My Father's Notebook

by Kader Abdolah

  I liked the idea of celebrating Christmas and the New Year with my wife’s friend and daughter, because it would add to the festive spirit. We started to decorate the house. As it turned out, we could have left our Christmas tree at home, because the cabin already had one.

  We agreed that if I did the grocery shopping, the women would do the rest, which meant I could work for a few hours every day. I wanted to have the book done before the new century began.

  “Where are you?” my wife called.

  “Here, upstairs.”

  “Come on down. I’m making coffee.”

  I came down.

  “I was looking out the upstairs window,” I said. “The cabin seems to be floating on clouds. There’s grey fog everywhere. I don’t think it’s ever going to lift. What are you lot planning to do?”

  “We haven’t decided yet,” my wife said. “After we’ve unpacked, we might go into town with the children. Do you want to come along?”

  “No, I’d rather stay here. According to the camping guide, there’s a village with a café about three or four miles away. I think I’ll walk there.”

  They decided to take the bus to Leeuwarden.

  I put on my hiking boots, grabbed a writing pad and set off to find the café.

  Although I followed the route given in the guidebook, it came to a dead end at a river, or maybe it was a lake. Anyway, a ferryboat suddenly loomed up out of the mist. A bearded old man slowly steered the boat towards the shore.

  “Get in,” he said in some kind of dialect.

  “Get in? Where are you going?”

  “To the other side.”

  “But I want to go to the café.”

  “Get in!” he said.

  I got in.

  “I thought you could walk all the way,” I said.

  “You can,” he said, “though in that case you should’ve taken a different route.”

  After a few minutes the ferry reached the other side. The ferryman pointed: over there. Through the fog I saw a faint gleam of light.

  It was a quiet village, consisting of two rows of old and not very large houses. In the village square, I saw a café with a Heineken sign. I peeked inside to see if anyone was there. An old man, presumably the owner, was standing behind the bar. Otherwise the room was empty.

  “Are you open?” I called from the doorway.

  “Sure. Come on in!” the owner said.

  I went and sat by a window, so I could look outside.

  “How about a cup of coffee?” I said.

  The café was quiet—a good place to write.

  “Do you need cream and sugar?” the owner asked.

  “Black is fine. No, wait, with cream, please.”

  I took out my pen and notebook and began to write.

  Now that the stencil machine had been safely stowed in the boot of my car, I drove off. How would I be able to get rid of the thing in a busy city like Tehran?

  Actually, considering the danger I was in, I shouldn’t have been driving my own car.

  I wanted to do everything right. Not like a frightened rabbit, but like a freedom fighter who’s reached the end of the road. If I left the stencil machine on the pavement and tiptoed away, I’d not only feel like a coward, but the machine would no doubt wind up in the hands of the secret police. I wanted to avoid that for two reasons. One, they would dust it for fingerprints, and two, they would conclude that we’d abandoned it because we were scared—so scared that we were dumping everything and running away in panic.

  I was of two minds. Deep down, I rejoiced at the prospect of being liberated from the stencil machine, but at the same time I didn’t want to let it go. It seemed as if my life were inextricably bound up with the machine. As long as it was in the boot of my car, I had an anchor. The moment it was gone, however, I would be adrift—a nobody, superfluous.

  No, I refused to throw it away. Someone might need it later on if the party ever decided to start printing again. Why not take it to the salvage yard where I found it?

  I’d have to hurry. It was five-thirty, and I didn’t know what time it closed.

  On the way there, I thought about what I would say. Maybe I wouldn’t say anything, just drag the machine back to the shed where I’d found it. I decided to play it by ear.

  It took me an hour to reach the salvage yard. A light was still on in the office. I parked the car and got out to see if the gate was locked. It was.

  “Is anyone there?” I shouted. No answer.

  I looked to see if there was a back entrance by the shed, but there wasn’t. My only alternative would be to leave the stencil machine at the gate and drive off.

  Just then the office light went out. I waited. A figure emerged from behind the wrecked cars, but I couldn’t tell if it was a guard or an office worker. As he came closer, I could see that it was an old man in a cap—clearly the guard.

  “Good evening,” I called.

  “Good evening,” he said with an Afghan accent. No doubt one of the thousands of Afghan refugees who had fled to our country.

  “Are you looking for someone?”

  “No. A couple of months ago I took a stencil machine out of the shed. I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”

  “No.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t need it any more, so I brought it back, but the gate was locked. I’ve got it out in the car. I live far away, so I’d rather not make another trip. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me put it in the shed.”

  He thought it over.

  “Who let you have the machine?”

  “A friend of mine arranged it. He said I could just take it out of the shed. It’s an old machine that should actually be scrapped. That’s why I’ve brought it back.”

  “OK, go and get it. But you can’t take it to the shed—it’s too dark back there. Just put it down here. I’ll bring it to the shed myself tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  I hurriedly opened the trunk, hauled out the stencil machine and lowered it to the ground. Then I dragged it in its blanket over to the gate and left it just inside.

