The Mecca of the Universe could not contain his delight. Unexpectedly, he jumped from his seat and embraced the late Sardar Azhdar and kissed his cheeks. He gave him a hat wound around with a scarf, a cashmere cloak, curly-toed shoes, and a robe of honor. The Mecca of the Universe made all the members of the Humanity Society envious. They started ridiculing the late Sardar Azhdar, saying he wasn’t worth the smallest fingernail of the stupidest student of Mirza Malkam Khan. Then they invited him to repeat his magic show in a cabinet meeting. The old man was over eighty. He didn’t catch the scent of trouble. He didn’t know they’d rubbed soap on the soles of his feet and dampened his know-how, his magic skills.
Aping Mirza Malkam Khan, he came one hour later than the appointed time. All the ministers took their watches from their vest pockets and showed them to the late Sardar Azhdar, asking the reason for his delay. The late Sardar Azhdar, swollen with pride and haughtiness, smiled contemptuously and said that there was no delay. He said it was better for the gentlemen to toss their watches into a toilet and instead buy a Lari rooster to wake them every dawn for morning prayers with its cockle-doodle-doo. To demonstrate his claim, he threw all the hapless watches into the famous sugar pouch and attacked them with the sugar hammer. He hit them without ceasing. When he had finished the job, he used every trick and skill he knew for a full three hours, trying to reassemble the watches. But each time he opened the sugar pouch, sweat covered his forehead as he saw all those broken bits of glass, those bent and crooked gears and loose springs. He was about to collapse when the prime minister, the Lord Amin o Soltan, set His Excellency on his donkey with the help of the footmen. They put the order of removal from office underneath his arm and sent him home.
A few years later, the fall of Vosugh el Doleh’s Cabinet added insult to injury, and the late Sardar Azhdar never set foot outside his house again. He also stopped reading the books by Flammarion and summoning the spirits, and he did no work. But four days before his death, he was struck again by the urge to stage his magic shows and jugglery. He took the notorious sugar hammer from under his mattress and went running to the orangery. He found the statue of His Majesty which he had set in front of the rose garden many years before. With his sugar hammer, he broke it to pieces. When he had finished, he threw the sugar hammer in the middle of the rose garden and went straight to his bed. He pulled the edge of the quilt over his nose, and until Thursday, which was the day of his passing, he didn’t say a word to anyone.
In the dark, I realized that I had arrived in front of my Khan Brother Zia’s room. They had sealed it, just as they had sealed the room of Homayundokht, God forgive her soul. In the hundred years since the time of the Martyred Shah, it had become a tradition for our family to seal the rooms of those among us who were unfulfilled prisoners of the earth — those who, to quote Agha Ass Dass Dolah, had “untimely hid their faces behind the veil of dust.” The glass panes in the door of my brother’s room were dark and opaque. Nothing inside was visible. I put my hand on the door and got a surprise. The door was open. They had broken the seal. Surely this was by order of my Khan Papa Doctor. It was impossible to break the seals of those rooms without his permission. Maybe he wanted to let me know indirectly that he was allowing me inside his private life. Maybe he wanted to make a confidant of me, just for himself.
When I entered the room of my Khan Brother Zia, a strange smell hit my nose — a smell like an old water house, or a pool that had recently been drained. It was as though someone you couldn’t see was living there. I turned on the light. The closet door was half open. Inside, my Khan Brother Zia had thumbtacked a picture of himself and Mademoiselle Sonia. Mademoiselle Sonia wore her canary-yellow cloak. My Khan Brother Zia had on his military officer’s uniform — no doubt the same uniform whose price he had extracted from my Khan Papa Doctor. What a production he had made over that uniform! No matter how he approached the subject, my Khan Papa Doctor’s answer was always the same: “What do you want from me, Zia? Any sane and sensible person would first go through compulsory military service and then think of buying an officer’s uniform.”
My Khan Brother Zia was furious. He ran to the library. He brought Khan Papa Doctor’s money box to the veranda, but try as he would, he couldn’t open the lock. Then, somehow, he found the sugar hammer of the late Sardar Azhdar, and he flung himself at the box with that. Bronze powder and black enamel flew everywhere, but the lid wouldn’t open. He went to the library and came back with the pearl-handled revolver. He held the revolver to my Khan Papa Doctor’s belly and forced him to unlock the box. Without a trace of embarrassment or shame, he took a fistful of bills from the box and stuffed them into his pocket. When he was through, he hit the street and didn’t even shut the door behind him. My Khan Papa Doctor was so angry that if you’d stuck him with a knife he wouldn’t have bled.
