Shahbal had been driving the taxi ever since he joined the editorial board of the party’s newspaper. He used it not only to get around the city, but also to earn a living.
So as not to jeopardise its security, the steering committee no longer held any meetings. Instead, the handful of members who were left occasionally exchanged information at a teahouse in Tehran’s bazaar. During one of these brief encounters, Shahbal was told that Khalkhal was living in Kabul.
‘I should have guessed!’ he said. ‘Who gave you this information?’
‘The Tudeh Party,’ answered one of the men, and he handed him a piece of paper with Khalkhal’s address on it.
The Tudeh Party had also been disbanded, after having been all but decimated by the regime. However, former members of this Russian-oriented party still had contacts with Iran’s Communist neighbour to the north, the Soviet Union.
Shahbal knew what he had to do.
During the years of the Communist regime in Afghanistan, the leftist underground groups in Iran had developed strong ties with Afghan sympathisers. After the takeover by the Taliban, most – but not all – of the Communists had fled to the Soviet Union. It took Shahbal several months to arrange to be smuggled into the country by a group of Afghan rebels.
One night he rode through the desert on a camel until he reached the Afghan border. He left the camel in the stable of an inn, then walked to a rendezvous point, where an Afghan was waiting for him on the other side of a barbed-wire fence. After they had exchanged passwords, the man showed him where to crawl under the wire and into Afghanistan.
He hopped onto the back of the man’s motorcycle and they drove for half an hour until they reached a shepherd’s hut. The Afghan went in and came back out with a set of clothes. After Shahbal had changed into the traditional Afghan garb, they drove to the nearest town, so he could catch a bus to Kabul in the morning.
Even though it was autumn, it was snowing high up in the mountains. An icy wind lashed Shahbal’s face. The man bought him some fresh bread and dates and made sure he boarded the bus.
After many gruelling hours of winding mountain roads and endless stops, the bus finally reached the centre of Kabul. Shahbal got out and went to a café to get something to eat. He ordered a bowl of thick soup and gulped down several glasses of freshly brewed tea.
He’d hardly slept for the last three nights, so he went to a small hotel near the café and crawled into bed, only waking when the desk clerk knocked on the door the next morning to make sure he was all right. Because the hotel didn’t have a bath or shower, he wandered around looking for a bathhouse. Before he’d gone far, he came across a mosque, where he managed to scrub off most of the dirt and grime. After that he had lunch in a nearby teahouse.
The Municipal Archives were only a few blocks away. The building was closed to the public, but Shahbal could see lights on inside.
Khalkhal’s office was on the top floor. He was the only person there. His desk was by the window, so every time he looked up from his work he could see people walking in the street. He went to work early in the morning like the other employees, but when the building closed at four, he worked on for another hour. He was always the last to leave.
Shahbal recognised him the moment he came out, despite his Afghan clothes. He had gained a lot of weight, but Shahbal knew it was Khalkhal from the way he walked.
Night had just fallen. Shahbal followed him, keeping safely out of sight. Khalkhal went into a bakery and came out with a fresh loaf of bread under his arm. Then he strolled over to a street vendor and bought a bunch of grapes – the last of the season. Shahbal followed him all the way home, then checked the surroundings and returned to his hotel.
The next evening, Shahbal went back to the house. He was hoping Khalkhal would be alone, but when he looked through the window, he saw him sitting on the floor with his Afghan wife, eating dinner.
Shahbal couldn’t wait. He had to act quickly, before the Afghan secret police found out he was here. He walked around for a while, to allow Khalkhal time to finish his meal.
The next time he looked through the window, he saw the woman in the kitchen. There was a light on upstairs. It was now or never, so he crawled through the window and tiptoed towards the kitchen, but the woman, who was doing the washing-up, must have heard him, because she turned. Her eyes widened in fright when she saw a man with a gun standing in the doorway. Before she could scream, however, Shahbal grabbed her and clamped his hand over her mouth. ‘Don’t scream!’ he whispered. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Listen to me. Your husband is an Iranian criminal, who ordered the execution of hundreds of innocent people. Don’t make a sound, and you won’t get hurt. Do you understand my Persian?’