  “More coffee?” the café owner asked.

  “Yes, thanks. It’s good coffee.”

  “Are you keeping a journal?”

  “No. Yes. I mean, I suppose it’s a kind of journal.”

  “You write fast. Have you lived in Holland for long?”

  “I may write fast, but I make lots of mistakes. When I go back home, I’ll have to go through it all again and correct it.”

  “Your Dutch is good. Where do you come from?”

  “Iran. Persia.”

  “No kidding! Look, I’ve got Persian carpets on my tables. Not real ones, of course, but nice all the same. They brighten up the place, make it look smarter. Well, I won’t disturb you any more. I expect you’re staying at the campground.”

  “Yes, I’m here with my family.”

  The fog had lifted. The villagers were walking down the main street in festive clothes. A group of older men, about my father’s age, came into the café. They greeted the owner, then started talking loudly to each other in dialect. It made the café a lot more cheerful.

  The owner brought me a fresh cup of coffee and said, “I suppose you won’t be able to write any more with all the—”

  “No problem. I’ll manage.”

  Now that I’d disposed of the stencil machine, my instructions were to park the car somewhere and abandon it.

  You agree to follow instructions like these without realising you might actually have to carry them out one day.

  I had to do as I was told. Otherwise I could endanger the lives of others. I knew a lot about the party and I knew where a number of my comrades lived. If I were arrested, the police would drag the information out of me, bit by bit. This was no time for hesitation. A deal was a deal. I had to dump the car.

  Without a car, though, how was I going to get around? And what were my next instructions?

  As I drove through the da
rkness, I had a brilliant idea: I could park the car at my father’s house. No, that was no good. It might sit there for months. What about behind the shop? There was a tiny plot of land where nobody ever went. It would be perfectly normal for a car to be parked there for a long time. Spare parts were so hard to find during the war that people often left their broken-down cars outside their homes.

  I turned the car around and took the road to Senejan. I’d arrive in the middle of the night, which was good, because my father would be at home and the streets would be deserted.

  • • •

  It was almost quarter to one when I reached the city. I drove to my old neighbourhood. I saw a dog sniffing at a dustbin, but when he heard the car, he crept back into the darkness. I drove past my parents’ house. The curtains were drawn as usual, but the lights were on. Were they still awake? Tina’s silhouette suddenly moved across the curtains. She’s up, I thought. What’s going on? I felt a sudden urge to stop, but the house was off-limits. Whatever was going on behind the curtains was no longer my concern. And yet, I thought, it ought to be possible to drop in for a moment, say hello and leave.

  I parked the car and was just about to get out when I saw my father’s silhouette on the curtains. He threw up his hands and disappeared.

  I had no right to know what was happening in their lives. I’d better go—I had come here for another reason. I started the car and drove to my father’s shop.

  I was used to seeing a light on in the window. This time it was dark. I drove slowly past the shop, then turned right at the corner so I could park behind it. Because I didn’t want to wake the neighbours, I stopped, switched off the engine, got out and tried to push the car the rest of the way. It wasn’t easy, but I finally managed to push it under an old tree. Suddenly there was a flicker of light in the window of the lean-to where we’d once hid Jamileh.

  I thought I must be mistaken, that my imagination was playing tricks on me.

  I took out the vehicle registration papers and locked the car doors. What should I do with the papers and the key? I probably wouldn’t need them for a long time. Maybe never. I went over to the lean-to so I could slide the key and the papers through a crack in the window frame.

  Tomorrow, when my father saw the car behind the shop, he’d realise what had happened. Eventually he’d also find the key and the vehicle registration papers in his lean-to.

  The papers slipped easily through the crack, but the key wouldn’t fit. Since the window frame was rotten, I gouged out a hole with the key, then pushed it through. As the key fell to the ground, I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure inside. “Don’t worry,” I whispered quickly, to calm whoever it was. “It’s OK. Everything’s all right.”

  Who could it be? Golden Bell? A friend of hers? Did my father know? I had no idea and it was none of my business. I was the stranger here. I needed to disappear, to get away from my father’s shop.

  I’d left my flat, got rid of the stencil machine, and abandoned the car. Next I had to dispose of myself. I’d never expected to be in a situation like this. Since I realised that the police might pick me up if I headed into town, I started walking in the opposite direction.

  An hour’s walk put the city behind me. I saw the mountains, then the snowy peak of Saffron Mountain. I felt like an apple that had fallen from the bough. It could never be put back. My only option was to follow the path to the other side of Saffron Mountain. Flee my country? I’d never given it a moment’s thought.

  How could I leave my father, my mother and my sisters? I hadn’t even said goodbye to my wife and daughter. No, the least I could do was to call Safa and let her know I’d be gone for a few months—maybe more, maybe less.

  I retraced my steps to my old neighbourhood, where there was a phone box. I dialled the number of Safa’s grandmother. My wife would know immediately that it was me. Who else would call in the middle of the night? She picked up the phone after only a few rings.

