The House of the Mosque (5 page)

‘Yes,’ Khalkhal said.

Shahbal showed Khalkhal to the door and went back to the study.

‘What do you think, Shahbal?’ Aqa Jaan asked.

‘He’s different. Very astute. I liked that.’

‘You’re right. You could tell just by the way he sat in his chair. He’s a far cry from a rural imam. But I have my doubts.’

‘What kind of doubts?’

‘He’s ambitious. The ayatollah didn’t say anything specific about him in his note. He gave him a letter of recommendation, but then didn’t comment on him. I sense hesitation in his note. Khalkhal probably isn’t a bad person, but it’s risky. Would he be the right man for our mosque? Alsaberi is soft; this young imam is hard.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Is Alsaberi still up?’

Shahbal looked out through the curtain.

‘The light’s on in the library,’ he said.

‘Let’s keep this to ourselves for a while. There’s no need to tell the women yet,’ Aqa Jaan said, and he went outside.

He knocked on the library door and went in. Alsaberi was sitting on his rug, reading a book.

‘How was your day?’ Aqa Jaan asked.

‘The same as usual,’ Alsaberi said.

‘What are you reading?’

‘A book about the political activities of the ayatollahs during the last hundred years. Apparently they haven’t been idle: they’ve always found something to rebel against, always found a way to gain more power. This book is a mirror that I can hold up to myself to judge my own performance. I have nothing against politics, but it’s not for me. I wasn’t cut out for heroics. And that makes me feel guilty.’

Alsaberi was being unusually frank. Aqa Jaan seemed to have caught him at a good moment.

‘I know that Qom isn’t happy with me. I’m afraid that if I continue my policy of not speaking out, people will switch to another mosque or stop coming altogether.’

‘There’s no need to worry about that,’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘On the contrary, the fact that our mosque doesn’t get mixed up in politics will attract
more
people. Most of the men and women who come to our mosque are ordinary, everyday people. The mosque is their home. They’ve been coming here all their lives, and they aren’t about to stop now. They know you too well and have too much respect for you to do that.’

‘But the bazaar,’ the imam continued. ‘The bazaar has always been at the forefront of every political movement. It says so in this book. During the last two hundred years, the bazaars have played a pivotal role. The imams have always used the bazaar as a weapon. When the merchants close the bazaar, everyone knows something important or unusual is about to happen. And I know the bazaar isn’t happy with me.’

Aqa Jaan knew perfectly well what the imam was talking about. He himself wasn’t all that happy with Alsaberi, but you can’t dismiss a man because he’s weak. Alsaberi was the imam of the mosque and would be its imam until he died. He knew that there was grumbling at the bazaar, that the merchants expected the mosque to do more, but he couldn’t help it if Alsaberi was incompetent. Aqa Jaan had even been summoned recently to Qom, where the ayatollahs had told him in no uncertain terms that the mosque needed to take a harder line. They wanted it to speak out against the shah, and especially against the Americans. Aqa Jaan had promised that the mosque would be more vocal, but he knew that Alsaberi wasn’t the man for the job.

Qom was the centre of the Shiite world. The great ayatollahs all lived in Qom and controlled every mosque from within its sacred walls. The mosque in Senejan was one of the most important in the country, which is why the ayatollahs expected it to take a more active role. Qom asked questions, Qom issued orders, but with Alsaberi as its imam, Aqa Jaan would never be able to change the mosque. Perhaps that’s why Almakki had sent the young imam to their house.

‘I have a surprise for you,’ said Aqa Jaan, changing the subject. ‘It fits in with the subject of your book.’

‘What is it?’

‘Someone has come to ask for the hand of your daughter.’

‘Who?’

‘A young imam from Qom. A follower of Ayatollah Almakki.’

‘Almakki?’ the imam said, surprised, and he put down his book.

‘He’s not afraid of politics, he dresses well, he’s confident and he wears his black turban at a jaunty angle,’ Aqa Jaan said with a smile.

‘How did he find us? I mean my daughter.’

‘Everyone in Senejan knows you have a daughter. And everyone is free to ask for her hand. But I suspect that this young man has come not only for your daughter, but also for your mosque and your pulpit.’

‘What?’

‘There’s bound to be a political motive if Almakki is involved.’

