The House of the Mosque

by Kader Abdolah

  Fakhri Sadat laid her head on his chest and closed her eyes. ‘I don’t want to hear another word about Qodsi,’ she said. ‘Tell me something else, something beautiful, something sweet . . . I don’t mean to complain, but you haven’t been spending much time with me lately. We used to go away on trips more often. You took me to Mashad for a week, and we stayed in that guesthouse by Imam Reza’s tomb. And we went to Isfahan together, but it’s been years since we’ve taken a trip. You go off by yourself and I stay here. Sometimes I think I’ve grown old, and that you—’

  ‘She mentioned something else.’

  ‘You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you? Are you still talking about Qodsi?’

  ‘She said something about the grandmothers. About how the Prophet Khezr had let them down.’

  ‘Who let them down?’ Fakhri said, and sat up in bed.

  ‘The Prophet Khezr! I’m quoting Qodsi, and she must have been quoting someone. My guess is that she overheard a conversation between the grandmothers. I think they have a secret.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘It’s just a feeling I have. Qodsi said, “Khezr didn’t come. It’s the second time he hasn’t come, and that made the grandmothers cry.”’

  Only now did he realise that for years he’d often seen the grandmothers early in the morning, sweeping, but he’d never stopped to think that they might have been doing it secretly.

  Just before dawn, Aqa Jaan slipped out of bed, went over to the window and watched the door to the grandmothers’ bedroom.

  Before long it opened and out came two shadowy figures with brooms.

  He’d spent all night thinking about the grandmothers and coming up with a plan. He now knew how to make their dream come true. He smiled to himself and climbed back into bed.

  Fakhri Sadat’s bare leg caught his eye. He could also see her pomegranate-red pants in the glow of the nightlight. She was right – he had been spending less time with her, and it had been quite a while since they’d taken a trip together. He no longer came back with presents for her either. It had been ages since he’d come home from Damascus with that box of underwear in seven different colours. He crawled under the covers, gave her a hug and began to pull down her pants.

  ‘Not now!’ Fakhri Sadat said sleepily.

  He ignored her as usual and tugged her pants even lower.

  ‘Not now,’ she said again, softly.

  And then she fell silent.

  Eqra!

  A few weeks later, the grandmothers were out sweeping when they heard a strange sound coming from the alley. They peered into the darkness, but didn’t see anything, so they went back to their sweeping. All of a sudden a horse whinnied. Again they peered into the darkness, but their ageing eyes couldn’t make out a thing.

  ‘Did you hear a horse whinny?’ Golbanu said.

  ‘Yes, and I heard hooves too,’ Golebeh said.

  The sounds came closer. The grandmothers clutched each other’s hand, stared into the alley and stood rooted to the spot. A black horse suddenly appeared in the glow of the streetlight. High up in the saddle was an Arab in a white robe. The grandmothers bowed in respectful silence.

  The horseman cried in Arabic, ‘Yaaa ayoohaaaal nabe-ii, waaa salaaaaamooo namazooooo Khezr wa al-Mekka!’

  The grandmothers didn’t know a word of Arabic, but the horseman’s message was clear enough. The words ‘Mecca’ and ‘Khezr’ were all they needed to hear.

  Again they bowed to the Arab on the horse.

  ‘Waaa enne-ii waa jaleha,’ the horseman continued. ‘Waaa enne-ii yaa, Golbanu. Waaa enne-ii yaa, Golebeh!’

  The grandmothers trembled with excitement. The horseman had said their names. Had they heard him correctly?

  ‘Yaaa eyyo haaannabe-ii. Eqraaa esme-ii, Golbanu!’ said the horseman.

  No, they hadn’t been mistaken. He’d clearly said ‘Golbanu!’

  What were they supposed to do?

  Golbanu stepped forward and bowed her head. The horseman took a letter out of his pocket and held it out to her.

  Golbanu approached him hesitantly and accepted the envelope.

  ‘Golebeh!’ the horseman called.

  The other grandmother went up to him and received a white envelope as well.

  ‘Waaa enna lellaah. Waaa Allaaho samaad,’ the horseman cried. Then he tugged the reins, wheeled around and vanished into the darkness.

