. My father, and then uncle colonel and lots of other people, came and conducted lengthy negotiations but no conclusion was reached. The spy continued to claim sanctuary in the kitchen and Dear Uncle continued to be unforgiving and to pace up and down in front of the kitchen, with the shotgun in his hand, cursing him.

  I was going back and forth at my wits’ end. I heard Asadollah Mirza and my father talking in the garden, “I’m afraid that poor devil Mash Qasem will pass out from fear . . . if he can keep going for another one or two hours perhaps there’ll be a way out of all this . . .”

  “What way out, your excellency . . . ? The Master’s taken complete leave of his senses . . . if you’re thinking that because Mash Qasem is in the kitchen and they’re going to need the kitchen, then think again! The Master’s sent out for chelo kebab for everyone.”

  “Moment, moment, apart from the kitchen, the lavatory’s there as well . . . he’s sending the people in his house over to your place to do their business. And when he needs to go himself he’s going to have to go to your place, and then we can let Mash Qasem get away.”

  “I don’t think that’ll work either. He’s so obsessed with the English that . . .”

  Asadollah Mirza interrupted him, “Since this morning, using as an excuse that he’s not very well, I’ve given him four or five glasses of water to drink; we must await the outcome.”

  More time passed. Everyone was waiting for the water to have its necessary effect on Dear Uncle’s constitution, but Dear Uncle went right on sitting on the steps with the shotgun in his hand, never taking his eyes off the kitchen door. It was around noon that I once more stuck my head round the door to the private apartments; Dear Uncle had stood up and was walking about. I felt I could sense his discomfort; I wanted to run and tell the good news to Asadollah Mirza, who was in our house with my father, but first I had to be sure.

  A few minutes passed in this way and then I suddenly heard Dear Uncle’s voice, “Naneh Bilqis, bring me that flower-vase of mine.”

  All my hopes turned to despair. When he heard the news Asadollah Mirza shook his head and said, “We’ll have to think of something else . . . the prison warder has seen to his needs on the spot . . . another way occurs to me. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to try it . . . you come, too, we’ll go together.”

  My father asked, “And what’s my role in this?”

  “In fact, your role’s the crucial one. Because you’re the only person he isn’t disgusted with. At the moment the Master needs the whole world to know that the British Empire has nothing else on its mind except destroying him, and no one’s as essential as you are for keeping up his morale . . . and anyway, I can’t deal with this lunatic alone.”

  Asadollah Mirza and my father went to find Dear Uncle and I stuck to them like a shadow.

  Asadollah Mirza opened the conversation, “You’re of course aware that treachery is not a new phenomenon in the world . . . didn’t Marshal Ney betray Napoleon?”

  Dear Uncle threw Asadollah Mirza an angry look from behind his sunglasses and said, “If Marshall Ney was a traitor, he later washed away all his sins . . . when Napoleon came back from the island of Elba and they sent Ney to fight against him, as soon as he set eyes on his benefactor he dismounted from his horse and kissed Napoleon’s hand . . . he placed his sword at his service.”

  “And then did he serve Napoleon well?”

  “Yes, he served him very well . . . he proved his loyalty by his own death.”

  My father interposed, “In fact this kind of person, the people who are sorry for their treachery, are much more ready to serve and are much more sincere than many others.”

  Asadollah Mirza said, “Of course it was Napoleon’s magnanimity that induced Marshall Ney to sacrifice himself in this way.” A calm gradually spread over Dear Uncle’s face.

  With a faraway gaze in his eyes he said in mild tones, “Yes, I’ve proved this many times in the wars myself . . . when I used to give an enemy commander quarter, an enemy would suddenly become a sincere friend . . .”

  Asadollah Mirza winked at my father and said, “Now, in my opinion this man, too, well, he was mortal . . . he was weak . . . they tricked him . . . It needs a lot of strength for a man to save himself from their snares . . . you yourself, if it hadn’t been for your strength and personality, do you think they wouldn’t have tricked you?”

  “How many times they tried . . . what promises, what stratagems . . . they promised money, they sent women . . . what things they did!”

  “Moment, now I’ve a question. Do you think if it had been anyone else but you he wouldn’t have given in? He wouldn’t have been tricked?”

  “Well, of course, he’d have been tricked . . . without any doubt he’d have been corrupted.”

  “In that case, what can you expect from a simple villager turned servant? . . . They fooled the poor devil, they tricked him.”

  In an annoyed tone Dear Uncle said, “But this good-for-nothing isn’t prepared honestly and sincerely to confess, to ask for forgiveness, to show that he’s sorry.”

  “What do you mean, sir? . . . The poor devil’s imprisoned in the kitchen, you’re waiting behind the door with a shotgun in your hand. What do you expect? You give him permission to come out, I’ll say a couple of words to him, and you’ll see that he’s really sorry.”