The officer’s uniform is very becoming to my Khan Brother Zia. It suits his tall body. He rests his elbow on Mademoiselle Sonia’s shoulder and holds his officers hat between his fingers. He is smiling his famous smile at the camera. Behind them, the statue of the Angel of Liberty is stretching toward the sky, and behind that the statue of Baharestan.
As I opened his desk drawer, I saw his old album. Pictures of his favorite movie stars from his high school days were pasted into it — Ingrid Bergman, Greer Garson, Gregory Peck. In the middle of the album was another picture of Mademoiselle Sonia that I hadn’t seen before. She is wearing a knitted angora blouse. She turns her head over the curve of her shoulder and smiles a lovely, self-possessed smile. Her face shines with cleanliness, as though she’s just come from her bath. Underneath this picture, my Khan Brother Zia had written in his broken handwriting:
To you who trust and love me,
To you who are pure and honorable,
To you, the guest of my empty days.
Zia
The pictures on the last four pages had been removed. In their places, dark gray squares were left like a row of vacant windows open to the autumn sky. At the bottom of the final page, my Khan Brother Zia had scrawled a verse from Rumi:
Is there anyone insane enough not to go insane?
Anyone who sees the head constable and doesn’t
duck back in his house?
When I first saw my Khan Brother Zia in Mademoiselle Sonia’s sports car I couldn’t believe it. I said, That’s not my Khan Brother Zia. It’s some stranger who wants to mold himself in my brother’s image. I couldn’t believe that, after all the critical and sarcastic remarks the others had made, he would pick up Mademoiselle Sonia and bring her to our house for the New Year’s visit. For a full three months my Bee Bee and Khan Papa Doctor had been talking about him every night at dinner. My Bee Bee begged and insisted, but my Khan Papa Doctor stood his ground. He swore he wouldn’t let Mademoiselle Sonia enter our house.
“That little Polish slut isn’t worthy of us. She’s ten years older than that thick-necked boy. A Heshmat Nezami could never get along with an older wife, especially Zia, who doesn’t even kowtow to God.”
My Bee Bee said, “Doctor, all this mischief is just because he’s young and without a wife. He doesn’t have anyone to look after him, to pull him together.”
My Khan Papa Doctor said, “Miss Asiah, try to imagine that this boy is basically not ours, that we never had him to begin with. Imagine that there is no Zia, that he has perished.”
My Bee Bee said, “Doctor, I beg you in the name of my ancestor the Prophet, stop talking this way. It’s unlucky.”
I was petrified. What had happened? What incident had taken place? Why didn’t Mademoiselle Sonia leave my Khan Brother Zia alone?
Mademoiselle Sonia was sitting behind the wheel, and it was she who drove the sports car down the narrow alley. She drove as slowly as if she were conveying a bride. As they passed me. Mademoiselle Sonia’s perfume filled the air and a few men came out of the grocery store to watch. My Khan Brother Zia was unperturbed. Content and in good humor, he puffed on his cigarette. The sunlight sprea
d everywhere and the gentle spring breeze sprinkled the fragrance of tulips and hyacinths.
They parked the sports car in front of our house. My Khan Brother Zia opened the car door for Mademoiselle Sonia. His eyes fell on me and he raised both arms. I rushed toward him and threw myself into his embrace. He lifted me from the ground and spun me around in a full circle. He said, “How’re you doing, silly little Rokni?”
I said, “I’m fine, Khan Brother Zia.”
He showed me to Mademoiselle Sonia and said, “This is that silly little Rokni I told you about.”
Mademoiselle Sonia beamed a beautiful smile that made dimples in her cheeks. I knew who she was immediately, but I was too shy to let on. She herself started the conversation — actually, she opened her purse and took out a Nestles chocolate bar and gave it to me. I accepted it, and she folded her arms and looked her fill at me. My Khan Brother Zia cupped a hand under my artificial beard and asked, “Who are you now?”
I said, “I’m the ex-Prime Minister Sayed Zia. I’ve struck a deal with the British, and with your permission I also plan to make a small and useful coup d’etat.”