  Daylight came. The astonished grandmothers were still standing on the path, clutching their envelopes.

  They didn’t dare move. They were afraid they’d been dreaming. But they couldn’t have been, because the crow flew down to the streetlight and cawed as loud as it could.

  Back in their room, the grandmothers locked the door, turned on the light and opened the envelopes. The letters were identical, but they couldn’t read them: the Prophet had evidently written them in a secret language. They would have to show the letters to someone, but who? Aqa Jaan? Fakhri Sadat? Zinat Khanom? No.

  ‘Let’s ask Shahbal,’ Golebeh said.

  They went to his room.

  ‘Wake up! Are you still in bed? Haven’t you said your prayer? Shame on you. I’ll tell Aqa Jaan you slept in like a sinner. Here, eqra! Read this. Read us the letters!’ Golbanu said.

  Shahbal sleepily examined the letters. ‘I can read the words, but I don’t know what they mean. It’s in Arabic.’

  Perhaps they’d have to show the letters to Aqa Jaan after all, but he’d gone to Jirya, and it would be ages before he returned. So they put on their chadors and went to the mosque to show their letters to the substitute imam.

  Janeshin had just finished his morning prayer and gone back to his room to sleep for another hour. When he heard a knock, he thought it was Zinat Khanom, so he called sleepily, ‘Come in!’

  Instead, the grandmothers came traipsing into his room. ‘What’s the matter, ladies?’ he said in surprise. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘We’ve received a highly confidential letter. Or rather two letters. Would you please read them to us?’

  ‘Gladly. Have a seat.’

  They handed him the letters.

  He took his turban from the nightstand, put it on and sat down on his chair in his long cotton shirt. ‘Do sit down, ladies,’ he said. ‘Hold on, I need my glasses.’

  He put on his glasses and perused one of the letters. ‘A letter in Arabic?’

  ‘Can’t you read it?’

  ‘I should be able to, but it’s not as if I read a letter in Arabic every day. Of course I can read the Koran, but the language in the Koran is different, it’s the language of God. I can read the Koran well enough to understand it, but if you handed me an Arabic newspaper, I probably wouldn’t be able to tell you what it said. Or to put it another way, if I flew to Mecca today, I doubt if I could talk to the people there. Wait, there’s an address at the bottom of the letter. Are you supposed to go somewhere? Where did you get these letters? They seem to be formal documents of some kind. I can also make out a name: Hajji Aqa Mustafa Mohajir.’

  ‘We know Hajji Aqa Mustafa Mohajir,’ said Golbanu. ‘He has an office at the bazaar.’

  ‘Well, that settles it. Apparently you’re supposed to go and see this hajji. Wa-assalaam!’

  The grandmothers were unable to control their excitement. They snatched back their letters and hurried outside.

  They wanted to set off for the bazaar immediately, but Golbanu said, ‘I think it’s too early. Let’s wait until the sun’s a bit higher. Besides, we ought to put on our good clothes, if we’re going to the bazaar with such important letters.’

  All of a sudden the house looked different. It was bathed in bright sunlight, as if every object were smiling and everyone was in on their secret. The old cedar tree had no doubt heard the hoof beats, and the hauz had thrilled to Khezr’s voice.

  The flowers in the garden looked reverently at the grandmothers, the sun sparkled on the library windows and the crow circled above their heads, cawing
cheerfully. ‘Thank you, crow, thank you,’ the grandmothers cried. The red fish leapt out of the water. ‘Thank you, fish, thank you,’ said the grandmothers.

  ‘I hear happy footsteps,’ Muezzin called up from the cellar. ‘What’s put you two in such a good mood?’

  Golbanu and Golebeh went down to his studio to say hello. He was standing at his workbench, kneading a lump of clay.

  Should they tell him? Were they allowed to reveal their secret? No, first they had to go and see Hajji Mustafa, Golbanu thought. Only then would they know if their lifetime dream was about to come true.

  ‘Good morning!’ said the grandmothers merrily.

  ‘And a good morning to you too, ladies. I know you’re dying to tell me something,’ Muezzin said.

