My Uncle Napoleon

by Iraj Pezeshkzad

  Dear Uncle Napoleon said violently, but in a quiet voice, “Qasem, shut up! . . . Asadollah get on with explaining the situation more quickly . . . Ask him what the message he has for me is . . . And by the way, tell him that it’s in my blood to fight against foreigners. In fact, my late grandfather gave his life in the struggle against foreigners.”

  Asadollah Mirza quietly answered, “Moment, moment, if you remember your late grandfather passed away from cholera during the year of the epidemic.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Asadollah! Translate exactly what I said.”

  Asadollah Mirza started saying meaningless words in English again, except that this time he repeated the words “last great gentleman” two or three times. Apart from these words I didn’t understand anything of what he was saying and apparently the Indian didn’t either, because in answer he simply came out with a few words that clearly had no rhyme or reason to them. Asadollah Mirza turned to Dear Uncle. “Colonel Sir Eshtiagh Khan says that the government he serves is aware of the brave acts committed by your family, but that on condition that today you formally undertake not to sabotage their operations, after the war your file will be transferred, with a positive recommendation, to a higher . . .”

  At this moment an extraordinary noise coming from the yard cut his speech short. A number of people seemed to be grappling with one another. Everyone in the room froze to the spot in astonishment. Finally Shir Ali’s gruff voice could be made out in the general racket, “I said that the Master’s got a foreign visitor.”

  And a voice which I recognized a moment later as belonging to Dustali Khan yelled, “So he’s got a foreign visitor. And I’ve got urgent business with him.”

  The noise of the quarrel was closer now, and came from the direction of the stairs. Suddenly the living room door burst open. Dustali Khan dragged Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi into the room by the collar; the cadet officer was wearing striped pajamas.

  “I’ll give you hell for this, you shameless good-for-nothing . . . today I am going to make very plain to you just where you and I stand.”

  Dear Uncle Napoleon sprang to his feet and shouted, “Dustali Khan, what is going on? What kind of impudent behavior do you think this is? Can’t you see that . . . ?”

  Without paying attention to anyone else in the room, Dustali Khan dragged the cadet officer over to Dear Uncle and shouted, “This shameless bastard was supposed to marry the poor girl and divorce her two months later. Not only he didn’t divorce her, now he’s made her pregnant . . . and he’s selling Akbar Abad so that he can pocket the money.”

  The friendly warmth with which Mash Qasem and Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi greeted one another decreased the violence and vehemence of the encounter. “How are you keepin’, Rajabali Khan? . . . By the way, yesterday Mash Karim came over from Ghiasabad and he was askin’ after you. I says, well, we’re neighbors now but I never see Mr. Ghiasabadi . . .”

  Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi freed his collar from Dustali Khan’s clutches and began to return Mash Qasem’s greeting; then he became aware of the others present. “Good day to you . . . you’ll have to excuse us. This fellow’s got some notion in his head . . . I don’t understand why, with his own wife, a man doesn’t have the right to . . .”

  But he didn’t have the opportunity to finish his sentence. Dustali Khan’s voice cut him off, “Well, well, and good day to you, Mr. Eshtiagh Khan . . . Whatever are you doing here? By chance I was asking Brigadier Maharat Khan about you a few days ago . . .”

  Dear Uncle Napoleon froze as if he’d been electrocuted. “Dustali Khan, do you know Colonel Eshtiagh Khan?”

  For a moment Dustali Khan’s surprised glance wavered between Dear Uncle’s face and the Indian’s, and before he could become aware of Asadollah Mirza’s and uncle colonel’s signals he burst out laughing. “Since when has Corporal Eshtiagh Khan become a colonel? . . . Let me congratulate you, Mr. Eshtiagh Khan. That time we went up to Pas Ghaleh with the brigadier you were still a corporal . . .”

  Everyone paused, as if transfixed. Eshtiagh Khan had not foreseen such an unlikely encounter and he stared dumbfounded at Asadollah Mirza and my father and uncle colonel, but they were so taken aback that no one came to his assistance, and Dustali Khan went on pressing him to speak. “Eshtiagh Khan, what are you being so quiet for . . . what’s happened?”

