‘Six years!’ said Khalkhal. ‘Next!’
She was taken out and Jawad was led in by an armed guard.
‘Name!’ Khalkhal said, without looking at the accused.
‘Jawad!’
‘Your father’s name?’
‘Aqa Jaan!’
Khalkhal’s head jerked up, as if he’d been stung by a bee. He stared at Jawad through his dark glasses.
Jawad was unable to see him, because of the bright light shining in his eyes. Khalkhal’s pen rolled off the table and onto the ground. He leaned over to pick it up, and in that brief moment Jawad caught a glimpse of the judge’s face.
There was something familiar about it, Jawad thought.
Khalkhal leafed through his papers, clearly stalling for time. ‘Water!’ he shouted to the guards who were posted outside.
The two men, assuming they’d been ordered to remove the prisoner, came in, grabbed hold of Jawad and were about to drag him out of the room.
‘Leave him here and bring me a glass of water!’ Khalkhal snarled.
I know him from somewhere, thought Jawad. His voice sounds familiar.
One of the guards placed a glass of water in front of Khalkhal and left. Khalkhal took a sip. ‘You have a file as thick as my arm,’ he said. ‘You’re an active member of the Communist Party. You’re the mastermind who works behind the scenes. At the time of your arrest, you were carrying a gun that had fired three bullets. You were seen shooting at a helicopter. These are serious offences for which you can receive the death penalty. Do you have anything to say to that?’
‘It’s a pack of lies. Furthermore, I don’t recognise the authority of this court. What you’re doing is illegal. I have the right to a lawyer! The right to defend myself!’
‘Shut up and listen!’ Khalkhal snapped. ‘I’ve already spent more time on you than on the others. Your file contains a long list of serious offences.’
‘They’re obviously trumped-up charges, because I didn’t have a gun on me, and I certainly wasn’t shooting at a helicopter.’
‘I don’t have time to discuss this with you. I advise you to listen carefully to what I’m about to say. Is that clear? I know your father, and I’m willing to help you if you agree to cooperate.’
It’s Khalkhal! Jawad suddenly realised. Khalkhal is Allah’s judge!
He was aghast. His mouth went dry and his hands began to shake.
Khalkhal knew that Jawad had recognised him. ‘Listen to me, young man. The bodies of more than three hundred soldiers are being brought here tomorrow from the front. All young men of your age. While they were out fighting the enemy, you were shooting at our helicopters. I don’t care who you are. I’d sentence my own brother to death if I had to. But I’m making an exception in your case because I know your father. Now I’m going to ask you three questions. Think carefully before you answer. If you’re smart, you’ll give the right answer. This is the first – and it will be the last – time I’ve ever given anyone this chance.
‘The first question is: Are you a Communist, or do you believe in Islam?’
The gravity of Khalkhal’s words hadn’t sunk in, and Jawad was still seething: ‘I’m not going to answer that question! Judges aren’t allowed to ask such questions. Besides, this isn’t a courtroom; it’s a stable!’
‘Think before you talk,’ Khalkhal said, clearly disappointed. ‘The second question is: If I reduce your sentence, will you pray seven times a day along with the other prisoners?’
‘Prayer is a personal matter, so I won’t answer that question either,’ Jawad retorted.
‘Question three: Will you sign this form, stating that you’re sorry for what you’ve done?’
‘Why should I repent when I haven’t done anything wrong? No, I won’t sign it.’
Khalkhal was in doubt. He wanted to save Jawad, but only if he agreed to cooperate, at least to some extent. ‘I’m going to give you one more chance,’ Khalkhal said. ‘I advise you to make use of it.’
He took a Koran out of his pocket and handed it to Jawad. ‘If you swear on the Koran that you weren’t carrying a weapon and didn’t fire any shots, I’ll reduce your sentence. If you refuse, I’ll have you executed at once!’
‘You’ve had hundreds of innocent people executed! And that’s a crime. A crime in the eyes of the Koran. I refuse to cooperate. The fact that you know my father is all the more reason to say no. I’m ashamed of your deeds. I refuse to accept any favours from you. You feel guilty about the way you’ve treated my family, but I’m ashamed of you. You’re the monster who abandoned his wife and disabled child, the bully who beat and tormented his own wife. I will never kneel before the man who had hundreds of Kurds executed in one day. I wouldn’t be my father’s son if I did. Put away your Koran, I don’t need it!’
