The House of the Mosque (22 page)

After Hajji Mustafa’s departure, Aqa Jaan was left alone in the study with Shahbal. ‘I don’t believe for a second that they’re lost or are wandering round Mecca,’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘What do you think happened?’

‘I think they probably hid behind the sacred curtain in the Kaaba. My guess is that they had no intention of coming back.’

‘But why hide?’ Shahbal asked, surprised.

‘They want to die in Mecca. It’s the most wonderful death any Muslim can imagine. I think the grandmothers talked it over and decided they’d lived their lives. They had a choice. They could either go home and wait to die an ordinary death, or they could die in the House of God. Anyone who dies in the Kaaba goes straight to Paradise. So what would you do if you were the grandmothers?’

‘I
still
can’t believe they decided to stay in Mecca. Why do you think they did?’

‘It’s hard to explain. They’ve lived in this house for over fifty years. For fifty long years they’ve been listening to ancient stories. Now they want to write a story of their own.’

Shahbal smiled.

‘Let’s open the suitcases,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘Maybe they left us a letter.’

Shahbal opened the suitcases to find them full of gifts: watches, rings, gold bracelets, brightly coloured garments that glittered in the light of the overhead lamp – lovely gifts from Mecca for every person in the house.

‘This proves it,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘There are no personal belongings in the suitcases. They didn’t even pack their Mecca shrouds. Everyone dreams of buying a shroud in Mecca. It’s the first thing every hajji buys. The grandmothers must have their shrouds with them. Perhaps they’re even wearing them under their clothes.’

‘But what should we tell the others?’ Shahbal asked.

‘The truth. Please put the suitcases behind the desk and ask everyone to come in here.’

Shahbal dealt with the suitcases and went off to find the rest of the family.

‘Hajji Mustafa was just here,’ Aqa Jaan informed the assembled family. ‘Unfortunately he had nothing new to report. He’s been in touch with the police in Mecca. The moment he hears anything, he’ll let us know.’

They listened to Aqa Jaan in stricken silence.

‘Does this mean we’ll never see them again?’ asked Nasrin, Aqa Jaan’s elder daughter.

‘It’s not as though they could go anywhere,’ said Jawad, Aqa Jaan’s son. ‘The police ought to be able to find them.’

‘I know. Hajji Mustafa is doing all he can. Who knows, they might have taken a train to some other city. There are millions of pilgrims in Mecca, so maybe they got lost in the multitude. Still, the grandmothers have done a very generous thing: they left your gifts with Hajji Mustafa. To me, that’s proof that no harm has come to them,’ Aqa Jaan concluded. ‘Shahbal, open the suitcases!’

Shahbal placed the suitcases on the desk and opened the lids. Everyone marvelled at the splendour and magnificence: watches, alarm clocks, gold necklaces, slippers, headbands, perfumes, colourful chadors, distinctive blouses and handbags. Every gift was labelled with the name of the recipient. For Nasrin and Ensi there were bright blouses; for Jawad a watch and a cap; for Fakhri Sadat a make-up bag; and for Muezzin a collapsible walking stick – something none of them had ever seen before. Zinat Khanom was given a volume of poetry written by poets from Mecca, Aqa Jaan a fountain pen with a picture of the holy Ali on the cap and Shahbal a watch and several yards of a navy-blue pinstripe that could be made into a suit.

They were delighted. They were remarking on the grandmothers’ good taste and noisily discussing each other’s presents when they heard shouts coming from outside. One woman yelled something, and another one began to scold her like a fishwife. Women’s quarrels were never conducted outside, so this was unusual. The two women were apparently standing on the roof of the neighbour’s house, hurling insults at each other. ‘It’s the wives of Hajji Shishegar,’ Zinat Khanom said.

Hajji Shishegar was a man in his early sixties. He had gone to Mecca at the same time as the grandmothers and had therefore returned only recently. He was a glass merchant who owned a large shop in the bazaar.

Hajji Shishegar had two wives: an older one named Akram, and a younger one named Tala. Akram had borne him seven daughters, but he wanted a son and had spent a long time looking for another wife. At last he had found a young woman and married her, but so far she hadn’t produced any children.