  ‘It’s true, we have the most wonderful news!’ Golebeh began, but Golbanu quickly changed the subject before Golebeh could spill the beans. ‘These vases look new, Muezzin,’ she improvised. ‘They’re absolutely gorgeous.’

  ‘There’s no need to overdo it. I’ve been making vases my entire life. It’s just that you’re seeing them through different eyes today.’

  The grandmothers exchanged smiles.

  ‘We’ve heard some very good news. We’ll tell you soon, and then you can shout it from the rooftops.’

  ‘Such secrecy!’ Muezzin said.

  The grandmothers all but skipped up the stairs and went back into the courtyard.

  They were so happy that they didn’t know what to do, where to go or who to visit. They saw Fakhri Sadat walking towards the kitchen and waved – a bit awkwardly, since it wasn’t something they ordinarily did. One of the cats walked by and they chased after it. Alarmed by their odd behaviour, the cat fled to the roof.

  The grandmothers put on their good clothes, powdered their cheeks and donned their most beautiful chadors. Then off they went, in the direction of the bazaar.

  Hajji Mustafa was an old friend of Aqa Jaan. He was also a powerful man in the city, since he had the exclusive right to arrange trips to holy shrines in other cities and to organise the pilgrimages to Karbala, Najaf, Medina, Damascus and Mecca.

  His travel agency was in the middle of the bazaar. Hundreds of prospective pilgrims stopped by every day to plan their trips. The grandmothers went in, but didn’t have to queue like the others. After all, they had a personal letter for Hajji Mustafa.

  They peeked through the window of his office. Although they’d seen him in the mosque only once, they recognised him immediately. He was sitting at his desk, talking on the phone. He motioned for them to come in, and they cautiously opened the door.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Hajji Mustafa said, as soon as his call was over. The grandmothers handed him their letters. ‘We have a message for you,’ Golbanu said.

  He put on his glasses, opened one of the envelopes and carefully perused the letter, peering occasionally at the grandmothers over the rim of his glasses. After reading the second letter, he took off his glasses and sat without moving for one long minute.

  The grandmothers exchanged questioning glances.

  He put the letters back in their envelopes, touched them reverently to his forehead and slipped them into a drawer.

  ‘Please sit down,’ he said solemnly.

  The grandmothers seated themselves in the two old-fashioned leather chairs beside his desk.

  Hajji Mustafa rummaged through some papers, jotted down a few words and made a mysterious phone call. Then he went out, leaving the grandmothers alone in his office without saying a word to either of them. Fifteen minutes later he came back in and took a thick ledger out of a mahogany filing cabinet. He opened the ledger and said solemnly, ‘Golbanu.’

  ‘That’s me,’ said one of the grandmothers, and she stood up.

  He put an old-fashioned ink pad in front of her. ‘Place the tip of your index finger on this ink pad,’ he said, ‘then press it here in this ledger.’

  With trembling hands, Golbanu did as she had been instructed.

  ‘You may be seated.’

  He filled in a few lines, then said, ‘Golebeh.’

  ‘That’s me,’ the other grandmother said in a quavering voice, and she stood up.

  ‘Press here and here.’

  She pressed her finger on the ink pad and then again on the line in the ledger to which Hajji was pointing with his pen.

  ‘What’s your address?’ he asked.

  ‘The house of the mosque,’ Golbanu said.

  ‘Do both of you live there?’

  ‘Yes,’ they said.

  When he was finished writing, he stamped the two entries with a rubber stamp, then stood up. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

  The grandmothers followed him down a hallway, through a narrow room, into a larger office and down a dim corridor, until at last Hajji stopped in front of a closed door. He took out a key, opened the door and turned to the grandmothers. ‘Please take off your shoes before entering.’

  Golbanu and Golebeh found themselves standing on the threshold of an extraordinary room. Banners inscribed with sacred texts lined the walls. Rows of wooden racks were filled with battered leather suitcases. The familiar smell of books and leather gave the place an aura of holiness. An antique rug stretched from one end of the room to the other. Off to one side was a small alcove with a big stack of ledgers. The ones on the top were covered with a thick layer of dust.

  The hands of the grandmothers shook beneath their chadors. They removed their shoes and went inside.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Hajji, pointing to some chairs grouped around an antique table. Suspended above it was an exquisite silver chandelier with seven candles. The grandmothers’ hearts soared.

