My Father's Notebook

by Kader Abdolah

  No, the women of the family weren’t able to find a wife for Aga Akbar, either.

  Only one more door was open to them. The door to the house of Zeinab Khatun, Saffron Mountain’s aging matchmaker. She always had a ready supply of brides.

  Zeinab would be sure to find a good one for Akbar, because she was an opium addict. The women in the family merely had to take her a roll of Kazem Khan’s yellow opium and she would arrange the whole thing.

  Zeinab lived outside the village, in a house at the foot of the mountain. Her customers were usually single men in search of a wife. “Zeinab Khatun, have you got a girl for me? A virtuous woman who can bear me healthy children?”

  “No, I don’t have a girl—or a woman—for you, virtuous or otherwise. I know you—you’re a wife-beater. I still haven’t forgotten the last one. Get out of here, go ask your mother to find you a wife.”

  “Why don’t we step inside? I’ve brought you half a roll of yellow opium. Now what do you have to say?”

  “Come right in. You need to smile more often and remember to shave. With that stubble of yours and those awful yellow teeth, I’ll never be able to find you a wife.”

  Sometimes an elderly mother knocked on her door. “I’m old now, Zeinab Khatun, and I don’t have any grandchildren. Do something for my son. I’ll give you a pretty chador, a real one from Mecca.”

  “People promise me all kinds of things, but as soon as their sons have a wife, they disappear. Bring me the chador first. In the meantime, I’ll think it over. It won’t be easy, you know. Few women want to marry a man who drools. But I’ll find someone for your son. If I die tonight, I’d hate to be carried to my grave in my old, worn-out chador. So go and get it. I’ll wait.”

  The men of the family were opposed to the plan. But the women stuck a roll of opium into the bag of an elderly aunt, put on their chadors and went to Zeinab’s house.

  The men thought it was beneath the family’s dignity to ask the matchmaker for a bride. Of course, they wanted Akbar to have a wife. But what they really wanted for him was a son. An Ishmael who would bear Akbar’s burden.

  Since they didn’t want the child’s mother to be a prostitute, they resigned themselves to letting the women use a matchmaker.

  Giggling, the women knocked on Zeinab’s door.

  “Welcome! Please sit down.”

  While they were still in the hall, the elderly aunt awkwardly pressed the opium into Zeinab’s hands. “I don’t know the first thing about this,” she said. “It’s from Kazem Khan.”

  She was impatient. “I won’t beat around the bush, Zeinab Khatun. We’re looking for a good girl, a sensible woman, for our Akbar. That’s all there is to it. Do you have one for us or not?”

  The women laughed. They got a kick out of the elderly aunt.

  “Do I have one?” said the experienced Zeinab Khatun. “I’ll find one for you, even if I have to scour this entire mountain. If I can’t find a bride for Aga Akbar, who can I find one for? Sit down. Let’s drink some tea first.”

  She brought in a tray with glasses and a teapot. “Let me think. A good girl, a sensible woman. Yes, I know of one. She’s very pretty, but—”

  Auntie cut her off. “No buts! I don’t want half a woman for my nephew. I want a whole one, with all her working parts in order.”

  “Allah, Allah, why don’t you let me finish? God will be angry to hear us talking about one of His creations with such disrespect. The woman I’m referring to is beautiful and in perfect health. It’s just that one leg is shorter than the other.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter, as long as she can walk,” the women said.

  “Walk? Can she walk? She leaps like a gazelle. But all right, I can’t ask God why He made one leg shorter than the other. He must have had His reasons. Still, I have another woman, but she’s slightly deaf.”

  “No, we don’t want a deaf woman for Akbar,” said the elderly aunt.

  “She’s not deaf, just a little hard of hearing. She’s good and she’s also beautiful, trust me. Come to think of it, this one’s even better than the other one. Aga Akbar needs a wife who can walk, who can stand firmly on her own two feet. It doesn’t matter if she’s deaf. Aga Akbar won’t be talking to her anyway.”

