The House of the Mosque (17 page)

Even so, Zinat curtailed her visits to the imam and tried to avoid running into him. Then one evening he spoke to her out of the darkness: ‘Zinat Khanom! Why have you stopped coming to see me? Your questions are always on my mind.’

Three days later Zinat found herself sitting across from him again, talking about her interpretation of a certain passage. He stared at her in silence, listening to her words, then suddenly interrupted her. ‘Zinat Khanom,’ he said calmly, ‘your eyes glow like two candles in the night when you’re talking to me . . . I mean, talking about the text.’

Zinat pretended not to have heard him. She went on talking, though she could barely concentrate. He didn’t pursue the matter, but behaved like any other imam who was counselling a troubled woman.

Janeshin realised that he’d have to wait until she was ready to hear the rest of what he wanted to say. Luckily he didn’t have to wait long, because two evenings later he found Zinat waiting by his door.

‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I don’t have any plans for tonight, and I’m bored. Did you bring another text to discuss?’

Zinat sat down and began to read the text she’d brought with her.

The imam listened. ‘You read so well,’ he said. ‘You bring the dead words to life. I hear them, I feel them, I see them on your lips.’ And he pointed to her lips, almost brushing his hand against her lower lip as he did so.

Zinat packed her suitcase and went for a week to her father’s house in Jirya, where she hoped to banish Janeshin from her mind.

She did a lot of soul-searching while she was there and concluded that she didn’t want to get involved with him. After all, he was married, with children. He was also the imam of the mosque that her son was going to take over one day.

But when she returned, things didn’t go as she had planned.

She was shopping in the bazaar, staring at a jewellery display case, when Janeshin’s reflection suddenly loomed up beside hers in the glass. ‘Zinat Khanom,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘I miss you. The chair you usually sit on in my office is empty.’

Zinat didn’t say a word. She didn’t even turn to look at him. She simply stood with her back to him and listened.

His voice was hard to resist. And yet for the next two days she stayed away from the mosque, skipping both the morning and the evening prayers. Then she couldn’t hold out any longer. After the caretaker had locked up and gone home, she put on her black chador, went up the stairs to the roof and walked over to the mosque.

On her way to the prayer room, she passed the imam’s office.

‘Is that you, Zinat?’ he called calmly from within.

‘Yes, I’m on my way to the prayer room to get a book.’

‘You’re welcome to come in, if you like. I’ve made a fresh pot of tea.’

Zinat continued on to the prayer room, found the book she was looking for, snatched it up and started back down the corridor.

‘I always hear your footsteps in the night,’ Janeshin said from inside his office.

Zinat went in, sat down on the chair and laid the book on his desk.

Janeshin stood up. He closed the door softly and turned the key. Then he lit a candle, set it on the desk and switched off the light.

Zinat sat quietly in her chair and waited.

He took out his prayer book and looked for the words that you recite when you want to sleep with a woman who isn’t your lawfully wedded wife. According to the teachings of Islam, once he had uttered the
ankahtu
marriage vow and Zinat had said ‘
Qabilto
’ (I consent), he would be allowed to take her to bed.

He softly began to recite the words.

Zinat closed her eyes.

‘
Ankahtu wa zawagto
,’ the imam chanted, bowing over his book.

Zinat was silent.

‘
Ankahtu wa zawagto
,’ he chanted a second time.

Zinat was silent.

‘
Ankahtu wa zawagto
,’ he chanted a third time.

‘
Qabilto
,’ Zinat said slowly, and she dropped her chador to her shoulders.

The imam put down his Koran. Then he touched her lips and caressed her warm neck.

T
he grandmothers, having awakened early, grabbed their brooms and watering cans and tiptoed outside. First they sprinkled water on the ground, then they began to sweep. They couldn’t remember how old they were when they first started to sweep the path to the gate, but they did it in the greatest of secrecy because they wanted to go to Mecca.

Millions of Muslims dreamed of making the pilgrimage to Mecca, but not all of them got there, because you had to be well-off to afford the trip.