‘Death!’ Khalkhal bellowed.
The guards rushed in and led Jawad to the room where the executions were carried out.
One of the guards put a blindfold over his eyes and stood him up against the wall. Jawad didn’t think for a moment that he was going to be shot. He thought that Khalkhal was just trying to frighten him into signing a confession.
The guards left him standing there for a while with his blindfold on, which made him even more sure that they were just trying to frighten him. Besides, he hadn’t been carrying a weapon and hadn’t fired at a helicopter, so they had no right to execute him. He heard footsteps, which he suspected were Khalkhal’s. He was no doubt coming to interrogate him some more. Jawad was convinced that Khalkhal would spare him, that he would call off the execution.
But Khalkhal didn’t come over to him. Jawad expected him to say, ‘That’s enough. Take off his blindfold and throw him in prison.’
Instead, Khalkhal barked out an order: ‘Take up your positions!’
Two guards knelt and aimed their rifles at Jawad.
Jawad stood up straight and squared his shoulders so Khalkhal could see that he wasn’t afraid. He knew Khalkhal wouldn’t go through with it.
‘Ready . . . aim . . . fire!’ Khalkhal commanded.
Shots rang out. At first Jawad didn’t feel the bullets slamming into his body. I was right, he thought, they were just trying to frighten me.
Then he slumped forward and fell to the ground.
And then he laid down his head and closed his eyes.
The Mountains
Aqa Jaan had gone to collect Jawad’s body, which was now lying in a delivery van parked in front of the house.
Fakhri Sadat stood by the window and looked down at Muezzin, who was anxiously pacing the courtyard. In the frame of the window, she looked like a black-and-white photograph of a grieving mother.
Persian custom demanded that she weep and wail, beat her head and tear out her hair. Then the other women would rush over and take her hand, and they would cry and comfort one another. But that was forbidden. The regime did not allow executed prisoners to be mourned openly.
Aqa Jaan had no idea where he was going to bury Jawad. He had spent all afternoon on the phone, trying to get permission to bury him in the city, but no one had dared to go out on a limb to help him.
There was the sound of feet in the alley. Although Muezzin listened carefully, he didn’t recognise the footsteps.
A key turned in the lock, the gate creaked open and in came Shahbal. Lizard hurried over to him.
Muezzin also went over to his son, embraced him and wept silently on his shoulder.
Shahbal had heard the news. It was dangerous for him to come home, but he’d set off for Senejan the moment the message had reached him.
Aqa Jaan came out of his study and greeted Shahbal as he always did. He didn’t show the slightest flicker of emotion, making Shahbal wonder if he’d driven three hundred miles for nothing.
‘Thank God you’re here,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘You’re just in time. Who gave you the message?’ He went on without waiting for an answer. ‘We have to hurry! I’ve got him in the van by the gate.’
In the lampl
ight Shahbal saw his fears confirmed by the haunted look in Aqa Jaan’s eyes. It was a familiar story: a corpse, a father and no grave.
He took him by the arm and embraced him. ‘You have my condolences, Aqa Jaan,’ he said as he wept. ‘My poor Aqa Jaan . . .’
Shahbal, feeling guilty for having encouraged Jawad, had been afraid that Aqa Jaan would shun him.
‘It was God’s will, my boy,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘Come, let’s go. It will be dark soon. We don’t have much time.’
Shahbal was holding the key to the van, a sobering enough fact, but until he’d seen Jawad for himself, he couldn’t believe that he was really dead.
Shahbal opened the rear doors. There he lay, wrapped in a white shroud. He was curled up on his right side, with his hands between his thighs. He looked cold. Shahbal undid the shroud so he could see his face. It was definitely Jawad, with a bullet hole in his left temple.
‘We have to hurry,’ Aqa Jaan said.
Shahbal slid in behind the wheel.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked as they drove out of the alley.
‘That way!’ Aqa Jaan said, pointing to the mountains in the north.