  “No, Akbar won’t, but their children will.”

  “Good heavens, what am I hearing tonight! How can you say such things when you have a deaf-mute in your home? God will be angry. All right, I have another woman. She has a beautiful face, beautiful arms, a neck the colour of milk, a broad pelvis and firm buttocks. Take this woman. God will be pleased with your choice.”

  The next day the women went to admire Aga Akbar’s future bride. She lived in another village on Saffron Mountain. It was a short visit. Zeinab Khatun was right—the girl was beautiful. But she looked a bit ill.

  “A bit ill?” said the matchmaker. “Maybe she had a slight cold. Or maybe it’s that time of the month, you know what I mean, don’t you, ladies? Don’t worry, s he’ll be as right as rain by the time the wedding rolls around.”

  She dazzled them with her words and sent them home happy.

  A week later, as twilight fell, the men escorted the bridegroom from the village bathhouse to his home.

  Aga Akbar looked strong and healthy in his suit. The blind Sayyid Shoja was his best man. He sat on a horse with Jafar the Spider in front of him, holding the reins. They climbed the hill to the house, where the women were to bring the bride and seven mules.

  Everyone stood around outside, waiting and watching for the procession.

  Before long, seven mules came into sight. The women let out cries of joy and a group of local musicians began to play. Aga Akbar helped his bride to dismount. He offered her his arm and escorted her, as tradition dictated, to the courtyard. Then he shut the door.

  The only person who knows exactly what took place behind those closed doors was the old woman who was hiding in the bridal chamber so she could later testify that the marriage had been consummated.

  As soon as the groom disappeared with his bride, the guests left. The old men sat around Kazem Khan’s and smoked until the old woman came and announced, “It’s over. He did it!”

  The men all shouted in chorus, “Allahom salla ’ala Mohammad wa ahl-e Mohammad [Peace be upon Muhammad and all of his descendants].”

  Since Ishmael was Aga Akbar’s son, he was allowed to hear the story in greater detail. By then, several older family members, including Kazem Khan, had died. On one of his visits to Saffron Mountain, his elderly aunt invited him in.

  How old had he been? Fifteen? Sixteen? At that time, he’d been making frequent visits to his father’s village. He’d spent the entire summer there, in his family’s summerhouse. He wanted to know more about his father’s past.

  “Ishmael, my boy,” his elderly aunt said as he stepped into the hall, “give me your hand. Come in, my boy.”

  She squeezed his hand and stared at him with unseeing eyes, as she expressed her admiration for her nephew’s son by uttering God’s words, “Fa tabaraka Allah al-husn al-khaleqan [And God was pleased with the beauty of the one he had created].” (According to the Holy Book, God fell in love with his own creation.)

  Ishmael was not just a son, but the son the whole family had been waiting for. They’d prayed that he would be big and healthy enough for his father to lean on. He’d been a godsend, exactly what everyone had been hoping for. Surely it had been Allah’s will.

  Auntie took Ishmael into the courtyard.

  “Before I die, I have something to tell you about your father’s wedding. Come, let’s and go and sit over there. I’ve spread out a carpet in the shade of the old walnut tree.”

  She leaned back against the trunk and said, “What happened is this, my boy. I stuck a roll of yellow opium in my bag and went off to the matchmaker’s with the other women to find a wife for your father. That was wrong. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Why not?”

  “We failed to carry out the job properly,
which is why we were punished by God.”

  “Punished! Why?”

  “Because we forgot that God was watching over your father. We insisted that he get married. We were behaving as if we didn’t believe in God, as if we didn’t trust Him, as if He had forsaken your father. And we were punished for that reason.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “The women escorted the bride and her seven mules from the village of Saruq to your father’s house. I placed her hand in your father’s hand and led them to the bedroom. I was the woman who was hiding behind the curtains.”

  “Hiding behind the curtains?”

  “It was the custom back then. I was supposed to watch in secret and see if everything went all right. To see if the woman … Oh, never mind, my boy. If only someone else had stood behind those curtains instead of me!

