Читать книгу My Father's Notebook - Kader Abdolah - Страница 7

We suspect that Aga Akbar wrote

about his friends in this section.

And about his wife.

All the birds had started making their nests, all except Aga Akbar. He had no mate. No wife.

By then the other strong men, who had also built stone houses, already had children. Aga Akbar’s house, however, was still empty.

In those days he came into frequent contact with prostitutes. That was because of his work: he called on customers and mended their carpets.

Back when Aga Akbar was twelve, Kazem Khan had taken him to see an old friend in another village. Uwsa Gholam had a small business up in the mountains. He made natural dyes out of the roots and flowers of plants that grew on Saffron Mountain. People came to him from all over the country to match the original colours in their carpets.

In fact, Uwsa Gholam made a living out of mending carpets. Old and expensive carpets were always getting damaged. If the hole or tear wasn’t mended, the rest of the weave would gradually come unravelled, too. Not everyone, though, can mend a carpet. In unskilled hands, a mend will forever be a fresh wound in the old weave. Uwsa Gholam was one of the best carpet-menders in the country, but he was getting old. His eyes weren’t as good as they used to be. He could no longer do his work.

Kazem Khan knew that Aga Akbar would make a poor farmer. He wasn’t suited to a life of ploughing fields or tending sheep. He needed to do work that required him to use both his hands and his head. That’s why Kazem Khan had brought him to Uwsa Gholam.

“Salaam aleikum, Uwsa! Here’s the boy I’ve been telling you about. Akbar, shake Uwsa’s hand.”

The old man reached into his pocket and pulled out a single purple thread from an old carpet. “Akbar, go find some flowers that match the colour of this thread!”

This is how Aga Akbar got started in his career, in the work that he continued to do until the day he died.

For three years he went to Uwsa’s early every morning and rode home again at dusk. Then Uwsa died, but by that time Akbar had learned enough to mend carpets and produce natural dyes on his own.

Though no one could take Uwsa’s place, Akbar had already made a name for himself in the region. The villagers liked him. They trusted him and would rather have him than a stranger in their homes. And so he rode his horse from one village to another. It was during this period that he came into contact with prostitutes.

• • •

Kazem Khan was very choosy when it came to finding a wife for Aga Akbar. He didn’t want a woman with only one eye, or a farm girl who wove carpets. No, he wanted a strong woman with a good head on her shoulders, a woman who could organise things, a woman who understood the man whose children she would bear.

“No, not just any woman,” he used to say. “I’ll wait, I want him to have just the right one. He can hold out for a few more years. It won’t kill him.”

But the other men in the family said to him, “You shouldn’t compare him to yourself, Kazem Khan. You have women all over Saffron Mountain, but that boy doesn’t. If you don’t let him marry, he’s bound to go astray.”

“He can get married tomorrow if he likes, but not to a woman who’s deaf, lame or blind.”

Unfortunately, there were no strong, healthy, intelligent women on Saffron Mountain who would agree to marry Akbar.

So he turned to prostitutes for warmth and they provided it willingly. “Hello, Aga Akbar, come in. Take a look at my carpet. Do you think you can mend it? Come sit by me. You’re tired, your arms ache, your back aches. Here, have a cup of tea. There’s no need to stare, I’ll come sit beside you. Let me hold your hand. Now doesn’t that feel nice?”

If you want to hear the story of Aga Akbar’s relationships with prostitutes, you should ask his childhood friend Sayyid Shoja.

Shoja was blind. He’d been blind from birth, yet he was famous for his keen sense of hearing—he could hear as well as a dog. He had a sharp tongue, which he didn’t hesitate to use. The men tried to stay out of his way, since they knew he heard everything they said.

Sayyid Shoja knew all of the prostitutes on Saffron Mountain and called them by their first names. He also knew which men went to see them. He recognised them instantly by their footsteps. “Hey, little man, you’re tiptoeing past. Are you trying to avoid me? What for? Have you been doing naughty things again with that poker in your trousers? Come on, shake my hand, say hello, you don’t need to be afraid. Your secret is safe with me.”

As evening fell, he used to sit by the side of the road and lean against the old tree. The girls came back from the spring with their jugs of water, and he always recognised the footsteps of the girl he loved. “Salaam aleikum, my little moon. Let me carry your bucket for you.”

The girls laughed at him and he teased them.

“You there,” he’d say. “Yes, you with the big butt. Don’t sit on the ground, you’ll leave a hole in the dirt!”

He didn’t have any money, but he didn’t need any, because Aga Akbar paid his bills.

The men who didn’t like him and feared his sharp tongue sometimes chided him: “You’re a leech, Shoja, sucking Akbar dry.”

The sayyid was too high-minded to worry about such unimportant things.

There was another man who shared his secrets with Akbar and Shoja: Jafar the Spider.