  “Hi, it’s me,” I said hurriedly. “How are you? How’s Nilufar? Listen, I’ve only got a couple of coins. I just wanted to let you know that I’m going away for a while.”

  “Going away?” she said sleepily. “For how long? Where?”

  “I don’t know. But I have to go. I’ll let you know as soon as I’m safe. Say hello to Grandma for me. I love you.”

  “Me, too. Good luck.”

  Reality was cruel. We had to keep the conversation short—she knew that. You had to put your emotions on hold. Political activists weren’t allowed to make long phone calls. You were supposed to deliver your message in a few short words, then hang up.

  I always thought that at such a moment my wife would say, “Wait, you can’t just leave us like this! OK, I suppose I have only myself to blame, since you made your choice years ago. I should have known you’d sacrifice me so you could follow your dream!”

  But she didn’t say anything of the kind. To my surprise, she was relieved that I was going. She must have instinctively felt that the path to Saffron Mountain was the only path to her liberation as well.

  As I was leaving the phone box, I saw people walking down the street and realised that it was Friday.

  My father, like all good Muslims, always went to the bathhouse before sunrise and then to Friday prayers in the mosque. It was a ritual he’d followed his entire life. When I was little, I used to go with him. He woke me every Friday morning and handed me his towel and various toiletries in a toilet bag. Then he set off at a brisk pace, with me following sleepily behind.

  I looked at my watch. The sun would rise in half an hour. If I hurried, I could catch him somewhere between the bathhouse and the mosque. I headed for the mosque. It was no longer dangerous to walk or even run through the dark city, since everyone would think you were hurrying to prayers.

  • • •

  I went into the mosque along with the other men and peeked through the window of the prayer room to see if my father had arrived. He hadn’t. So I turned and walked back in the direction of the bathhouse.

  What if today, of all days, he wasn’t coming to the mosque? What if whatever was going on in our house had kept him away?

  As I came out of the side street, I suddenly saw his silhouette and recognised his footsteps. He walked with a kind of shuffle, especially now that he was old.

  I ducked out of sight. He passed me by, lost in thought. I trailed after him, then gently tapped him on the shoulder. He turned. “Salaam,” I signed.

  He looked at me in surprise.

  “What are you doing here?” he signed back. “Have you been to the shop?”

  “I need to talk to you,” I signed. “I’ve come to say goodbye.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going away.”

  “Where?”

  “To Saffron Mountain. And then to the other side.”

  “The other side?”

  He was silent. He knew what that meant. When he was a child, he used to see people sneaking through the almond grove in the dark and asking for food on their way to the other side. He’d also seen the gendarmes arrest numerous men and women, and watched as they were handcuffed, pushed into jeeps and driven away.

  “When are you leaving?” he signed.

  “Soon, before the sun comes up.”

  “But you don’t have any food. Wait, I’ll go and get you some bread.” He hurried off towards the bakery, which was always open early on Fridays.

  Did my father realise what it meant to flee one’s country? I hadn’t expected him to react so calmly. Perhaps he was going to the bakery to give himself time to think.

  He came back with a long flat bread, which he folded in half like a newspaper and wrapped in a handkerchief before handing it to me. “Here, you’ll need this.”

  We walked out of the city and headed towards the mountains.

  In the glow of a streetlamp I told him briefly what had happened: that my comrades had been arrested and that the secret police would catch me if I didn’t leave. I explained that I�
�d left my car under the tree behind his shop and shoved the key and the vehicle registration papers through the window of his lean-to. I watched his face to see if he knew that someone was in the lean-to. There was no reaction.

  I wanted to ask him about it, but decided not to. If he knew, he could have told me, and otherwise it was probably Golden Bell’s secret, in which case he didn’t need to know. So I let the matter drop.

  The sun would soon be up and for the first time ever my father would miss his Friday prayers.

  “Aren’t you going to the mosque?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied.

  I realised then that he understood what my going away meant.

  We came to the cemetery, the one the mothers went to early in the morning. They arrived with carpets under their arms to visit the graves of their executed sons and daughters.

  In those days, many of the young men and women who opposed the mullahs were being executed. At first the families weren’t allowed to bury their children in a cemetery. Later on, this rule was changed, but the families were forbidden to visit the graves, which is why the mothers stole through the darkness to the cemetery on Friday mornings.

  I walked hesitantly beside my father to the grave of my recently executed cousin and friend Jawad. I knelt by his grave and tapped his headstone with a pebble to wake him up. “Good morning, Jawad,” I said. “I’m going away.”

  The sun rose above Saffron Mountain. My father took off his coat.

  “Here, take it. It’s cold on the other side of the mountain,” he signed.

  “No, you keep it, or else you’ll catch cold,” I signed back. He refused.

  To this day I still have his coat—his worn black coat—in my wardrobe.

  He pointed towards the mountains. “You know the way. You won’t have any trouble getting to the top of Saffron Mountain. When you get to the other side, keep moving, because the sun never shines on that side in the afternoon and the wind blows hard at night.