  “I listened and sensed that something was wrong. Though I didn’t know what the problem was, I had the feeling that God was somehow displeased.

  “Your father went to bed with his bride. He was strong, he had such broad shoulders. I could hear him, but not her. No movement, no words, not even a sigh, a moan, a cry of pain, nothing, absolutely nothing.

  “But the marriage had been consummated, so I tiptoed out and went over to the other house, where I signalled to Kazem Khan that the celebration could begin.

  “Everyone cheered, everyone smoked and ate, and we celebrated for seven days. But we knew that God was displeased with us. And that was my fault.

  “I was the oldest, I should have known better. I should have kept my eyes open and bided my time. I should have told everyone not to be in such a hurry.”

  “How come?”

  “I was worried. I don’t know why. I hadn’t seen any sign of the bride. After all, she’s supposed to show herself. To stand by the window or smile or open the curtains. But no, she didn’t do a thing.”

  “Why are you telling me all of this? Are you talking about my mother?”

  “No, my boy. Let me finish. On the seventh night, your father went to bed with his bride as usual. I was asleep in another room, since I was supposed to stay near them for the first seven nights. In the middle of the night, I heard loud footsteps. Your father burst into the room. It was dark, so I couldn’t see his face. He uttered a few choked sounds. I didn’t know what he was trying to say, but I knew it was serious. I got out of bed and led your father into the courtyard, into the moonlight. What’s happening? ‘Cold,’ he gestured. ‘The bride is cold.’ I raced into the bedroom and held up the oil lamp so I could see her face. She was as cold as marble, my boy. She was dead.”

  “Really?” Ishmael said in surprise. “So my mother wasn’t Father’s first wife?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t anyone ever tell me this?”

  “I’m telling you now, my boy. There was no point in telling you before.”

  Years later, Ishmael came home one night from Tehran and said to his father, “Come! I want to show you something.” He took a picture of a young woman out of his bag and handed it to Aga Akbar.

  “Who is she?” his father signed.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” Ishmael said, “but I might marry her some day.”

  Aga Akbar studied the picture. He smiled and gestured: “Very pretty. But be careful! Check her out. Listen to her lungs. Make sure they’re working all right, make sure she breathes properly. I, I can’t hear, but you can, you have good ears. Healthy lungs are important.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve listened. She has healthy lungs.”

  “And her chest? Does she have pain in her chest?”

  “No, her chest is fine, there’s no pain.”

  “Her arms?”

  “Fine.”

  His father smiled. “Check out her stomach, too.”

  That evening was the first time Aga Akbar had ever talked to Ishmael about his first wife. He told him that the bride had had aches and pains all over. She’d had some kind of disease in her chest, in her lungs. He still didn’t know exactly what. “A woman’s breasts should feel warm, my boy, not cold. No, they should never feel cold.”

  The Well

  Persians are always waiting for someone.

  In Persian songs, they sing about the Messiah,

  the one who will come and set them free.

  They wait in their poetry. They wait in their stories.

  But in this chapter, the one they wait for is in a well.

  If you face the cave, you can see Saffron Mountain’s peak to the right and a long range of brownish-yellow mountains to the left. There’s also an odd-looking spot that immediately catches your eye. Particularly if this is the first time you’ve climbed Saffron Mountain, you’ll notice it the moment you look in that direction.

  It’s almost impossible to reach this spot. If you’re standing beneath it, the sun is so bright that all you can see is a craggy rock face. Rain, snow and frost have given it a miraculous shape. “Miraculous” and “sacred” are the words you automatically associate with this spot. At the bottom of this mysterious rock face is a natural well, a deep depression probably created by an erupting volcano.

  This well is of special significance to Muslims.

  For centuries, Shiite Muslims have been waiting for a Messiah, for the Mahdi, since he is a naji, a liberator. On this point, the Shiites differ greatly from the Sunnis. The Shiites believe that the Prophet Muhammad was followed by twelve imams. The twelfth successor—and, according to the Shiites, the last of the pure ones—was called Mahdi. To be precise, he was called Mahdi ibn Hassan Askari.