  After a few moments’ silence Dear Uncle raised his head and muttered, “Very well then; we’ll try it.”

  Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. They took the shotgun into a room, and after Mash Qasem had been assured that the situation was safe he drew back the bolts on the door. Asadollah Mirza went into the kitchen. After a few minutes Mash Qasem emerged from the kitchen with his head bowed, and Asadollah Mirza followed him out.

  Dear Uncle stood up and stared motionless into midair.

  Asadollah Mirza said, “Sir, will you give him permission to kiss your hand and ask for forgiveness?”

  Dear Uncle was silent for a few moments; then he answered without looking at him, “First he has to answer my questions.”

  “He’ll answer whatever questions you ask.”

  Dear Uncle was only talking to Asadollah Mirza, “First he has to say where the English contacted him.”

  “Did you hear, Mash Qasem? Where did the English contact you?”

  Without raising his head Mash Qasem said, “Well sir, why sh
ould I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . in the . . . I mean . . . the truth is, in the baker’s.”

  “At what time?”

  “Well . . . I mean . . . last Tuesday . . . no, no, good heavens, it was Wednesday.”

  “How did they contact you?”

  Asadollah Mirza repeated Dear Uncle’s question for Mash Qasem. For a moment Mash Qasem gazed helplessly at Dear Uncle’s immobile form, then he said, “Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . I was buyin’ bread. All of a sudden I sees an Englishman in the alleyway lookin’ at me out of the corner of his eye . . . every now and then he winked at me . . . to tell the truth at first I thought, God strike me dumb, that he fancied me . . . ’cause accordin’ to a man in our town, he used to say that . . .”

  Without looking at him Dear Uncle said sternly, “Stick to the point!”

  Asadollah Mirza slapped Mash Qasem on the back and said, “Stick to the point, Mash Qasem! Say how they got in touch with you.”

  “Well, they just did . . . before I could turn round they’d done it.”

  “How much money did they promise you for killing me?”

  “God in heaven! Me kill the Master? God cripple my arm if it crossed my mind!”

  Asadollah Mirza hurriedly interrupted him, “No, no sir, for the time being there was no mention of killing. He just had to pass them information about you . . .”

  “And what has he decided now?”

  “Well now, sir . . .”

  Asadollah Mirza signalled to him and said, “The Master means are you sorry or are you going to work for the English?”

  “Well now, sir, why should I lie? I’m damned if I’ll work for them English . . . I’ll give ’em two good cuss words and send ’em packin’ off to their ancestors . . . I’ll tell ’em I’ve eaten the Master’s bread, that I’m the Master’s humble servant . . .”

  “When will you give them this answer?”

  Mash Qasem suddenly exploded, “I swear by the blessed Qamar-e bani Hashem that if I . . .”

  Asadollah Mirza interrupted him and shouted, “Answer, Mash Qasem! When will you give them their answer? Today or later?”

  “Well sir . . . I mean to say . . . today, then . . . right now.”

  “Now go and kiss the Master’s hand.”

  Dear Uncle was gazing into space and his tall form continued to stand motionless on the same spot. I’m quite sure that he saw himself as being in Napoleon’s clothes and situation when Napoleon’s army came face to face with Marshall Ney’s.

  Mash Qasem hesitantly went toward him. He bent over and kissed his hand. Dear Uncle opened his arms and pressed him to his chest. “I forgive you because of your past service . . . of course, on condition that you are really sorry for what you have done, and that you will devote your remaining strength to the service of your benefactor!”

  A teardrop glittered in each of Dear Uncle Napoleon’s eyes.

  An hour later my father and Asadollah Mirza were busy chatting in the sitting room of our house.

  “I am very worried about the Master . . . little by little his behavior’s becoming quite crazy. We really have to think of something.”

  “Well, your excellency, I’m just astonished that someone with his wits about him should get to the state where he behaves in this way.”

  “Moment, it’s very strange that you shouldn’t know why he’s got into this state! But all the same it’s happened and we have to think of something . . . it seems as though the hostility of the English has become an absolute necessity for him.”

  “And the existence of spies and traitors, too . . .”

  “I think the only way he can be cured now is for the English to arrest him and imprison him for a while.”

  “But how can we make them . . . as if we could force the English to arrest a retired officer from Liakhoff’s Cossack regiment. Don’t they have anything better to do?”

  Asadollah Mirza shifted his position on the sofa and said, “I’ve thought of a good idea which I’ll put to you now . . . get up, lad, and shut the living room door.”

  My father said to me, “And leave the room.”

  “No, let him stay. Your son’s not a stranger. Perhaps he’ll even be able to help us. But of course he mustn’t talk about it to anyone.”