The terrified woman nodded.
‘I don’t have much time. I’m going to tie you up and put some tape over your mouth. If you move, I will shoot you. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Again, the woman nodded.
‘Good,’ he said, and he tied her up and left her sitting on the kitchen floor. Then he tiptoed up the stairs to the room where he’d seen the light.
At the top of the stairs he peered through the crack in the door, holding his gun firmly in his hand. Khalkhal, wearing his reading glasses, was sitting at a desk, reading a book and taking notes.
Shahbal opened the door softly and went in. Khalkhal, thinking it was his wife with the tea, didn’t look up. But when he didn’t hear her voice, he took off his glasses, turned around and saw an Afghan pointing a gun at him.
‘Don’t move!’ Shahbal ordered.
The moment he heard the Persian words, Khalkhal knew that his attacker wasn’t an Afghan. Dumbstruck, he stared at Shahbal.
Shahbal took off his Afghan cap. ‘Mohammad Al Khalkhal! Allah’s so-called judge!’ he said, his voice as cold as ice. ‘I have been ordered by the Underground Court to execute you!’
Khalkhal recognised Shahbal and tried to speak, but his mouth had gone dry. He knew that the end had come. No one could help him now. He mumbled a few words.
‘What did you say?’ Shahbal asked.
Khalkhal pointed to the glass of water on the table.
‘Go ahead,’ Shahbal said.
His hand trembling, Khalkhal took a sip of water.
‘May I stand and face Mecca?’ he asked, in a flat voice.
‘Yes, you may.’
Khalkhal stood up. He took one step in the direction of the window and, turning towards Mecca in the waning light, began to chant:
The companions of the right,
And the companions of the left.
Shahbal fired. The bullet struck Khalkhal in the chest and sent him reeling. He clutched the windowsill for support and went on chanting:
Oh, he who strives for Him shall meet Him.
When the heavens are rent asunder
And the stars are scattered—
Shahbal fired two more shots. Khalkhal’s hand jerked up and he let go of the sill, then keeled over. As he lay writhing on the floor, he chanted almost unintelligibly:
The first to come will be the first to arrive,
And they shall be nearest to Him
In the Gardens of Bliss.
Shahbal raced down the stairs and quickly untied the woman. ‘Go!’ he said. ‘Run to your family!’
The woman fled the house.
Shahbal let himself out, hurried down to the corner and turned left. Then he slowed his steps and walked calmly through the dark alleys to the centre of Kabul. There he bought a loaf of freshly baked bread and a bunch of grapes, then boarded the late-night bus to Pakistan.
The bus drove through the dimly lit streets. Kabul was beautiful. One day he would come back to this mysterious city.
The Gardens of Bliss
Alef Lam Mim Ra. Years went by, and the house’s sorrow grew like the trees in the garden.
The American hostages had long ago returned to their own homes and their own beds. Khomeini had died.
The war had ended, and A
merica – having failed to achieve its objective through Saddam – had grounded its spy planes.
The migratory birds still flocked to the city and flew over the house of the mosque, but since no grain had been put out for them, they continued on their way.
Aqa Jaan’s daughters were living in Tehran. They had been quietly married during the frantic years of the war and the executions. Ensi had given birth to a son, whom she named Jawad in honour of her brother. She came home from time to time with her husband and laid the baby in her mother’s arms.
Fakhri Sadat, who had once thought she would never get over her grief, kissed her grandson. ‘Aqa Jaan!’ she called excitedly one day. ‘Come and look! He’s the spitting image of Jawad!’
The old crow heard her and circled above the house. The fish in the hauz leapt out of the water for joy, the cedar tree smiled and stood a bit straighter, the birds flew down and perched on its branches, and the wind blew the fresh smell of spring wildflowers down from the mountains. Aqa Jaan put on his hat and coat, picked up his walking stick and went off to the bazaar to buy a box of biscuits.
