The House of the Mosque (47 page)

‘I’m a sinner from way back, but you aren’t,’ Khan said. ‘I wouldn’t ask you to do anything sinful. This wine was made out of grapes from my own vineyard. At harvest time the most beautiful girls in the mountains come here to pick the grapes and pour the wine into the old clay jars in the cellar.’

Khan took a sip and savoured it. ‘It’s unbelievable,’ he said. ‘In this wine you can taste the particles that make up the volcano, the particles that make up the universe. You can even smell the hands of the girls who picked the grapes. Take a sip, Aqa Jaan!’

When Aqa Jaan didn’t lift his glass, Khan decided not to press him any further. He went outside.

Bats were swooping across his property, wheeling above the tractor parked on the hillside. He saw Ahmad walking towards the stable, with something slung over his shoulder. He sipped his wine and listened to the sounds of the night. His children were still playing outside. He heard his daughters chasing each other through the darkness. Years ago he had lived in Paris. It had been a time of great upheaval, with demonstrators marching through the streets, existentialism in its heyday and Simone de Beauvoir captivating
tout le Paris
with her books. He’d been happy, he’d fallen in and out of love a dozen times and his French friends had welcomed him as if he were a Persian prince. He could have lived in Paris for ever. But after a while the tide turned. He wasn’t happy any more: he longed for home, for the hills of his youth and the women of the mountains. Paris was beautiful, but its beauty was not for him. He stored up his memories of Paris and went back to his fortress, this time for ever.

Carrying his wine goblet, Khan walked down his village’s only street. After a moment he turned and saw Aqa Jaan standing by the window. Was he sipping the wine? Khan wanted to go in and find out, but something held him back.

The poignancy of his last years in Paris unexpectedly stole over him. He didn’t want to be alone with his sorrow, so he went to the house of his youngest wife, in whose arms he always found peace. He knocked, and she opened the door. ‘Why do you look so sad?’

‘My friend’s sorrow has rubbed off on me,’ he said.

She asked no more, but took him into her bed and let him lay his head in her lap.

The next morning the aged servant led Aqa Jaan to the royal bath chamber. He stepped into the bath and felt the hot tiles beneath his feet – a moment of joy after an unusually long night. The water came up to his chin. He slid down beneath the surface for a moment, then came back up and chanted:

He plunged back under the water, so that it gushed over the sides of the bath. He opened his mouth wide and stayed underwater for a long time, as if to cleanse himself of sin. This time when he came up, he was gasping for air. He shouted, as hard as he could, ‘In the gardens of bliss!’

He got dressed, put on his hat and motioned for the servant to bring him his horse. Then he sprang into the saddle and galloped off.

T
he story of the house of the mosque is far from over, and yet it resembles real life in one respect: we must all bid it farewell.

There’s a phrase that often crops up at the end of Persian tales: ‘Our story is over, but the crow still hasn’t reached its nest.’

One day, when Aqa Jaan was at his office in the bazaar, he received an unusual letter. It had a foreign postmark. He was surprised. It had been a while since he’d received business letters from abroad. But this letter was different: he didn’t recognise the stamp. German stamps were always very grand, with portraits of musicians or philosophers or drawings of historical monuments, but this stamp featured a bouquet of bright red tulips.

Aqa Jaan took a magnifying glass out of his drawer and examined the stamp. Maybe it was from Switzerland. He recalled sending a consignment of carpets there years ago.

The envelope filled him with hope. Still, you could never be sure, for bad news was always lying in wait, ready to pounce at any moment. He put the letter aside and asked the office boy to bring him some tea.

When he had finished his tea, he took out his letter-opener and carefully slit open the envelope. Inside was a letter written in Persian with a fountain pen:

That night Aqa Jaan put on his coat and hat, picked up his walking stick, left his study and went out into the courtyard.

It was cold. The
hauz
was frozen and the tree branches were encased in a thin layer of ice.

The dark-blue sky was studded with stars stretching all the way to Mecca. Aqa Jaan walked across the courtyard and gingerly mounted the stairs to the roof.

The old crow recognised his footsteps and cawed, but stayed in its nest, watching his every move.