The grandmothers had no money at all. They’d never thought about money and didn’t need any, because the family saw to their needs. And yet they’d known since childhood that the only way a poor person could go to Mecca was by sweeping. There were three conditions: first, the path had to be swept every day before sunrise for twenty years; second, no one must see you doing it; third, it had to remain a secret.

On the last day, the Prophet Khezr would appear and present you with your reward. The legendary Khezr, one of the first prophets, had lived long before Muhammad, Jesus, Moses, Abraham, Jacob and David.

But just how Khezr would arrange the trip to Mecca was a secret between the prophet and the sweepers.

The grandmothers had swept the path every day for twenty years, but the prophet hadn’t come. Perhaps they’d done something wrong, they reasoned. Perhaps they hadn’t counted properly or had overslept once or been seen by someone who guessed their secret.

So they began all over again for another twenty years.

Their labour might be in vain, but what else could they do? The one thing that kept them going was their goal of seeing Mecca. It gave meaning to their lives. There was always the hope that they would awaken to a new dawn and have one more day in which to await the coming of the prophet.

According to their calculations, they had now reached the end of their second twenty years, and yet there was no sign of the prophet.

At the end of their first twenty years, they had still had the energy to go to Mecca. When they began the second round, however, they knew that at the end they’d be so old that they probably wouldn’t have enough energy to make the pilgrimage. But they went on sweeping anyway.

A few days later the grandmothers were sitting gloomily in the dark on the floor of the Carpet Room.

‘If someone took away our brooms, we’d drop dead,’ Golbanu said. ‘We can’t stop sweeping now. We have to go on, even if all we can do is crawl to the gate with a broom in our hands.’

‘We must have made a mistake,’ Golebeh said. ‘Maybe we counted wrong again.’

‘We couldn’t have. Every year we write an X on the wall. Here, count them. We’re long past the twenty-year mark.’

‘Maybe we broke one of the rules.’

‘What rules? There are no rules. Get up early, sweep, keep it a secret.’

‘I think I know what the problem is.’

‘You can think all you like, but what do you know for sure?’

‘We’ve made a big mistake,’ Golebeh said. ‘Both of us.’

‘What did we do wrong?’

‘We weren’t supposed to tell anyone our secret,’ she said.

‘But we didn’t.’

‘Yes, we did. We shared our secret with each other. You know my secret and I know yours. That’s against the rules! You aren’t supposed to know mine, and I’m not supposed to know yours. We should have done our sweeping separately.’

‘Oh, do be quiet!’

They had jointly decided to sweep the path so they could meet the Prophet Khezr together and go to Mecca together, but so far their plan had failed.

Dejected, the grandmothers sat in the Carpet Room, talking. The two figures eventually blended in with the darkness. No one, it seemed, would ever come to their rescue. Their brooms slipped out of their hands.

No longer visible, they were merely two shadows in the dark Carpet Room. The crow screeched, breaking the silence.

Crazy Qodsi suddenly appeared out of nowhere and peered into the Carpet Room. ‘I heard the grandmothers talking,’ she muttered to herself. ‘But where are they? I thought I heard their voices. I’m sure I did.’

Startled, the grandmothers scrambled to their feet. If Crazy Qodsi had overheard their conversation, she was bound to tell everyone, because blabbing secrets was her speciality.

‘How are you, Qodsi?’ they began cautiously.

‘Fine.’

‘How’s your mother?’

‘Fine.’

‘And your sister?’

‘My sister? She’s crazy. And she’s getting worse.’

‘Would you like something to eat, Qodsi?’ Golbanu asked, and they took her to the kitchen, hoping to find out if she’d overheard their conversation. But before they could say a word, Qodsi slipped away.

‘Qodsi?’ the grandmothers called, but she had already left.

How old was Qodsi? Thirty? Forty? Older, younger? Nobody knew.

In any case she looked young. Young and simple-minded.

She came from a traditional family. Her father, a distant relative of Aqa Jaan, was a rich nobleman who owned a couple of villages in the mountains. But something was amiss in his family: they were all crazy.