When was the last time he’d blithely bought a box of biscuits?
It had been the day the grandmothers left for Mecca.
On one of those lovely spring days, Aqa Jaan drove his old Ford out of the garage and, for the first time in his life, washed it himself. He put Fakhri Sadat’s suitcase in the boot and helped her into the front seat, then slid behind the wheel and drove to Jirya.
At one time almost all the women in Jirya, young and old alike, had woven carpets for Aqa Jaan and given him a royal welcome whenever he visited the village. There had also been a time, however, when they refused to give him a grave for his son.
Fortunately, those days were now over, for when he parked his car and he and Fakhri Sadat crossed the village square, the villagers made way for them and bowed respectfully.
Now that the wave of violence had stopped, the war had ended and the dust of the revolution had settled, people were able to take stock. They could see what the years of strife had cost them. Families had been destroyed by political division and death. Prisons were crammed with opponents of the regime. Unemployment had soared and food was scarce.
Aqa Jaan had never told Fakhri what had happened that night in the village, but she had heard the story from her relatives.
‘I still don’t understand how people can change from one day to the next,’ she said, as they walked towards the house that used to belong to her father.
‘They’re simple people. Most of them are illiterate. The shah did nothing to help them, and neither will the ayatollahs. I don’t blame them. Besides, this is where we have our roots. Our dead are buried here. When things go well, we get the credit; when things go badly, we get the blame.’
The Islamic Army had commandeered their ancestral home, so they spent their first night at the house in which Fakhri had grown up. It now belonged to her sister.
The next day they set out for Kazem Khan’s house, strolling side by side through the almond groves. The trees were covered with pale pink blossoms, and the birds twittered merrily, as if they were celebrating the end of the sorrowful era. The old part of the village was the same as ever, but young couples had started building houses on the hills.
Jirya was known for two things: carpets and saffron. Sweet-smelling saffron flourished on these hills. In the old days, when the only way to get to Kazem Khan’s house was by horseback, the hillsides had been covered with yellow saffron plants. Now the lower slopes were dotted with hundreds of simple stone cottages. During the shah’s reign, people had started to build a water reservoir on the highest hill, but the project had long since been abandoned.
‘The almond trees have become old and gnarled,’ Fakhri remarked.
‘So have I,’ Aqa Jaan replied.
Before the onset of winter, the village girls used to go out to the hills and pick the saffron threads, which were as valuable as gold. They sang happily as they worked, and at the end of the day their hands were stained a brownish yellow and their bodies smelled of saffron.
The girls from Jirya were popular with the boys from other villages. Their suitors soon discovered, however, that Jirya girls were reluctant to leave the village.
During the long cold winters, the girls stayed inside and wove carpets. When spring came, they flung open the windows, and then you could hear them giggling and singing.
The windows were open now, but there wasn’t a sound. Singing was no longer allowed.
Aqa Jaan and Fakhri Sadat passed an old walnut tree, a sign that they weren’t far from Kazem Khan’s house, which had been built on an elevation overlooking the saffron hills.
In the distance they saw two men on horseback galloping towards them. When the men were nearly upon them, they reined in the horses, dismounted and led the horses over to Aqa Jaan. There was a strong family resemblance between the two men. They bowed and said salaam to Aqa Jaan, then fell silent.
Aqa Jaan didn’t recognise them. He shot a quizzical glance at Fakhri.
‘It’s the two deaf sons of the couple who used to work for Kazem Khan,’ she said, and she smiled.
Aqa Jaan returned their greeting and, gesturing, asked after their wives and children.
The men signed back that their wives were doing well and that the children had grown. ‘The horses are for you,’ one of the men gestured. ‘To use while you’re staying here.’
Aqa Jaan smiled at Fakhri. ‘They’re offering you a horse,’ he said. ‘Do you think you’re up to it?’