‘Thank you, crow! I’ll be careful,’ Aqa Jaan said as he passed the dome on his way to the mosque.

The crow cawed again.

‘Thank you, crow. It’s good of you to remind me. No, I won’t switch on the light. The treasure room is our secret.’

Clutching the wooden rail, he went down the steps and into the mosque. Then he tiptoed through the darkness until he came to the vault and cautiously opened the door. He couldn’t see a thing. For a moment he wondered whether to turn on the light, but decided against it. He crept down the stairs and groped his way to the door of the treasure room.

It was eerily silent. The only sound was that of his footsteps and the tapping of his stick.

Finally, he stopped walking. He fumbled with the lock, and a moment later the hinges creaked and the heavy, ancient door opened.

His silhouette was dimly visible in the inky blackness. Then he stepped into the treasure room and was swallowed up in the darkness.

He walked across the red carpet and stopped beside the last coat-hook in the long row. Taking Shahbal’s letter out of his pocket, he knelt down and slipped it into the chest. Then, breaking the silence, he chanted:

A few chapters in
The House of the Mosque
begin, just as some of the surahs in the Koran do, with the names of letters from the Arabic alphabet, such as
alef, lam
and
mim.
At first glance, they seem to be meaningless, but Islamic scholars have written countless volumes about them. They are thought to be secret numbers, a kind of code to the universe that will unlock the secret of creation.

The story quoted at the end of the
Mahiha
chapter is based on a paragraph in a short story by the Iranian writer Jalal Al-e Ahmad.

The poems in the
Family
chapter are taken from
Een karavaan uit Perzië
(A Caravan from Persia), edited and translated by J.T.P. de Bruijn, Amsterdam: Bulaaq, 2002.

All the passages from the Koran have been reworked. I’ve taken them out of context, mixed the lines of one surah with lines from another and translated them freely, using a number of different source texts and consulting various interpretations.

Although
The House of the Mosque
is based on historical fact, all the references to real people and actual events should be read according to the conventions of fiction.

Translator’s note
: The passages from the Koran are a composite of several different English translations, including an online version translated by Yusef Ali. I am particularly indebted to Tarif Khalidi,
The Qur’an
, London: Penguin, 2008. Its poetic elegance makes it a pleasure to read.

I wish to thank Diane Webb for her editorial advice and R.M. McGlinn for his assistance with the transliteration and translation of Farsi into English.

aba
Iranian-style robe

akkas
photographer

Allahu akbar
God is great

Ankahtu wa zawagto
I ask you to be my wife. (The traditional words recited by the groom during a wedding ceremony.)

astaghfirullah
God forgive me

azan
the call to prayer

Enna lellah
An expression you say when someone has died. It’s short for ‘
Enna lellah wa enna elayhi raje’un
’, which means ‘To God we belong and to Him we return.’

Eqra
Read. (The first surah revealed to Muhammad begins with this word.)

esfandi
fragrant seeds of wild rue that are burned to chase away evil spirits

hauz
hexagonal pool or basin of water used for ablutions

Hayye ale as-salat
Hasten to the prayer

hijab
an Islamic dress code for women

Inshallah
God willing

La ilaha illa Allah
There is no God but Allah.

Mobarak inshallah
Blessings, congratulations

mahajjabeh
a veiled woman, and by extension a model Islamic woman

mahiha
fish

Qabilto
I consent. (The traditional words recited by the bride during a wedding ceremony.)

qadi
judge

rakat
one unit of prayer

Salla ala Mohammad wa ale Mohammad
Blessed be Muhammad and the House of Muhammad.

Salaam aleikum
Peace be upon you. (A traditional greeting.)

Salaam bar Khomeini
Greetings to Khomeini.

siegeh
Under Shiite law a man may have a maximum of four wives. In addition he’s allowed an unlimited number of temporary wives, who make a marriage contract for a period ranging anywhere from one hour to ninety-nine years. These
sigeh
wives have no inheritance rights and are not officially registered with the city or the mosque.

tayareh
a swiftly moving object, such as a bird, boat or plane

toman
Iranian unit of currency

Wa-assalaam
That is all.

zaman
time