‘We’ll have to consider the matter carefully before we give him our reply. We need to know if he’s after my daughter or the mosque.’

‘Of course we’ll look into it, but I’m not afraid of change. Nor do I avoid things that come my way. I don’t believe in coincidence. He knocked on our door for a reason. He’ll fit into this house quite nicely. We’ve had a few fiery imams in our mosque in the past. I’ll go to Qom and talk to Almakki. If he approves of Khalkhal as a person and as a husband, I’ll agree to the match. And I’ll phone your son, Ahmad. He’s not at the same seminary, but he probably knows Khalkhal.’

‘Do whatever you think best, but be careful. It mustn’t be a marriage made for religious and political reasons. I’m not going to give my daughter to the first imam who comes along. We have to make sure he’s a good man. I want her to have a good marriage. I don’t want to sacrifice her to the ayatollahs.’

‘There’s no need to worry,’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘I haven’t been feeling well lately. My heart is often filled with sadness. I’ve become more anxious. I worry about everything, especially the mosque. Sometimes I don’t know what to say during the Friday prayer.’

‘You’re tired. Why don’t you go to Jirya for a few days? Take the grandmothers with you and relax for a week. It’ll do them good to be back in Jirya too – they haven’t been there for a while. You’re torturing yourself with those self-imposed rules of yours. Nobody bathes as often as you do. And you’re also isolated. At the rate you’re going, you won’t live very long. Go to Jirya. Who knows, soon you might have a strong son-in-law to lean on,’ Aqa Jaan said. Smiling at the thought, he left the library.

The next day Aqa Jaan phoned Ahmad in Qom.

‘Do you know a man named Mohammad Khalkhal?’

‘Where did you meet
him
?’

‘He wants to marry your sister.’

‘You’re joking!’ he exclaimed.

‘No, I’m not. What kind of a man is he?’

‘I’ve never met him, but he’s made quite a name for himself here. He’s very eloquent and has an opinion on everything under the sun. He’s not like any of the other imams. As to whatever else he might be up to, I don’t know.’

‘Do you think he’d be a suitable husband for your sister?’

‘It’s difficult to say. As far as I can tell, he’s tough as nails. The only imam my sister has ever known has been her father. She thinks all clerics are like him.’

‘Your sister’s happiness is my primary concern,’ said Aqa Jaan.

‘He’s a decent man, very intelligent, but I have no way of knowing whether he’d make her a good husband . . .’

‘Thanks, Ahmad, I think I’ve heard enough.’

Aqa Jaan’s next step was to phone the residence of Ayatollah Almakki and make an appointment. Early on Thursday morning his chauffeur picked him up and drove him to the station.

Wearing an overcoat and a hat, Aqa Jaan got out of the car and went into the monumental railway station. As soon as the manager saw him, he put out his cigar and hurried over to him. ‘Good morning,’ he said politely. ‘May your journey be blessed!’

‘
Inshallah
,’ Aqa Jaan replied.

The long brown train that Aqa Jaan was about to board had arrived half an hour earlier from the south. From its starting point in the Persian Gulf, the train would continue on towards the east, stopping at dozens of stations on the way, until it finally reached the border with Afghanistan. Aqa Jaan had a three-hour train ride ahead of him.

The station was filled with hundreds of passengers and people waiting to pick up the travellers. There were men in hats, women in long coats and a surprising number of women not wearing chadors.

Outwardly, the country had been transformed. Aqa Jaan was struck by the change every time he travelled. The people from the south were freer and more relaxed than the people from Senejan. In the train you saw all kinds of women: women with bare heads (and even a few with bare arms), women who wore hats, women who carried handbags, women who laughed and women who smoked. Aqa Jaan knew that the shah had been responsible for these changes, but the shah was a mere puppet of the Americans. The religion of this country was being undermined by America, and there wasn’t a thing anyone could do about it.

The manager invited Aqa Jaan into his office, offered him some freshly brewed tea and, when it was time for his train to leave, escorted him personally to the VIP compartment.

Three hours later the gleaming dome of Fatima’s tomb came into view.

The train lumbered into Qom. Arriving at the station was like entering another world. The women were swathed in black chadors, the men had beards and there were imams everywhere you looked.