  With concern, astonishment and anxiety all over his face, the Indian opened his mouth and said in an Indian accent but in Persian, “How can I put it . . . today I am paying a visit to this gentleman . . .”

  Dear Uncle placed his hands on the arms of the sofa. His whole body began to shake, his face had turned frighteningly pale; he shook, and shook, and then fell back helplessly against the sofa repeating, “Treachery . . . treachery . . . history is repeating itself . . .”

  There was general confusion. Uncle colonel ran anxiously over to him, “Brother . . . brother . . .”

  Dear Uncle’s eyes were almost closed; in a choked, trembling voice he said, “Treachery, treachery . . . my brother . . . Lucien Bonaparte!”

  My father shouted, “Sir . . . sir, how are you?”

  “Treachery, treachery . . . my sister’s husband . . . Marshal Murat!”

  “Moment, moment, who has betrayed you? Why won’t you listen to me?”

  “Shut up, General Marmont!”

  Mash Qasem was about to say something. Asadollah Mirza shouted, “Don’t you open your mouth. You’re General Grouchy and the file on you’s worse than everyone else’s!”

  Suddenly Dear Uncle’s scream echoed around the room, “Treachery . . . Puri! . . . Shir Ali! . . . Attack!”

  At this command of “Attack!” everyone seemed to take leave of their senses. Even the Indian, who hadn’t yet understood the meaning of Dear Uncle’s order, had been very upset by Dear Uncle’s reaction, which he had not at all expected, and was making signals with his hands and head asking Asadollah Mirza and my father what he should do now. I considered there was no longer any reason for me to stay hidden and made my way into the room. I stood dithering in the doorway. I heard Asadollah Mirza say quietly to the Indian corporal, “Officer, beat it! Things are really heating up, oh yes!”

  And he dragged him toward the door. In the hallway he found himself face to face with Shir Ali who had come up the stairs and said, “Wait a minute, sir, I’ll deal with him.”

  And, as if it were a club, he raised the leg of mutton he had in his hand. The previous year Shir Ali had made the pilgrimage to Mashhad, and since then he had repented his sins and sworn he wouldn’t go after anyone with a cleaver.

  Asadollah Mirza took him by the arm and quietly said, “Moment, Shir Ali, have you gone crazy . . . a guest is favored by God.”

  “Well sir, the master said ‘Whenever I call out, you run and deal with them who are against me.’”

  “Shir Ali, what are you thinking of . . . this officer is a friend of the Master’s.”

  The Indian had turned extremely pale; to address Shir Ali he had to crick his neck and stare into the sky; in a terrified voice he said, “On your soul I swear I am without hostilities . . . the Master is my very kind friend . . . the Master is the beloved of my heart . . .”

  Shir Ali stood to one side. At this moment Puri’s face showed up over my shoulder; I think he had been so anxious that he had been caught short and gone to the lavatory. He spluttered out, “Uncle Asadollah, let me deal with this Indian.”

  Asadollah Mirza leapt at him, “Oh, shut up with you! Now you’re to be our General Rommel, are you?”

  And as he saw that Puri was still threatening the Indian, he said to Shir Ali, “Shir Ali, keep ahold of this lad for me till I get back.”

  While Shir Ali’s arms were around Puri’s long skinny body, Asadollah Mirza descended the stairs with the Indian two steps at a time. As he went down he kept swearing at the Indian in a loud voice
and clapping his hands violently together. “You little bastard, you thought you could trick us! . . . I’ll show you what’s what! I’ll give you a lesson you’ll never forget!”

  When he had ejected the Indian from the yard and returned, he turned to Puri, who was still struggling in Shir Ali’s arms. “Idiot child, if you had raised your hand against that Indian, tomorrow they’d have had you in the British army camp and emptied two bullets into your empty head.”

  “Uncle Asadollah, I wasn’t really going to hit him . . . I wanted Dear Uncle to hear my voice . . . so you answer Dear Uncle when he asks.”

  “All right, answering Dear Uncle’s up to me . . . Let him go now, Shir Ali . . . and you go into the yard.”

  I’d gone with Asadollah Mirza every step of the way and now I followed him back into the living room. My father and uncle colonel, helped by Mash Qasem, were supporting Dear Uncle’s upper body and getting him to take sips of brandy.

