Mash Qasem let everyone in on Dear Uncle’s thoughts. “God keep you, sir. I wish you’d done this on the first day. On that first day I said this lad was a shameless feller.”
There was sweat on Dear Uncle’s forehead. He kept his hand on his heart, but continued to sit stiffly upright. A few moments passed in silence. Dear Uncle turned to Mash Qasem, “Qasem, have you put my gaiters in the suitcase?”
“Them as you tie on your shoes?”
“Yes, those.”
“I’ve put both pairs in.”
My father and Asadollah Mirza exchanged occasional glances, but they seemed unable to find anything to say. The silence was becoming uncomfortable. Mash Qasem quietly left the room.
Mildly, Dear Uncle said, “Asadollah, I’ve seen to everything. I’m leaving at peace with myself. But there’s one thing I want to ask you . . .” Dear Uncle had no opportunity to finish what he was saying. Once again a commotion could be heard, this time coming from the garden.
Dear Uncle sat bolt upright on the sofa and listened. In amongst the uproar Mash Qasem’s voice could be heard shouting that they mustn’t disturb the Master. After listening for a moment Dear Uncle said in a choked voice, “Apparently they’ve come . . . Asadollah, go and see what that idiot Qasem is doing. It seems he’s putting up a resistance, though I ordered him not to resist.”
Asadollah Mirza had no chance to leave. The door burst open and Dustali Khan came in; his face was glowing and his head was swathed in bandages.
He was screaming and yelling so hard that it was impossible to make out what he was saying. Finally Dear Uncle said in peremptory tones, “Dustali, calm down! What’s happened?”
Dustali Khan went on screaming and yelling. Asadollah Mirza shouted, “Dustali, shut up! Can’t you see the Master isn’t well?”
Dustali Khan seemed not to have been aware of Asadollah’s presence until this moment; he stared at him wildly for a moment, then suddenly yelled, “And you, you shameless good-for-nothing little . . . you shut up! It’s a pity for this family that you’re part of it!”
“Moment, moment, Dustali what’s happened? It’s clear that whoever’s knocked you on the head has made a good job of it because you’ve lost even that bit of common sense you once had! Why are you going for me like this?”
“What shameless bastard was it who sent Farrokh Laqa the night before last to say prayers for the dead for my uncle Mansur al-Saltaneh? Whatever has my poor uncle done to you that you should be so keen to see him dead?”
Dear Uncle angrily said, “Dustali, don’t argue! This is no time for arguments! What’s happened?”
Dustali Khan pulled himself together somewhat. He had two or three pieces of paper in his hand. He slammed his fist down on the table and said, “Either everyone in the family signs this document, or I will not bear the name of this family any longer.”
“What document is this, Dustali? And why is your head all bandaged up?”
“Ask that lout, that scum you gave my daughter to. That shameless, lousy drug-addict broke my head with a stone . . . ask that Mr. Ghiasabadi from Qom!”
Asadollah Mirza burst into a guffaw of laughter, “Bravo, Mr. Ghiasabadi! This was very nicely done!”
Once again Dear Uncle mildly asked, “And what’s this document for now?”
“If you’ll be so kind as to take a look . . . this is from Dr. Naser al-Hokama and it certifies that Qamar has a psychological illness . . . it’s a document that various people in the area have signed their agreement to. Sir, the girl is crazy. That rotten little charlatan Ghiasabadi is using up all her property and wealth . . . just think of it, he’s selling Akbar Abad . . . if you’ll allow me, I’ll read the document: ‘On behalf of all those distinguished gentlemen who are aware . . . ’”
At this moment the noise of shouting came up from the garden. Dear Uncle yelled, “Silence, Dustali!” Then he muttered calmly, “It seems that this time they really have come.”
And he tried to stand, but large drops of sweat stood on his forehead and he fell back where he was sitting.
Later on, whenever I read the story of Tristan and Isolde or heard people mention it, I thought of Dear Uncle waiting during that moment, because the emotion and anxiety with which he waited was in every way equal to the emotion and anxiety with which Tristan waited for the arrival of the golden-haired Isolde.