He didn’t say a word. He only grinned. He reached into the backseat of the car and brought forth a musical instrument. “Well, Mr. Sayed Zia, this is for you,” he said.
I asked, “What is it?”
“It’s a mandolin.”
He pretended to play it. I said, “I don’t know how to play a mandolin.”
He lost patience. He threw up a hand and said, “It’s an Italian mandolin; playing is easy. Practice till you learn.”
He gave me the mandolin, and I started running through the courtyard. I reached my Bee Bee, who was on the veranda reciting the shopping list to Zahra Soltan. I said, “Bee Bee, Bee Bee!”
She said, “What is it, dear?”
I said, “Here you sit idle, and my Khan Brother Zia has brought Mademoiselle Sonia for the New Year visit.”
My Bee Bee slapped her face and said, “Oh, my dear father! Your Khan Papa Doctor is going to raise havoc. In a moment it will be Resurrection Day.”
My Khan Brother Zia stood in front of the vestibule and yelled, “O Allah! O Allah! Where are the inhabitants of this house?”
Fearfully, my Bee Bee pulled her veil over her head. She said, “Agha Zia, we’re honored by your visit. May there be a hundred such New Years! What a surprise that you remembered us.”
My Khan Brother Zia set a gift box on the ground and hugged my Bee Bee. Then he introduced Mademoiselle Sonia. My Bee Bee stretched an indecisive, clumsy hand from her veil and shook Mademoiselle Sonia’s hand. Like the two ends of a seesaw, they gave each other repeated and exaggerated bows.
As we started toward the library, my heart filled with anxiety. I was praying this wouldn’t end in scandal.
In the library, my Khan Papa Doctor was offering a box of Yazdi baklava to Mrs. Motlagh and her daughter Farideh. With nervous smiles, they declined. Then Mademoiselle Sonia entered. She unbuttoned her cloak, opened it, and took it off. As my Khan Papa Doctor caught sight of her, he set the box of baklava on the table. He put on his reading glasses and examined her. Then his eyes fell on my Khan Brother Zia, who had just come in. A smile appeared on my Khan Papa Doctor’s face. He asked, “Is that you, Zia?”
My Khan Brother Zia put his gift box on the telephone table and approached him. They threw their arms around each other and gave each other long, hearty kisses on both cheeks, as though they’d been awaiting this moment for thirty years without a wink of sleep. Then my Khan Brother Zia turned around and introduced Mademoiselle Sonia. Mademoiselle Sonia gave a sweet, flirtatious smile. She held out her hand for my Khan Papa Doctor. Exactly like a German general, my Khan Papa Doctor clicked his heels, bent, took Mademoiselle Sonia’s fingertips, and kissed the back of her hand. Such a European gesture from him was unprecedented; I couldn’t remember ever seeing him exhibit so much etiquette. We were all astounded. None of us moved from our places. My Khan Papa Doctor broke the silence and said, in the accent of a Tehran hoodlum, “Bonjour, mademoiselle!”
Mademoiselle Sonia tossed her cloak onto the arm of a heavy chair, and with her sweet smile she answered in Persian, “You’re very well, Agha. You are honored, Agha. Me wish you a happy New Year.”
My Khan Papa Doctor was surprised. He raised his eyebrows with delight, he drew himself up on tiptoe and threw admiring glances at Mademoiselle Sonia and all those present. He sat down next to her and started talking in formal Persian. “This person, both on his own behalf and on behalf of the other members of the respected Heshmat Nezami family, sends you and all your respected Polish relatives good wishes for this auspicious, ancient, traditional celebration. From the time of antiquity, it has been a tradition in our country to pay homage to plants, light, and the health of the body. In other words, just as the Western world grants importance to money and material matters, we the ancient Iranians granted, are granting, and will continue to grant importance to religious principles, ethical values, the love of humanity, the care of foreigners
He pronounced each word and stretched it out so Mademoiselle Sonia could understand its significance. At the end of every word, he marked time with his hand for emphasis. He went on and on and on, and his speech grew more and more complicated. It grew so complicated that he couldn’t even pay attention to Mrs. Motlagh and Farideh. Mrs. Motlagh tried not to show her discomfort. With an artificial smile, she observed the conversation as though listening to an invisible radio. Farideh sat sideways on her chair, her back half turned to my Khan Brother Zia, and with a pouting glance she searched the bookshelves for something.