  When he heard Asadollah Mirza’s voice, Dear Uncle opened his eyelids. “Asadollah, what’s happened? . . . What did you do?”

  “You wouldn’t believe how quickly he dashed off . . . a really primitive little wretch . . . I taught him a lesson . . . I pounded him into bits.”

  Suddenly Dear Uncle seemed to recall the treachery of those who were near him; his eyes grew completely round, his lips began trembling again and with his remaining strength he yelled, “I don’t want to see your traitors’ faces.”

  Uncle colonel was about to say something, but Asadollah Mirza didn’t give him the chance, “Sir, by your own soul . . . by the soul of our late grandfather, we too were deceived.”

  “You mean you’re that stupid? . . . You mean you . . .”

  Asadollah Mirza hurriedly interrupted him, “Moment, moment . . . do we have to tell you about the tricks and hoaxes the English get up to . . . They could trick heaven itself . . . when they can trick Hitler, do you think they can’t fool us?”

  Such remarks were of the kind that Dear Uncle himself made, and they worked on him in the best possible way. “You poor wretches! When I say beware of the tricks and hoaxes that old fox gets up to, you laugh at me!”

  Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Mash Qasem’s throat seemed to have dried up in the face of these strange and unexpected events; now his tongue had loosened. “Sir, how long will it take till these gentlemen to understand what you tell ’em . . . I swear to God that if I was in Hitler’s place, I’d have taken the Master as my right-hand man to catch them English red-handed and force ’em to show us what they’d got up their sleeves.”

  Luckily this time Mash Qasem’s interference was just what was needed; a calm expression began to spread over Dear Uncle’s features. But Mash Qasem was not going to give up. “Well now, why should I lie? . . . To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . In all my life I never saw such a disgustin’ thing as sendin’ an Indian corporal to pass himself off as the British commander-in-chief.”

  Dear Uncle had closed his eyes for a moment; he opened them and said in a choked voice, “They did it deliberately . . . deliberately . . .”

  And, gradually raising his voice, he continued, “They wanted to persuade me to negotiate with a corporal so that my and my family’s honor and dignity would be destroyed. They wanted to humiliate me . . . this was a plan of revenge for them.”

  Uncle colonel anxiously said, “Brother . . . brother . . . Calm down! Don’t upset yourself, you’ll collapse again.”

  Dear Uncle yelled, “How can I not be upset? . . . How can I stay calm faced with this huge conspiracy? . . . They send an Indian corporal to me so that tomorrow they can write in their histories that a great fighter disgracefully surrendered his sword to an Indian corporal.”

  My father said, “Well, God be praised, their plot’s dissolved and gone now.”

  In a quieter voice Dear Uncle said, “It was the hand of fate . . . Mars, the god of war, did not want an old fighter to be dragged down to the lowest level . . . If Dustali hadn’t arrived . . .”

  Mash Qasem jumped into the conversation, “It’s true, it’s true, if that neighbor of mine hadn’t arrived, whatever would have happened to us! Once again it’s Ghiasabad and the folks from Ghiasabad to the rescue!”

  Dear Uncle glanced at Dustali Khan and said, “Dustali, come closer . . . come and sit down . . . If God closed these fools’ eyes, at least he put it in your heart to come and help me in this terrible whirlpool! . . . You are my commander!”

  Asadollah Mirza, who had been watching this scene with some astonishment, said quietly to my father, “Do you see that? Now we’ve become the baddies . . . and that donkey Dustali has become the merciful agent of the god of war.”

  And my father quietly replied, “Never mind . . . let the Master calm down . . . and Dustali Khan can be the god of war himself for all I care.”

  Asadollah Mirza quickly poured Dear Uncle another glass of brandy. After the storm a pleasant calm reigned. At this moment Puri appeared in the doorway but before Dear Uncle could catch sight of him Asadollah Mirza dashed over to him and said quietly, “Get out of here . . . If the Master catches sight of you he’ll remember again. Stay outside for a minute!”