A moment later the door opened. Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi and his mother, and behind them Aziz al-Saltaneh, entered the room. Dear Uncle had been staring expectantly and agitatedly at the door; a sudden wave of despair welled up in his eyes. With a curse he turned his head away. The newcomers were all screaming and yelling and swearing together. Finally the sound of Aziz al-Saltaneh’s yells drowned out the others’ voices, “Dustali, I’ll give you what for so it’ll go down in history! Get going and get lost and get back to the house, you should be ashamed to look your son-in-law in the face!”
“I hope the gravediggers get hold of my son-in-law in double quick time! I’d rather have seventy years of bad luck than have such a crook of a son-in-law. The good-for-nothing’s taking advantage of that girl’s craziness . . .”
At this moment the cadet officer’s mother gave such a scream that the window panes shook. “What a hell of a cheek you’ve got . . . never mind you, your father and grandfather should be proud to have such a son-in-law in the family . . . If you don’t watch it, I’ll smash your head and teeth in. Don’t you make such remarks about my daughter-in-law! And she’s got more brains than a hundred like you!”
At this moment, as Cadet Officer Ghiasabadi and his mother and Aziz al-Saltaneh were all cursing Dustali Khan, Aziz al-Saltaneh hit Dustali Khan such a blow on his broken head, with her handbag, that his cries and moans went up to the heavens, and Dear Uncle’s faint shouts, too, could be heard, “Stop it! Leave him alone! . . . At such a time . . . at a moment like this you can find time to . . . O God, send the English to free me from this crowd!”
And then there was a kick at the door. Mash Qasem came into the room; his eyes were red with anger and his lips were trembling; he let out a terrifying yell, “Shir Ali, throw all this lot out . . . these devils are killin’ the Master, they are!”
Shir Ali, who had come in after Mash Qasem, glanced at Asadollah Mirza. As soon as he saw him give a signal of agreement, without any more hesitation he picked up Dustali from behind and began to swing him around in such a way that his legs were like a club banging against the bodies of the cadet officer and his mother and Aziz al-Saltaneh.
“Get lost, all of you . . . come on, out, before I crush you to pulp.”
Screaming and shouting, the cadet officer and his mother and Aziz al-Saltaneh fled from the dangerous blows dealt by the legs of Dustali Khan, who was struggling in Shir Ali’s embrace. When the room had been cleared, Dear Uncle, whose complexion had turned even paler and whose lips were trembling, moaned, “The English . . . the English . . . what are they waiting for?”
Asadollah Mirza was staring in consternation at Dear Uncle’s pallid face; he shouted, “Mash Qasem, run and fetch Dr. Naser al-Hokama! Run, man!”
And he himself ran into the hall and picked up the telephone receiver. He dialled a number and said, “Doctor, send that medicine over to the house . . . I couldn’t come myself, but send it quickly . . . the patient’s not at all well.”
Then with my father’s help he laid Dear Uncle on his bed and took his pulse. “His pulse is very weak . . . I hope to God that idiot of a doctor is at home!”
Dear Uncle had turned completely white. Big drops of sweat were visible on his forehead and nose. Asadollah Mirza removed Dear Uncle’s dark glasses and put them aside. My father was anxiously running back and forth. Without opening his eyes, Dear Uncle started to talk. “You come . . . you have to come with me . . . I’ve a lot to say . . . they’re certainly coming . . . they’ll get her
e any minute . . . God give me strength to stand face to face with them . . .”
When the sound of Mash Qasem’s footsteps could be heard in the yard, Dear Uncle opened his eyes a little and asked in a quavering voice, “Have they come? . . . Have they come?”
But when he saw Mash Qasem he was disappointed once again, and his head fell to one side. Dr. Naser al-Hokama had gone out of the house. My father sent Mash Qasem after the heart doctor who had looked after him for a while.
Asadollah Mirza was looking at Dear Uncle with fear and obvious anxiety and was massaging his hands and feet.
After a few minutes the sound of firm, regular footsteps came in from the yard. Dear Uncle seemed to collect the last remnants of his strength together to lift his head up and ask in a weak voice, “Have they come? . . . Have they come? . . . Lift me up . . . surely they’ve come.”
Asadollah Mirza put his arm beneath Dear Uncle’s shoulders and lifted him into a sitting position. The door to the room opened and I stood stock-still with astonishment.