Shahbal didn’t know what his uncle’s plans were, but he was sure of one thing: Aqa Jaan wasn’t the kind of man who would let his son be buried in a deserted spot in the mountains.
He would have liked to share his grief with his uncle, but Aqa Jaan looked so preoccupied he didn’t dare disturb him. Instead, he kept driving silently towards the mountains.
‘Do you have a plan?’ he asked after a while.
‘We’re taking him to Marzjaran,’ Aqa Jaan said.
‘Marzjaran?’ Shahbal was surprised. ‘Whatever for? The villagers are all Khomeini supporters. We can’t ask them for a grave!’
Aqa Jaan made no reply, and Shahbal knew from his uncle’s silence that he must have consulted the Koran before leaving, opening it to a random page and letting his finger fall on a random verse. Since his decision was based on faith and superstition, rather than on reality, further discussion was pointless.
The track wasn’t really meant for cars. Actually, it wasn’t a track at all, but a couple of ruts left by the local bus.
Marzjaran, the village closest to the city, lay at the foot of the mountains, behind the first foothill. Shahbal drove up the hill and cautiously wound his way down the other side. He could already see a few scattered houses.
It was cold. The tall mountain peaks were covered in snow. Darkness hadn’t fallen yet, but the mountains cast a dark shadow over the village. The houses were made of stone: if you didn’t know there was a village there, it would be indistinguishable from the rocks. When they got nearer, they saw smoke coming out of the chimney of the bathhouse – the only sign of life.
In a place like this, people were always waiting: for someone to come or for someone to leave, for a birth or for death.
Sleepy Marzjaran was forever waiting for an event of some kind. Only then did it wake up and stir itself.
Shahbal drove into the village. There was no need to announce their arrival. An unfamiliar vehicle driving down the hill was sure to be noticed. After all, who would come here in the dead of winter? It had to be an enemy, a fugitive or a man in search of a grave.
Suddenly they heard barking. A pack of dogs bounded furiously off a boulder and came charging towards them, followed by three warmly dressed men with rifles.
‘Allah!’ Aqa Jaan exclaimed.
The dogs barked and blocked the road, while the men approached the van.
‘Stay here,’ Aqa Jaan said to Shahbal as he got out.
He went up to the men, intending to talk to them, to tell them that he knew the imam of their village. He put out his hand, but they ignored him, choosing instead to march over to the driver’s side and glare at Shahbal. Then they moved to the back, obviously intending to open the rear doors.
Aqa Jaan hurried round to the back, the frantically barking dogs at his heels. Shahbal leapt out of the van, but Aqa Jaan swiftly pushed the men aside and stood with his back to the doors. One of the men grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him away, while the other two swung open the doors. One of the dogs jumped inside and sank its teeth into the shroud. Shahbal grabbed the jack, which had been lying next to the body, and hit the dog so hard that it sprang out of the van, whimpering.
Shahbal was livid. He shoved the men away from the door and positioned himself in front of it, guarding the body, his hand wrapped tightly round the jack.
Outraged at his bold behaviour in their village, all three men attacked him. Aqa Jaan tried to stop them, but they were too strong. Shahbal did his best to ward off the blows until a group of villagers, awakened by the noise, finally separated them.
Aqa Jaan raised his hands in supplication. ‘I’m begging you for a grave,’ he said. ‘I have the body of my son with me.’
No one made a move or said a word. It was as if they were made of stone. Three statues stared at him in disbelief.
‘There are no graves for sinners here!’ one of them exclaimed. ‘Go away!’
‘I’m begging you for—’
‘Go away, I said!’ the man roared, and he strode angrily towards Aqa Jaan. Shahbal snatched up the jack, but Aqa Jaan took it from him. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.
They got in the van, and Shahbal turned it around.
When they had put enough distance between themselves and the village, Shahbal glanced over at his uncle. He was huddled in his seat – a broken man. He could tell by the way he was huddled in his seat. Aqa Jaan had turned to his Koran for advice, and it had let him down. He looked like an old bird that no longer dared to fly.