  And he shut the door. I was standing in another doorway out of sight of Dear Uncle; Asadollah Mirza signalled me to stay there. Uncle colonel went over to Asadollah Mirza and said quietly, “Asadollah, in the midst of all this, what’s going to happen about my rug?”

  “Moment, moment, colonel sir! Do you want to start another row? You who’s always saying you’re ready to die for the sake of the Master?”

  “But look here, that wretched little charlatan didn’t do anything. I mean, it’s not as if I’d sworn before God I’d give an Esfahani rug to Corporal Eshtiagh Khan.”

  Asadollah Mirza raised his eyebrows and said quietly, “All right, you’ll get it back from him. Don’t worry so much!”

  “And where am I going to lay hands on the man?”

  “Well, I’d say to your luminous lordship that . . . but of course the corporal agreed to our game because he’s being transferred tonight. But don’t worry, he gave me his address. Tomorrow send him a card addressed to Officer Eshtiagh Khan, the Front at El-Alamein, tank number 238.”

  Uncle colonel muttered furiously, “God rot you and your ugly aristocratic face . . .”

  “Moment, of course, that’s if he hasn’t been killed by the time the card arrives . . . ! Of course, there’s another way and that’s that you tell the Master to give you an Esfahani rug in exchange.”

  “Oh really! That’s all we need, for me to tell my brother that we gave the Indian corporal a rug as a bribe so that he’d come and negotiate as a representative of the English! Do you think I’m tired of life?”

  “Colonel sir, the world has its ups and its downs . . . its winners and its losers.”

  Uncle colonel gave him a furious look and went over to the rest of those present, who were gathered around Dear Uncle Napoleon and talking in undertones.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  DEAR UNCLE had closed his eyes; he now opened them. His face had become calm and in a calm voice he said, “I’ve seen many things like this . . . even Napoleon, who had to swallow poison from the English throughout his whole life, was tricked again by them when he surrendered after Waterloo and placed his fate in their hands . . . they had made him promises . . . but the poor wretch was finally exiled to St. Helena. My blood’s not thicker than his.”

  And then, as if he wished to change the subject entirely, he turned to Dustali Khan and said, “Now, Dustali Khan, what was the argument you had with Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi about?”

  Striking a finger against the table as he spoke, Dustali Khan said in a menacing voice, “You are the head of this family . . . either you must make it plain where I stand with this stupid donkey . . . or you must allow me to have the law restrain him from lo
oting our lives and property and honor.”

  Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi seemed to have smoked a great deal of opium and to be in a state of complete mental serenity; he said tranquilly, “First, the stupid donkey is the person who says it; second, when have I ever disturbed the Master’s life and property and honor?”

  Mash Qasem jumped into the conversation, “Well, God strike me dumb if I lie, till now no one’s ever heard of a man from Ghiasabad hurtin’ anyone’s honor . . . Really, why should I lie? In all this country you won’t find any place comes near Ghiasabad when it comes to honor.”

  Although Dustali Khan was trying to control himself, he completely exploded and lashed out at Mash Qasem, “You just shut up! God damn everyone from Ghiasabad and their honor, too.”

  Mash Qasem rarely became angry but he said aggressively, “Sir, keep a civil tongue in your head! Say whatever you want to me, but the honor of folks from Ghiasabad is not for jokin’ about!”

  I glanced at Asadollah Mirza. His gloomy expression had completely opened up and the usual mischievous smile had returned to his face. “Moment, moment, Mr. Dustali Khan, Mash Qasem is quite right. Leave the honor of Ghiasabad alone; since you yourself are the great champion of honorable behavior, you shouldn’t . . .”

  Dear Uncle Napoleon’s peremptory voice rang out, “Silence! . . . Two people have a difference of opinion. They have presented the matter to the older members of the family. Their problem must be dealt with in a just fashion. Please allow the plaintiffs to state their case. Continue, Dustali Khan, and stick to the point.”

  Dear Uncle Napoleon’s severity put everyone’s mind at rest, because it was clear that temporarily he had forgotten about the English. Trying to keep calm, Dustali Khan said, “In order to save the family’s good name I said that this individual should come and marry the girl, a month later he should divorce her, and he would be given two thousand tomans . . . and that’s what happened . . . now leaving aside the fact that . . .”