An English soldier, holding the Union Jack in his left hand, stepped into the room. He clicked his heels together, brought his hand up to the brim of his cap in a military salute and in broken Persian announced to Dear Uncle, “Excuse me. You must forgive me . . . but I is representative . . . I must arresting you . . . I ask you did not resist!”
Dear Uncle’s faint, lifeless eyes glittered. With difficulty he raised his right hand to his forehead in a military salute, and said in a barely audible voice, “I gave orders . . . I . . . I gave orders . . . that they shouldn’t resist . . . great commander . . . a great commander is at your service.”
And with celestial serenity he closed his eyes.
Asadollah Mirza laid him back on the bed and said, “I think you’d better rest now.”
My father took Dear Uncle’s pulse and said anxiously, “His pulse is weak and irregular . . . God, what’s keeping that doctor . . . it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I phoned Dr. Seyed Taqi Khan . . .” And he went off to the telephone.
I was staring dumbfounded at the English soldier when I realized that Asadollah Mirza had signalled to him with his eyes that he leave the room; as he left, Asadollah Mirza went after him.
I had understood nothing of what was going on. I peeped into the hallway and heard Asadollah Mirza’s and the English soldier’s conversation. Asadollah Mirza was trying to put a bank note into his hand but the Englishman was protesting in a thick Armenian accent, “Your excellency, I can’t do it . . . you’ve been really good to me . . . you gave me the money for this shirt and trousers and the cap . . .”
“Please, Mr. Ardavas, I insist. It’s nothing . . . this is the money for the English flag. Don’t be so difficult!”
“I painted the flag on a bit of cloth myself. I really can’t take it, on your brother’s soul.”
“For my sake, Barun Ardavas!”
“On your own soul, it’s not possible . . . you want me to do you a little favor and I’m to take money for it?”
“I said for my sake! . . . So you aren’t my friend?”
“What do you mean, you’ve been really good to me . . . I didn’t do anything. I just put this shirt and trousers on in the yard and came up and said a couple of words!”
“Ardavas, I’ll get angry, you know.”
“Well, if you’re ordering me to, all right. But really I’m ashamed to . . .”
“Bravo! . . . but this matter’s to stay between us, all right? Put your own clothes on and be off till, God willing, we meet again!”
“Very good of you, your excellency . . . goodbye.”
My father appeared in the doorway at this moment and stood there listening to them. The Armenian quickly changed his khaki shirt and trousers for civilian clothes, picked up the uniform and the English flag, and went on his way.
My father shook his head and said, “Well done, your highness! . . . And wherever did you find him? He looked so English I thought you’d hired a real Englishman.”
“This Ardavas works in a café on Lalehzar Avenue . . . for years people have called him Ardavas the Englishman . . . his house is near here. The day before yesterday I thought I’d prepare this last present for the Master . . . How is he?”
“Well, it looks as though he’s sleeping, but his complexion’s not good at all.”
“Anyway, it’s better he should rest a little. Any news of the doctor?”
“There is. I talked to Dr. Seyed Taqi Khan and he said he’ll come right away.”
A few moments later the heart doctor came in with Mash Qasem, and almost immediately Dr. Seyed Taqi Khan also arrived.Dear Uncle was lying unconscious and motionless; when they examined him he showed no reaction. Both doctors gave their opinion that he should be taken immediately to the hospital.
Mash Qasem was more anxious than anyone else. “By all the saints, may God destroy ‘em, everythin’ the master’s suffered’s been because of them.”
Asadollah Mirza angrily said, “Moment, Mash Qasem, don’t start that old song and dance again.”
“No sir, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . If you ask me, I guarantee you they slipped him something that didn’t agree with him.”
Dr. Seyed Taqi Khan was busy closing his medical bag; suddenly he pricked up his ears and said in a thick Tabrizi accent, “What? . . . You said they’d given him something that didn’t agree with him?”
“Well why should I lie? To the grave it’s . . .”
Asadollah Mirza and my father cut him off, “Really, Mash Qasem . . . this is nonsense . . .”
Dr. Seyed Taqi Khan shouted, “Let him say what he has to say! It so happens that I can see symptoms of poisoning in this patient.”