Aqa Jaan got out. The loudspeakers on the roofs of every mosque were blaring out the Koran recitations of the muezzins. There wasn’t a single portrait of the shah in sight. Instead there were banners inscribed with Koranic texts. The shah would never dream of setting foot in Qom, and no American diplomat would even dare to pass through it.

Qom was the Vatican of the Shiites – the holiest city in the country, the place where Fatima, the daughter of Muhammad, was buried. The golden dome of her tomb glittered like a jewel in the centre of the city.

Aqa Jaan took a taxi to Ayatollah Almakki’s mosque. At twelve noon on the dot, the taxi pulled up in front of the mosque, and he got out.

The ayatollah came walking up with his students – young imams escorting him to the prayer room. Aqa Jaan nodded politely. The ayatollah held out his hand. Aqa Jaan shook it, went into the prayer room with him and took a place in the front row.

At the end of the prayer, Aqa Jaan sat on his heels beside the ayatollah.

‘Welcome! What brings you to Qom?’ the ayatollah enquired.

‘First of all, I wanted to see your blessed face. But I also came to talk about Mohammad Khalkhal.’

‘He was my best student,’ the ayatollah said. ‘And he has my blessing.’

‘That’s all I need to know,’ Aqa Jaan replied. He kissed the ayatollah’s shoulder and got to his feet.

‘But . . .’ said the ayatollah.

Aqa Jaan sat down again.

‘He’s a maverick.’

‘What are you trying to tell me?’ Aqa Jaan asked.

‘Well, simply that he doesn’t follow the herd.’

‘I understand,’ said Aqa Jaan.

‘May the marriage be blessed and blessings on your journey home,’ said the ayatollah, and he shook Aqa Jaan’s hand again.

Aqa Jaan was pleased with what Almakki had said about Khalkhal. The ayatollah had given his approval.

But deep inside, Aqa Jaan still had his doubts.

When he got home, he called his nephew into his study. ‘Shahbal, would you please bring Sadiq in here?’

When she heard that Aqa Jaan wanted to speak to her, Sadiq knew instantly that something was afoot.

‘Sit down,’ Aqa Jaan said to her. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘Listen, my daughter. Someone has asked for your hand in marriage.’

Sadiq’s face went pale. She looked down at her feet.

‘He’s an imam.’

Sadiq turned to Shahbal, who smiled and said, ‘An excellent young imam!’

Sadiq smiled.

‘I went to Qom and talked to his ayatollah. He spoke highly of him. Your brother also approved of him. What do you think? Would you like to marry an imam?’

She was silent.

‘I need an answer,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘You can’t greet a marriage proposal with silence.’

‘He’s handsome,’ Shahbal told her. He grinned. ‘He wears a stylish imam robe and shiny light-brown shoes. He’s the answer to every girl’s dream!’

Aqa Jaan pretended not to have heard his remarks, but Sadiq had heard every word. She smiled.

‘What do you think? Shall we talk to his family?’

‘Yes,’ she said softly, after a long silence. ‘Let’s do that.’

‘There’s one more thing we need to discuss,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘He’s not at all like your father. He’s a follower of Ayatollah Almakki. Does that name mean anything to you?’

Sadiq looked over at Shahbal.

‘He’s not a village imam,’ Shahbal interpreted.

‘Your life is bound to be stormy and difficult at times,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘Do you think you could live that kind of life?’

She gave it some thought. ‘What do
you
think?’ she asked.

‘On the one hand, it would be a great honour. On the other hand, it could be a living hell if you didn’t support it fully,’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘May I talk to him first?’

‘Of course!’ said Aqa Jaan.

A week later Shahbal ushered Imam Khalkhal into the guest room, where a bowl of fruit and a pot of tea awaited him.

Then he fetched Sadiq and introduced her to Khalkhal.

She greeted him, but kept standing awkwardly by the mirror. He offered her a chair. She sat down and loosened her chador, so that more of her face was visible.

Shahbal left them alone and gently closed the door behind him.

The grandmothers stood by the
hauz
and kept an eye on things. Fakhri Sadat, the wife of Aqa Jaan, had caught a glimpse of Khalkhal from her upstairs window. Alsaberi’s wife, Zinat Khanom, was in her room, praying that her daughter would have a good marriage. It was all she could do, since no one had asked her opinion. Her thoughts on the subject didn’t count. Fakhri Sadat was the woman who made the decisions in this house.