My Khan Papa Doctor suddenly stood up. He rubbed his hands together like a Park Hotel waiter and said, “How about a drink before lunch, in honor of this auspicious and ancient occasion?”
Without waiting for a reply, he offered his arm to Mademoiselle Sonia. Mademoiselle Sonia tossed her golden hair and burst into high-pitched laughter. She took his arm, and with much pomp and pride both of them went to the dais. My Khan Papa Doctor opened the corner cupboard and brought out the late Heshmat Nezam’s special bronze cordial service. He pressed a ramrod in the pitcher, and drink started pouring into crystal glasses from six tiny faucets around the base. He was about to offer one of the glasses to Mademoiselle Sonia when my Khan Brother Zia said, “First let me show you this gift, and then we’ll drink to our health.”
In a low voice, my Khan Papa Doctor said in my Khan Brother Zia’s ear, “I’ve been to Europe and I’m familiar with European customs. The rule is that first you offer drinks.”
In the middle of all this, Mrs. Motlagh and Farideh suddenly stood up and said a hasty good-bye to everyone. My Khan Papa Doctor asked, “Why so early? Stay for lunch.”
Mrs. Motlagh answered, “Some other time, God willing, Mr. Doctor. We have to go other places, too, to pay our New Year visits.”
They left the library in a hurry. With their departure, my Khan Papa Doctor completely forgot about everyone but Mademoiselle Sonia. He lifted two crystal glasses. He gave one to her and kept one for himself. They clinked their glasses and drank to the health of Poland and ancient Iran. Out of joy, he put his hand under Mademoiselle Sonia’s elbow and led her on a tour of the bookshelves and told her things that were impossible to hear from a distance. When they arrived in front of the gramophone of Homayundokht, God forgive her soul, he cranked it up for Mademoiselle Sonia and put on Badi Zadeh’s “Fall is Here” and made her listen with silence and attention. Then, to show that he was mindful of Mademoiselle Sonia’s Western tastes, he changed the disk and put on one of Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald. As soon as the tremulous, screamlike twitters of Jeanette MacDonald began to rise, he grinned and again lifted his glass to the health of ancient Iran and Poland.
My Khan Brother Zia had already opened the gold wrappings of his gift. Inside was a blue velvet box. He took the box to my Khan Papa Doctor and lifted the lid. The box contained a complete set of silver knives, spoons, and forks. My Kh
an Papa Doctor glanced at them in a perfunctory way. He waved his hand and said, “Well, well, God bless you, it’s a delight to my eyes. What a service! What a beautiful service! Give it to Miss Asiah so she can hide it in the closet.”
Then he put his hand on Mademoiselle Sonia’s shoulder. “I myself, before the war, imported a silver service from Germany. You are Polish and have been to Europe, you know better than I. The services they used to make in those days, the days of Germany before the war, were very different from what they make now. The one I imported was made by the Schultz factory, which was regrettably bombed by the Allies later. No doubt you know that whatever was worth anything got bombed by the Allies.”
My Khan Brother Zia dropped his gift box on the table. He took my hand and pulled me out of the library. He said nothing to me, and I wouldn’t have dared ask him anything. Under the warm, dizzying spring sunshine, he sat on the veranda railing and looked out at the flower beds, in which a wide variety of pansies was freshly planted and fertilized. I sat next to him and busied myself with playing the mandolin he had brought me. Through a window I could see my Khan Papa Doctor and Mademoiselle Sonia dancing in the center of the library, and Mademoiselle Sonia’s yellow skirt puffed with each whirl like a canary’s ruff. I was struck dumb; I couldn’t think of a way to start my Khan Brother Zia talking. Finally I took courage and said, “Khan Brother Zia, it’s a long time since I’ve seen you. I’ve missed you very, very much.”
He threw a sidelong glance at me that made me anxious. He took a cigarette from his silver case and lit a match with a stroke of a thumb and carelessly held it to the cigarette. Suddenly he screamed and jumped up like a firecracker and threw the match to the center of the courtyard. He had burned himself, and he was shaking his fingers with pain. It struck me how much he resembled Homayundokht, God forgive her soul — especially as she appeared in the photo taken during the last year of her life.
Strange Times, My Dear Page 17