‘Don’t!’ Tala begged. ‘Don’t hit me! I’m sorry! I didn’t know, I really didn’t.’

Akram wasn’t about to stop. She screamed and pulled Tala’s hair and struck her again.

‘Don’t! I haven’t done anything wrong! Your children are my children too. I beg you, stop!’

Zinat Khanom had gone up to the roof to see what she could do. ‘What’s going on here?’ she said. ‘What are you two fighting about?’

‘Nothing,’ said Tala, the hajji’s younger wife.

‘Then why is Akram hitting you? And why in God’s name are you quarrelling out here on the roof?’

‘Because Hajji is at home and has company,’ Tala said. ‘And I . . . I’m . . .’

‘You’re what?’

‘Pregnant,’ she said softly.

Akram, Hajji’s older wife, burst into tears and ran off into the darkness.

‘Tala is pregnant!’ Zinat cried.

‘
Mobarak!
Congratulations!’ Nasrin and Ensi shouted from the dark courtyard.

When Hajji Shishegar was at the Kaaba, he had asked God to grant him a son, and God had answered his prayer by giving him two sons – twin boys.

In the house of the mosque the weeks and months slipped by. And there was still no sign of the grandmothers.

O
ne morning, as Shahbal was going to the kitchen to eat breakfast, he saw a woman with a suitcase sitting on the bench by the
hauz
. Only when she lowered her chador to her shoulders did he recognise her.

‘Sadiq, is that you?’

When Khalkhal had fled Senejan in the aftermath of the cinema riot, Sadiq had gone to Qom to be with her husband. She had not been home since.

Zinat hugged and kissed her daughter, and asked her what had been going on and why she had come home looking so sad. Sadiq lay her head on Zinat’s shoulder and wept, but offered no explanation for her return.

Zinat knew that her daughter was unhappy with Khalkhal. He had never given her a normal family life or let her have visitors in her own home. She lived in fear of him.

He was away often, leaving her at home all by herself. He never told her what he was doing, and he forbade her to discuss anything with her family.

The smile that had always graced Sadiq’s lips was now gone. A veil of sorrow had fallen over her face.

‘What’s happened?’

Sadiq was reluctant to speak.

‘Have you left him?’

Silence.

‘Did you two have a row?’

She shook her head.

‘Then tell me what’s happened.’

But Sadiq’s lips were sealed.

She walked around the courtyard, pondering her life.

Khalkhal had been gone for several months. He had left her on her own, without saying where he was going or when he would return. One day she got a letter from him. ‘I won’t be coming home for a while,’ he wrote. ‘In fact I’ll probably be gone for a very long time. Go back to your family and don’t breathe a word of this to anyone!’

Sadiq didn’t, but they all knew she’d come home to think about her troubled marriage. She was struggling with a difficult question: if he did come home, did she want to go back to him? Back to that horrible house in Qom? Did she want to live with him again? To share her bed with him? But she knew that, as a woman, she had no choice. If he asked her to come home, she
had
to go back.

No, I won’t go, she thought. And if he makes me, I’ll scream until everyone in the mosque runs up to the roof to see what’s going on.

She went into the kitchen. It felt so empty without the grandmothers. When they had lived here, the kitchen had always been neat and tidy. Now it was a mess. Nothing was where it should be. The rubbish bin was full, the spice jars were all over the place instead of in the cupboard where they belonged and the kitchen was no longer filled with the delightful smell of fresh fruit, which had always stood in the bowl on the counter. Sadiq began to clean up. She carried out the rubbish, wiped off the spice jars and arranged them on the shelf. She put away the dishes, swept the floor, washed the windows and watered the plants.

Then she got out a frying pan and began to cook.

That evening, when everyone came home, they saw a light on in the kitchen, and the house was filled with the tantalising smell of food.

Sadiq set the dining-room table. For the first time in a long while the family ate together.

They were careful not to ask her any questions or to mention Khalkhal’s name. They knew that Aqa Jaan would talk to her when the time was right.

It had been an enjoyable evening, and they all mentioned how much they had missed eating good food. After dinner Sadiq went back to the kitchen and stayed there until bedtime. After doing the washing-up, she sat by the window for a long time and stared into the darkness. Her suitcase was still by the
hauz
. Zinat had offered her a bed in her room, but she didn’t want to share with her mother.