After the birth of her first child, his wife had had a nervous breakdown and never recovered. His son was retarded, his oldest daughter was a basket case and Qodsi roamed the city like a tramp. After his death, there was no one to look after them. Aqa Jaan kept an eye on the family, dealt with their finances and stopped by periodically to see how they were doing.

They were still living in their father’s house. Every so often the mother went to the bazaar to buy necessities, venturing forth as if she were a princess. You could tell by her bearing that she’d been born into a wealthy family, but if you took a closer look, you could see that something wasn’t quite right. She was accompanied on these shopping expeditions by Qodsi and her elder daughter. Whenever she wanted to cross the street, the two girls ran ahead and stopped the traffic, so that no wagon, car, bus or bicycle could drive on until their mother had safely reached the pavement on the other side.

Qodsi’s brother, who was older than she, was named Hashem. He went around in an army uniform, with a field-marshall’s baton clamped under his arm. He kept his uniform spotless, and the bronze lion – the symbol of Persia – on his officer’s cap always gleamed.

From early morning to late at night, he stood guard at the entrance to the bazaar. He saluted every policeman who went by, and otherwise stood as still as a statue. People accepted him; children didn’t even tease him. Everyone looked upon him as a kind of city monument.

The moment he saw Aqa Jaan entering the bazaar, Hashem always saluted and snapped out a military-like ‘Hel-lo!’ And when Aqa Jaan left, he repeated the performance. After the salute, Aqa Jaan would go over to him, shake hands and say a few words.

‘How are you doing, Hashem?’

‘Fine.’

‘And your mother?’

‘Fine.’

‘And your sister?’

‘Fine.’

‘Give my regards to your mother. If you need me for anything, just send Qodsi.’

‘I will.’

‘Excellent!’ said Aqa Jaan.

Qodsi knew almost everything that was going on.

‘Got any news, Qodsi?’ people asked when they ran into her.

You had to ask her very politely about her mother and her sister, or else she ignored your question.

She didn’t pass on her information for free either. First you had to give her a few copper coins, which she promptly stuck in her mouth. Only then did she tell you the latest news. ‘Old Qasem is dead, Miryam had a daughter and Sultan’s hen had seven chicks.’

Early in the morning Qodsi began with an empty mouth. Then she went from house to house, relating her news and kept going until her mouth was so full of coins she couldn’t talk any more.

No one knew what she did with her money. Some people said that she put it in a jar and hid it in the cellar, because if her mother ever found out that she was begging, the poor woman would drop dead on the spot.

‘Qodsi,’ Aqa Jaan said to her repeatedly, ‘you come from a good family. You’re a lady. You can’t just waltz into other people’s houses.’

But she ignored him and kept on going through every open door she saw.

She never sat down, but instead walked in and out of rooms and listened to people’s conversations before moving on to the next house – which is how she gathered her news.

Sometimes she crossed the bridge and went to the vineyards on the other side of the river.

‘You mustn’t go there!’ Aqa Jaan warned her. ‘A young woman has no business being in the vineyards.’

‘I promise I won’t go there any more,’ she said, but she went anyway.

She used to cross the bridge and head straight for the vineyards, which was the favourite haunt of suspicious-looking men, men who would slip a handful of shiny copper coins into her mouth.

Whenever one of these men saw her, he led her behind the trees, filled her mouth with coins and kissed her. Qodsi didn’t say a word. He fondled her breasts, but Qodsi didn’t respond. He slipped his hand under her clothes and touched her body. Qodsi didn’t move a muscle, but the moment he tried to pull down her underwear, she tore herself away and ran back to the bridge.

Qodsi popped in often to see Aqa Jaan at the bazaar. When no one else was there, the office boy didn’t stop her from going in. Today she sat down as usual on the chair beside his desk.

‘Tea for Qodsi Khanom!’ Aqa Jaan called out, as he always did.

The office boy brought her a glass of tea and some chocolate on a silver tray.

‘Have you got any news for me?’ Aqa Jaan asked.

Qodsi leaned in close and, in a hushed voice, imparted her news. ‘I crossed the bridge and went to the vineyards.’