‘Absolutely not!’ Fakhri said, and she laughed. ‘You might still be able to ride, but I can’t. I’m not as young as I used to be. I wouldn’t dare get on a horse these days!’
‘Their wives have invited you for a visit,’ Aqa Jaan said.
‘Good, I accept with pleasure,’ Fakhri signed. ‘Tell them I’ll come.’
The men handed over the reins and started back home on foot.
Kazem Khan’s house glittered like a jewel among the gnarled trees, as was only proper for the house of the village poet. Kazem Khan had been buried at the bottom of the garden, beneath the almond trees. His grave was now blanketed with blossoms.
When Kazem Khan was still alive, the birds used to sit outside the window of his opium room and sing until he opened the window and let out the smoke. After he’d finished his pipe, he’d say, ‘Go home now, birds, and sleep well!’ And off they’d fly.
Kazem Kahn’s former servants had readied the house for Aqa Jaan and Fakhri. They ate outside, talking about Kazem Khan and laughing at how he used to win the hearts of the mountain women by writing them poems.
That evening the former servant delivered a message to Fakhri Sadat. ‘Some of the women would like to come by and say hello,’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’
‘Which women?’ Fakhri asked, surprised.
‘The ones who used to weave carpets for you.’
The women of the village had always looked up to Fakhri, admiring her beauty and pleasing manners. She was still well liked.
‘What time would they like to come?’
‘Now, if it’s convenient.’
Aqa Jaan retreated to Kazem Khan’s library.
The old women were the first to enter the house. They kissed Fakhri Sadat and seated themselves on the floor. Then more women came in, this time in groups. They too kissed Fakhri and sat down. Fakhri was astonished. She knew most of the women by sight, since they had all worked for them at one time or another, but then a group of seven women came in and embraced her. These were the girls who had once woven sample carpets for her.
‘What a lovely surprise!’ Fakhri exclaimed. ‘Your visit brings the light back into my heart. I wasn’t expecting this. I thought you’d all forgotten me.’
One of the old women stood up to speak. ‘Fakhri,’ she began, ‘you’ve suffered a lot of pain. We know that. You lost your son, and we denied him a burial place. We’ll have to live with that for the
rest of our lives. Tonight we’ve come to ask you to stop mourning. We’ve brought you a dress. We beg you to put away your mourning clothes and wear this dress instead. We should have done this a long time ago.’
The woman handed her a brightly coloured floral-print dress. Fakhri looked down at her black mourning clothes with tears in her eyes. She was speechless. She wept silently, her hand covering her mouth.
Just as she was about to go upstairs and show her new dress to Aqa Jaan, she saw a group of men coming up the steps. They were the village elders, all of whom had at one time worked for Aqa Jaan.
One of them knocked on the library door and asked if they could come in.
‘Please do,’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘You’re more than welcome!’
They trooped into the library and sat down on the creaking chairs by the window. After a long pause, one of the men spoke up: ‘Aqa Jaan, almost every family in the village lost a son during the war. Our children are all buried in the cemetery. We refused your son a grave, and that troubles us greatly. Please forgive us!’
‘God is all-knowing and all-forgiving,’ Aqa Jaan said soothingly. ‘I’ve never blamed you. Your visit has eased my pain. I’ve always believed in human goodness. Thank you all for coming here today.’
The old man took out a white shirt. ‘The time for mourning has come to an end,’ he said. ‘Please accept this gift and put your black shirt away.’
That night in bed, Fakhri lay her head on Aqa Jaan’s chest. ‘What a lovely evening,’ she said. ‘I’m so happy! Now I can come and visit our village again!’
They looked out of the window at the star-filled sky.
‘The villagers have made amends. The older ones have learned from their experiences, and it’s made them wise. The rich traditions of this place have served as the basis of their wisdom. They know how to heal old wounds.’
‘Some of the women are coming over tomorrow to put a henna rinse in my hair,’ Fakhri said excitedly. ‘It’s supposed to bring good luck.’
The House of the Mosque Page 34