Sadiq peered at herself in the kitchen mirror, the same one the grandmothers had always used. The mottled old mirror told her that a new phase of her life was about to begin. She’d been dithering all day long, but now she’d finally made up her mind. Sadiq stood up, switched off the kitchen light and went down to the cellar.

‘Who’s there?’ Muezzin called.

She jumped.

‘Is that you, Sadiq?’

‘Yes, it’s me.’

‘I wasn’t sure at first. Your footsteps have changed so much I almost didn’t recognise them. What are you doing down here in the middle of the night?’

‘Looking for a key. It must be in one of those old trunks.’

‘The key to what?’

‘The room next to the stairs. The one between the stairs and Aqa Jaan’s study.’

‘Do you need it right now?’

She searched through the trunks, but didn’t find the key.

‘Look behind that archway,’ Muezzin said. ‘There’s another trunk in there. Take the lantern, or you won’t be able to see a thing.’

There was a lantern in a niche, with a box of matches beside it. Sadiq lit the candle in the lantern and used it to light her way to the trunk, which she rummaged through without finding the key.

‘There’s a box in here, in the cupboard,’ Muezzin told her. ‘The key might be in that.’

She switched on the light in the studio and saw Muezzin taking some vases out of his kiln.

‘Don’t touch them,’ he said. ‘They’re still hot.’

She edged her way past the newly fired vases and opened the cupboard. Inside were a couple of old-fashioned men’s jackets and two walking sticks.

‘Did you find it?’

‘No, all I can see are clothes.’

‘It has to be in there somewhere. I heard keys jingling once when the grandmothers were clearing out the cupboard.’

She pushed aside the jackets. Suddenly she heard a dull jangle.

‘You found them!’ Muezzin exclaimed.

Sadiq went back to the courtyard. She walked past Aqa Jaan’s study and stopped in front of the third door. She tried the keys in the lock, one by one. Only one key in the bunch fitted, but she couldn’t get it to turn.

She went back to the cellar to get Muezzin. He oiled the lock and tried the key again, but it still wouldn’t budge. ‘This room hasn’t been used for ages,’ he said. ‘The key and the lock are rusty.’

He was dying to ask, Why does the door have to be unlocked
now
, in the middle of the night? If you want to sleep, use the guest room. But instead, he poured a little more oil in the lock and tried it again.

‘I think it’s loosening up, yes, here it comes, it’s turning. No, wait, it’s still stuck. I need to tap it with a hammer, but I’m afraid I’ll wake everybody up.’

And yet he had no choice, so he went back to his room and got a hammer. He gave the key a couple of taps, then turned it. There was a sudden click. ‘At last!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s unlocked now, though heaven only knows why you’re so anxious to get in here at this time of night!’ Then, without waiting for an explanation, he went back to his room and shut the door behind him.

Sadiq gently pushed open the door.

The room was dark. She felt around for the light switch, but it wasn’t working. So she went back to the cellar, got the lantern and returned to her room.

White sheets had been draped over everything, even the carpet. They were covered with a thin layer of dust. Sadiq carefully removed the sheets and piled them up outside.

There was a bed, and next to that an old mirror. A chador was hanging on a coat-rack, and beneath it lay a worn pair of slippers. On the bedside table was a comb, a compact and a small make-up bag. The two shelves on the wall above the bed held a number of books. There was also a wood-burning stove – on top of which stood a tea glass and a bowl – and a cupboard with several dresses hanging inside.

Sadiq took two clean sheets out of the laundry room, fetched her suitcase, went back to the bedroom, set the suitcase down beside the cupboard, made up the bed, crawled under the covers, closed her eyes and went to sleep.

Early the next morning everyone saw her giving the room a thorough cleaning. She beat the carpet and washed the windows, and also had Shahbal fix the wiring.

That evening a light could be seen in the window of the room by the stairs. The coloured panes of glass cast a red, green and yellow glow on the ground beneath the window.

One night, after Aqa Jaan had seen Sadiq standing in the doorway with the red, green and yellow lights shining on her abdomen, he wrote in his journal, ‘Sadiq is pregnant.’