Darkness had fallen. Shahbal drove aimlessly through the mountains, not knowing where to go until Aqa Jaan suddenly sat upright and took the Holy Book out of his pocket. He had obviously found his strength again. He opened his Koran and slid his fingers down the page like a blind man. After a few minutes, he said calmly, ‘We’ll go to Saruq.’ Then he slipped the book back into his pocket.
Shahbal disagreed. There was no difference between Saruq and the village they had just been to. They could go to a hundred different villages, and the result would always be the same.
Aqa Jaan didn’t want to bury his son without honour. He was hoping to find an official grave for him, but it was asking the impossible.
After a while Shahbal broke the silence. ‘They won’t help you there either,’ he said. ‘We need to accept it.’
Aqa Jaan remained silent, pretending he hadn’t heard him.
Saruq’s cemetery lay outside the village, in a remote and bleak spot.
‘Wait here,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘I’d better go into the village by myself.’
Shahbal got out, stood next to the van and watched his uncle walk towards the houses. He’s right, he thought to himself, I’m ashamed I didn’t think of it sooner. We haven’t done anything wrong! Jawad mustn’t be buried in secret!
He picked up the jack and waited. Then he heard voices and saw five men carrying lanterns. They were old men, walking side by side with Aqa Jaan. There were no dogs.
He could tell by the set of Aqa Jaan’s shoulders that he hadn’t been able to convince them either. They were friends, escorting him out of the village as an expression of sympathy. But they knew that there were informers and spies everywhere and that there would be hell to pay if they allowed the body to be buried in their village.
They came up to Shahbal to say hello and offer their condolences, but Shahbal was in no mood for sympathy. He was furious, and filled with a sense of helplessness. He opened the van door and sat behind the wheel. Aqa Jaan said goodbye to the men and climbed in beside Shahbal.
They had just driven off when they heard a shout.
‘Stop!’ said Aqa Jaan.
Shahbal stopped. Aqa Jaan rolled down the window. One of the men came running up, panting. ‘You should go and see Rahmanali,’ he said. ‘He’s the only one who can help you.’
Aqa Jaan nodded a few ti
mes to show his agreement.
‘Drive to Jirya,’ Aqa Jaan said to Shahbal. ‘We’re going to see Rahmanali.’
Jirya was indeed the most likely place for them to find a grave, because the village lay within the family’s domain. Many of Aqa Jaan and Fakhri Sadat’s relatives still lived there, and it was also where Kazem Khan was buried.
They should probably have driven straight to Jirya to begin with, but the Koran had not pointed them in that direction. Now that Rahmanali’s name had come up, Aqa Jaan was sure it was the right place.
Rahmanali was a wizened old man with a long grey beard. He was one hundred and four years old and reputed to be a holy man. It was said that he performed miracles and brought dying children back to life. His word was law in Jirya, and everyone knew it. Anybody who asked him for refuge was sure of safety. His house had been declared holy by the villagers, and they were proud of him. When no one else could be counted on, Aqa Jaan could always go to Rahmanali. They knew each other well. Aqa Jaan often stopped by to see him when he was in Jirya and gave him money whenever he needed it.
They bumped and bounced along a narrow dirt track, afraid that the van would slide into a ravine or get stuck in a rut. Jirya was high up in the mountains, near the snow, and the cold was unbearable. The heater did nothing to dispel the chill. Aqa Jaan kept casting worried glances at the body in the back.
Just before they reached Jirya, Aqa Jaan turned to Shahbal. ‘Switch off your lights and pull in behind this rock. We’re not going to drive into the village. I’ll go and look for Rahmanali, while you stay here.’
‘Let me do it,’ Shahbal said.
‘It will be better if I talk to him.’
‘I don’t want you going there alone.’
‘What else can we do? We can’t leave the body here by itself.’
‘I don’t trust anyone, not even in this village. Times have changed. If someone sees you, they’ll know what you’ve come for.’
Aqa Jaan’s hand slid into his pocket, making sure he still had his Koran.
‘We don’t have a choice. I’ll manage,’ he said, and he left.
He trudged through the snow and across the wooden bridge that spanned the river. By coming in on foot, he wouldn’t alert the dogs. The icy wind blowing across the snow lashed his hands and face.
The House of the Mosque Page 30