  Mahdi was the son of Hassan, and Hassan was the son of Hadi, and Hadi the son of Taqi, Taqi the son of Reza, Reza the son of Kazem, Kazem the son of Sadeq, Sadeq the son of Baqir, Baqir the son of Zayn al-’Abidin, Zayn al-’Abidin the son of Hussein, Hussein the brother of Hassan, and Hassan the son of Ali. And Ali was the son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad.

  Fourteen centuries ago, Muhammad called his followers together after a great victory. According to tradition, Muhammad stood on a camel, lifted his son-in-law Ali by the belt and cried, “Whoever loves me, must also love Ali. Ali is my soul, my spirit and my successor.”

  The Sunnis think the Persians made this story up. That’s why the Persians and the Arabs are always squabbling and why there’s constant war and bloodshed.

  Ali himself was killed with a sword while praying in the mosque.

  His son and successor Hassan was kept under house arrest for the rest of his life. Hussein, the third successor, was beheaded. His head was stuck on a pole and displayed on the town gate. Zayn al-’Abidin, the fourth successor, lived a life of seclusion. Baqir recorded large numbers of traditions. Sadeq had his freedom severely curtailed: he wasn’t allowed to show himself in public during the day, or to walk past a mosque. Kazem died in prison. Reza was poisoned by purple grapes. His grave has become one of the holiest places in Iran.

  Little is known about Hassan, the eleventh successor. But Mahdi, the twelfth and last successor, escaped an attempt on his life and sought refuge in Persia.

  Since then Mahdi has occupied a special place in the hearts, as well as in the literature and religion, of the Persians.

  The following story cannot be found in the Holy Book, or in any other book, and yet the villagers on Saffron Mountain believe it and tell it to their children:

  The night the Arabs tried to kill Mahdi, he fled to our country, where the majority of his followers lived.

  He sought refuge in the east, which is where we live.

  He climbed up our mountain—first on horseback, then on a mule and finally on foot—until he reached the cave. There he spent several nights.

  If you take an oil lamp and go into the cave, all the way to the very back, you will still see, even today, the ashes of his fire.

  Mahdi wanted to stay in the cave even longer, but the Arabs fol lowing him had managed to track him down.

  So he climbed even higher, until he reached that miraculous rock face. Ther
e he realised that he was going to be Muhammad’s last successor and that he had to hide in the well and wait until he was called.

  Many centuries have gone by since then. He’s still waiting in the well. In the well of Mahdi ibn Hassan Askari.

  Thus it became a sacred place.

  Every year thousands of pilgrims climbed up Saffron Mountain. They rode mules halfway up the mountain, to about 8,000 feet. There they spread their carpets out on the rocks and sat down, drank some tea, cooked some food and talked until deep into the night. The moment the moon went down behind the mountain peak, they all fell silent. In that great silence, they stared at the sacred well until a wondrous light struck the rock face, a light that seemed to come from a lamp inside the well. It shone briefly, then disappeared. The watching pilgrims all knelt in prayer.

  The pilgrims believed the story and told each other that the light was the reflection of the oil lamp by which Mahdi read his book.

  Yes, the Messiah sat in the well, reading and waiting for the day when he would be allowed to leave.

  The well itself was inaccessible to ordinary mortals. It was also off-limits to foreigners, especially those who wanted to climb up to it with ropes and spikes.

  Some of the villagers were able to reach it by jumping from ledge to ledge on the narrow mountain paths like nimble-footed mountain goats. Only a handful of the men in Saffron Village had ever accomplished this feat. Aga Akbar was one of them.

  When Aga Akbar was little, his mother often talked about Mahdi.

  “Does he really live in the well?” he asked her.

  “Yes, he really does. God is in the sky and the holy man is in the well.”

  “Have you seen him in there?”