  This was the first time that a serious exchange of views was to be held in my presence. Asadollah Mirza said, “In my opinion something must be done as soon as possible. The old man’s going crazy. Today poor old Mash Qasem very nearly lost his life because of his master’s fantasies.”

  My father said, “I’ve already said two or three times to the colonel that he should arrange for a consultation with psychiatric specialists, and if not . . .”

  Asadollah Mirza interrupted him, “Moment, don’t even think of it; if the Master went and stood stark naked blowing a trumpet in the middle of Tupkhaneh Square, it’s out of the question that the colonel and the rest of the family would agree to consult a psychiatrist. Is it thinkable that the Master, who’s the son of the late lamented Master and the grandson of the family’s Grandfather, should go crazy? God forbid, don’t even mention it!”

  “Then we’ll have to wait until he kills someone for being an English spy, and they take him off to jail . . . Just think of it, if Mash Qasem had been a bit less quick off the mark today his corpse would now be in the public mortuary and the Master would be in jail . . . the government takes no account of late lamented grandfathers and so forth. They throw murderers in jail.”

  Asadollah Mirza shook his head and said, “In any case it’s as I said. Forget all thoughts of psychiatrists. If we want to help him we have to think of something else.”

  “Yes but what else, your excellency? If you’re thinking that Churchill should come and ask the Master’s pardon, I don’t think there’s a chance of that at the moment.”

  “Not Churchill, but if a representative of the English came . . .”

  My father interrupted him, “The commander of the British army in Iran, for example, or the minister for the navy?”

  “No. If you’ll let me finish. If we can arrange it so that, for example, someone comes on behalf of the English to negotiate with him, maybe . . .”

  Once again my father interrupted him, “You’re joking, aren’t you, your excellency? It’s true the Master’s losing his wits but he’s not such a child that he’d fall for something like that.”

  “A person who’s ready to write a letter promising to give his life for Hitler wouldn’t be such a child?”

  My father’s mouth dropped open. Asadollah Mirza went on with a smile, “When the late Grandfather is eating ab-gusht with Jeanette McDonald, can’t Churchill’s representative come and see the Master?”

  My father began stammering, “You mean . . . you . . . what I mean is . . . but in fact . . .”

  Asadollah Mirza laughed and said, “Yes, I too am in the know . . .”

  “Who told you?”

  “The Master himself mentioned it once. But never mind all that.”

  My father gave a forced laugh and said, “So we had a little joke once . . . the Master didn’t believe in it . . .”

  “Oh yes, he did, he believed it all too well . . . but we’ll leave that aside for now. The important point is this: are your really ready for us to help this old man, to lessen the trials and tribulations of the four or five days of life that he still has left to him?”

  My father said, in accents of heartfelt sincerity, “On the souls of my children . . . on the soul of my father, I have no animosity toward him left in me, and I sincerely hope that his health will return to normal.”

  “Good, in that case I think we can do something. The colonel wasn’t at home but I left a message that he’s to come here when he gets back, and we can discuss the matter together.
I’ve thought that if we could arrange things so that an Englishman would come and negotiate with the Master, and assure him that the English have forgiven him his sins, then the situation would change completely.”

  My father shook his head and said, “I don’t think that even if Churchill himself came and handed him a signed affidavit it would penetrate the Master’s head that the English have forgotten about their hostility toward him. Never mind the reality of the situation. Imagine someone who in countless lengthy wars has destroyed thousands of English individuals, dragging them through blood and filth . . . who has ruined all their colonial ambitions . . . and then this person is to believe that all of a sudden the English are going to overlook his sins against them?”

  “Moment, moment, but if the English have another major enemy it’s possible that for a while, until the end of the war, for example, even if it’s not sincerely and from the heart, they’d announce a ceasefire. At all events it’ll do no harm to try.”

  “But your excellency, where are you going to find a representative of the English?”

  “Through that Brigadier Maharat Khan, the Indian . . . I’ve heard he’s supposed to come back from the south in the next two or three days. I can somehow or other get him to agree to provide us with a representative of the English.”

  A light went on in my brain. The familiar voice I had heard that morning in Asadollah Mirza’s house rang in my ears once again. I murmured, “Uncle Asadollah, did you hear that from the builder?”

  Asadollah Mirza gave me a furious look and hurriedly went on with what he had been saying, “This brigadier has business dealings with the English and that’s why he makes regular trips down south . . .”

  At this moment uncle colonel came in. When he had heard what had happened that day and Asadollah Mirza had put his plan before him, he said angrily, “But do we have to discuss the matter in front of the children?”

  Asadollah Mirza slapped me on the back and said, “Moment, colonel sir, first of all, this lad isn’t a child anymore. He’s a clever young man. Secondly, if we prevented a calamity from happening today, it was through this young man’s good offices. In any case he’s a trustworthy person, and we need him.”