The heart doctor laughed and said, “My dear doctor . . . this patient has been under my supervision for a considerable time . . . he had these same symptoms during all his past heart problems . . .”
Dr. Seyed Taqi Khan was a bad-tempered individual and he said sharply, “It is possible that you know the patient better than I do, but I am a coroner and from morning till night I see a hundred poisonings just like this.”
“You can see a thousand and I would still maintain that such symptoms are normal for a patient suffering from cardiac arrest.”
“I would ask you not to give me lessons in medical science . . . if I see the symptoms of poisoning in a patient I have a duty to report the matter to the relevant authorities, and this I shall do.”
Asadollah Mirza and my father started to protest noisily but Dr. Seyed Taqi Khan would not take back what he had said.
Trying not to lose his self-control, Asadollah Mirza said, “Doctor, how is it that you thought of it just when this simple minded servant here said something? Why hadn’t you noticed the signs of poisoning beforehand? Besides, listen to the rest of what Mash Qasem has to say.”
Then he turned to Mash Qasem. “Mash Qasem, in your opinion, who gave something to the Master that didn’t agree with him?”
“Well now, why should I lie? To the grave it’s ah . . . ah . . . With my own eyes I never saw it. But I’m certain the English slipped the Master something that didn’t agree with him.”
Asadollah Mirza turned to the doctor. “Did you hear that, doctor? Mash Qasem believes that the British Empire has poisoned the Master.”
“Who? . . . the British Empire . . . at all events, this is something that will be clarified in the hospital.”
The heart doctor sneered, “They’ll have to get the opium out of the patient’s stomach and do a medicolegal analysis of it. Of course if it’s English opium, then the English did it and they’ll have to send an executive officer after Churchill!”
Dr. Seyed Taqi Khan gave his colleague a furious look, and if Asadollah Mirza had not started noisily protesting, he would certainly have let loose a flood
of curses against him.
“Moment, moment . . . gentlemen, human decency and your profession require you to consider the patient, and not to quarrel about some trivial matter . . . Mash Qasem! Run and find a taxi so that we can take the Master to the hospital.”
Half an hour later, despite the injection he had been given, Dear Uncle was still unconscious. They transferred him to the car. It was agreed that Mash Qasem immediately go and see uncle colonel in another taxi, and that he ask the colonel to leave the children where they were while he himself came back to town.
Asadollah Mirza gave Mash Qasem his last instructions. “But Mash Qasem, tell him in such a way that he won’t be too worried; tell the colonel that the Master himself has requested that he come back to town. If the colonel’s wife wants to come she can, but it’s not necessary to bring the children.”
The heart doctor set off for the hospital in his own car; the rest of us (including Dr. Seyed Taqi Khan) went in the car in which we had placed Dear Uncle.
It was about noon. I was sitting on a bench in a hallway of the hospital, watching the gradually increasing number of our relatives who were going back and forth there.
They had placed Dear Uncle in an oxygen tent and were allowing no one into his room. The matter of Dear Uncle’s being poisoned, in which Dr. Seyed Taqi Khan had been so interested, had been ruled out at the first examination, and Dr. Seyed Taqi Khan had left the hospital in a sulk.
I thought about Layli, and sometimes the thread of my thoughts led me to hate myself:
If Dear Uncle . . . if, God forbid, Dear Uncle were not to get better . . . How old is Dear Uncle? He himself says a little over sixty but my father says he’s seventy if he’s a day. A seventy-year-old’s an old man! . . . But God forbid . . . God willing, he’ll live a hundred years! . . . But . . . but . . . if he gets better he’ll certainly marry Layli off to Puri . . . I’ll be ruined, and so will Layli! . . . What kind of a thought is this that’s found its way into my brain? Do I want Dear Uncle not to get well? . . . No, no, God forbid . . . O God, may they make Dear Uncle well again . . . but however could I interfere in what God’s doing? . . . Whatever He wills . . . I’d better think of something else . . . By the way, why did Asadollah Mirza tell Mash Qasem not to bring the children? . . . Layli might want to see her father for the last time . . . There I go with that ‘last time’ again! I’m sorry, God, really sorry!
My Uncle Napoleon Page 57