  ‘Everything that has happened so far, everything we’ve said to each other and everything you’ve seen up till now are to be kept secret,’ Hajji said. ‘If you breathe a word of this to anyone, your trip will be cancelled.’

  ‘We won’t tell a soul,’ Golbanu said.

  He disappeared behind a curtain and came back with two brand-new suitcases, on which a picture of the Kaaba had been embossed. He set the tan suitcases beside the grandmothers with such an official flourish that they nearly fainted from excitement.

  Hajji sat down across from them. ‘Everyone at home is probably going to ask you a lot of questions,’ he said calmly. ‘But don’t answer them. I repeat, don’t answer them.’

  ‘We understand,’ Golbanu said.

  ‘On the anniversary of Fatima’s birth, the two of you are to wait with your suitcases at the entrance to the bazaar,’ Hajji said.

  ‘We will,’ Golbanu promised.

  ‘If you have any questions, now is the time to ask,’ he said, ‘because you won’t get another chance.’

  The grandmothers looked at each other uncertainly. Did they have any questions? No, they didn’t.

  ‘Oh, wait,’ Golbanu said hesitantly. ‘I do have one. What time are we supposed to be at the bazaar?’

  ‘Early in the morning, just before dawn,’ Hajji replied.

  Golebeh had a question as well, but she didn’t dare ask it, so she whispered it in Golbanu’s ear.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Golbanu said, ‘but you haven’t given us any proof. It might be good to have some kind of document with our names on it.’

  ‘The suitcases are your proof!’ Hajji said. ‘They already have your names on them.’

  They looked at the suitcases and, to their surprise, saw their names written in big letters on a piece of paper encased in a transparent plastic holder.

  ‘So they are!’ Golbanu said, and she scowled at Golebeh for asking such a silly question.

  ‘You will receive your travel documents on the day of the trip,’ said Hajji. ‘Any other questions?’

  The grandmothers exchanged glances. No, they had no more questions.

  Beaming with joy and hiding their smiles behind their chadors, the grandmothers picked up their suitcases, left the travel agency and made their way through the busy bazaar.

  At home they hid
the suitcases in one of the trunks in the cellar and pretended nothing had happened. But the secret weighed heavily on their hearts. They couldn’t sleep; they tossed and turned for hours. The days seemed longer and the nights went on for ever. Was it really going to happen? Would they be able to pack their bags one day and set off on their journey? Were they strong enough to undertake such a long trip?

  They were afraid they weren’t going to live to see the day, that they would have an accident or break a leg or die. But they had been patient for forty years, so a few more months would hardly matter.

  The Treasure Room

  Oh, you cloaked in your mantle!

  Stand up and deliver your warning!

  Magnify your Lord.

  Purify your garments.

  Shun abomination.

  Be patient!

  A group of seven men emerged from the alley. Four of the men bore a large basket, suspended from two poles, on their shoulders, while the other three walked on ahead. They were villagers from Jirya, transporting Kazem Khan to the house of the mosque.

  One of them knocked. It took a while for Golebeh to open the door. ‘Yes, gentlemen?’ she said, surprised to see a makeshift litter.

  ‘We have Kazem Khan with us,’ one of them said, pointing to the basket.

  ‘Golbanu!’ Golebeh shouted, upset. ‘It’s Kazem Khan!’ As soon as she saw the litter, Golbanu knew what needed to be done. She showed the men to the Opium Room, and they carefully transferred Kazem Khan from the litter to the bed. His eyes were closed, his face was pale and he was emaciated. The men went into the courtyard and gathered round the hauz to smoke their pipes. Golebeh wept softly, while Golbanu did what was necessary. She covered Kazem Khan with a blanket, placed a Koran and a hand mirror on the shelf above his head and went into the kitchen to make breakfast. After setting the table with bread, cheese, jam, a bowl of fruit and a teapot, she called to the villagers. ‘Gentlemen, time to eat!’

  Meanwhile, Aqa Jaan had come home and gone straight to the Opium Room. He took one look at Kazem Khan and knew there was no point in taking him to hospital. Instead he went into the kitchen to greet the villagers.