Jafar was crippled. He couldn’t walk or stand upright. He was skinny and had a tiny head. The way he scuttled over the ground with his muscular arms and legs made you think of a spider. Yet he owed his nickname not so much to his spidery crawl, but to the fact that he climbed trees like a real spider. People would see him in places a normal person couldn’t go. Suddenly he’d be hanging from a branch or crawling up the dome of a mosque. One of his favourite pastimes was peeking through the window of the bathhouse and spying on the naked women.

Jafar saw what the blind Shoja couldn’t see.

And since Jafar was Shoja’s friend, he was Aga Akbar’s friend, too. They formed a tight-knit threesome, and they could do many things together that they were unable to do alone.

They even went to the prostitutes together. That was the agreement. Jafar would crawl onto the back of the blind Shoja, who would then take hold of Aga Akbar’s arm, and in this way the three of them would make their way up Saffron Mountain.

They needed Jafar because he was the expert. They never went straight into the prostitute’s house. They let Jafar check it out first. He was the one who had to give the OK. Jafar would point his finger at Akbar and say, “Never go in there without me! You might catch a disease! Then you won’t be able to pee, and it’ll hurt like hell!”

That’s how they did things and it had always gone well.

Then, one night, Jafar climbed up on the roof of the outhouse and heard a strange noise. He put his ear to the hole, so he could hear better. He knew instantly what Aga Akbar’s problem was. He hurried back to Sayyid Shoja. “Shoja,” he said, “help me!”

“What’s wrong? How can I help you?”

“That idiot’s sitting in the outhouse, crying his eyes out.”

“What? Who’s crying?”

“Akbar. He can’t pee.”

The two of them went over and stood by the outhouse door.

“You hear that? He’s crying.”

“I’ll be damned, he is. But maybe he’s crying about something else.”

“Of course not. You don’t go to an outhouse to cry about something else.”

“Give me a minute to think about it.”

“There’s nothing to think about, man. It’s clear as a bell. We have to look at Akbar’s thingy. Then we’ll know for sure. We’ve got to nab him as soon as he comes out.”

They hid behind a wall and waited for Akbar.

He came out and Jafar beckoned to him.

Though it was dark, Akbar knew immediately what his friends were up to. His first impulse was to flee, but Jafar was too quick, hurling himself in front of Akbar and grabbing his foot so that he tripped and fell. Shoja rushed over and pinned him to the ground. “Don’t run away, asshole! Come with us.”

They dragged him into the barn.

“Hold him!” Jafar yelled.

He shimmied up a pole and lit an oil lamp.

Then he pulled down Akbar’s trousers and inspected his penis. “Let the bastard go. He’s sick.”

Early the next morning they went to the city in search of a doctor.

Several months later, after Aga Akbar had been cured, Shoja and Jafar had a little talk. Akbar was gradually distancing himself from them and they knew why. As true friends, they felt obliged to inform his uncle. So, one evening, Jafar picked up a lantern and climbed up on Shoja’s back.

They went to Kazem Khan’s house.

“Good evening,” Shoja said. “May we come in?”

“Of course, Sayyid Shoja. You two are always welcome. Have a seat. Can I get you some tea?”

“No, thanks. We don’t want to be here when Akbar gets home. We’ve come here to tell you something. We’re Akbar’s best friends, but some secrets need to be brought out into the open. We’ve come here to say that we’re worried about him.”

“Why?”

“You know that the three of us go out together sometimes. Strange things happen every once in a while, though it usually turns out all right. But this time it’s different. This time Akbar has gone too far.”

“What do you mean, ‘too far’? What’s he done now?”

“I may be blind, but I do have two good ears. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with Jafar’s sight. Maybe I better let Jafar tell you what he’s seen.”

“Tell me, Jafar. What have you seen?”

“How shall I put it? It’s like this: Akbar goes out sometimes … well, almost every night, to sleep with a prostitute. I-I-I think he’s in love with her. That isn’t necessarily bad. She’s … well, she’s young and … very friendly. I get the impression that she’s fond of Akbar.

“But we think he’s gone too far this time. Right, Shoja? Anyway, that’s what we wanted to tell you. There’s nothing wrong with the woman. She’s young and healthy. But we thought you ought to know. Right, Shoja?”

“Right,” Shoja said. “Well, that’s it. Come on, let’s go before Akbar gets home.”

Kazem Khan knew that he had to do something for Akbar and that there wasn’t much time. If he didn’t act soon, no one would want their daughter to marry Akbar.

He had to admit that he’d failed to find the ideal wife for his nephew. So he turned the job over to the old women in the family.

The women rolled up their sleeves and got to work. Before long, however, their enthusiasm dwindled. None of the prospects they came up with fitted into the family. One had a father who was a beggar, another had brothers who were thieves, the third had no breasts, the fourth was so shy she didn’t dare show herself.

No, the women of the family weren’t able to find a wife for Aga Akbar, either.

Only one more door was open to them. The door to the house of Zeinab Khatun, Saffron Mountain’s aging matchmaker. She always had a ready supply of brides.

Zeinab would be sure to find a good one for Akbar, because she was an opium addict. The women in the family merely had to take her a roll of Kazem Khan’s yellow opium and she would arrange the whole thing.

Zeinab lived outside the village, in a house at the foot of the mountain. Her customers were usually single men in search of a wife. “Zeinab Khatun, have you got a girl for me? A virtuous woman who can bear me healthy children?”

“No, I don’t have a girl—or a woman—for you, virtuous or otherwise. I know you—you’re a wife-beater. I still haven’t forgotten the last one. Get out of here, go ask your mother to find you a wife.”

“Why don’t we step inside? I’ve brought you half a roll of yellow opium. Now what do you have to say?”

“Come right in. You need to smile more often and remember to shave. With that stubble of yours and those awful yellow teeth, I’ll never be able to find you a wife.”

Sometimes an elderly mother knocked on her door. “I’m old now, Zeinab Khatun, and I don’t have any grandchildren. Do something for my son. I’ll give you a pretty chador, a real one from Mecca.”

“People promise me all kinds of things, but as soon as their sons have a wife, they disappear. Bring me the chador first. In the meantime, I’ll think it over. It won’t be easy, you know. Few women want to marry a man who drools. But I’ll find someone for your son. If I die tonight, I’d hate to be carried to my grave in my old, worn-out chador. So go and get it. I’ll wait.”

The men of the family were opposed to the plan. But the women stuck a roll of opium into the bag of an elderly aunt, put on their chadors and went to Zeinab’s house.

The men thought it was beneath the family’s dignity to ask the matchmaker for a bride. Of course, they wanted Akbar to have a wife. But what they really wanted for him was a son. An Ishmael who would bear Akbar’s burden.

Since they didn’t want the child’s mother to be a prostitute, they resigned themselves to letting the women use a matchmaker.

Giggling, the women knocked on Zeinab’s door.

“Welcome! Please sit down.”

While they were still in the hall, the elderly aunt awkwardly pressed the opium into Zeinab’s hands. “I don’t know the first thing about this,” she said. “It’s from Kazem Khan.”

She was impatient. “I won’t beat around the bush, Zeinab Khatun. We’re looking for a good girl, a sensible woman, for our Akbar. That’s all there is to it. Do you have one for us or not?”

The women laughed. They got a kick out of the elderly aunt.

“Do I have one?” said the experienced Zeinab Khatun. “I’ll find one for you, even if I have to scour this entire mountain. If I can’t find a bride for Aga Akbar, who can I find one for? Sit down. Let’s drink some tea first.”

She brought in a tray with glasses and a teapot. “Let me think. A good girl, a sensible woman. Yes, I know of one. She’s very pretty, but—”

Auntie cut her off. “No buts! I don’t want half a woman for my nephew. I want a whole one, with all her working parts in order.”

“Allah, Allah, why don’t you let me finish? God will be angry to hear us talking about one of His creations with such disrespect. The woman I’m referring to is beautiful and in perfect health. It’s just that one leg is shorter than the other.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter, as long as she can walk,” the women said.

“Walk? Can she walk? She leaps like a gazelle. But all right, I can’t ask God why He made one leg shorter than the other. He must have had His reasons. Still, I have another woman, but she’s slightly deaf.”

“No, we don’t want a deaf woman for Akbar,” said the elderly aunt.

“She’s not deaf, just a little hard of hearing. She’s good and she’s also beautiful, trust me. Come to think of it, this one’s even better than the other one. Aga Akbar needs a wife who can walk, who can stand firmly on her own two feet. It doesn’t matter if she’s deaf. Aga Akbar won’t be talking to her anyway.”

“No, Akbar won’t, but their children will.”

“Good heavens, what am I hearing tonight! How can you say such things when you have a deaf-mute in your home? God will be angry. All right, I have another woman. She has a beautiful face, beautiful arms, a neck the colour of milk, a broad pelvis and firm buttocks. Take this woman. God will be pleased with your choice.”

The next day the women went to admire Aga Akbar’s future bride. She lived in another village on Saffron Mountain. It was a short visit. Zeinab Khatun was right—the girl was beautiful. But she looked a bit ill.

“A bit ill?” said the matchmaker. “Maybe she had a slight cold. Or maybe it’s that time of the month, you know what I mean, don’t you, ladies? Don’t worry, she’ll be as right as rain by the time the wedding rolls around.”

She dazzled them with her words and sent them home happy.

A week later, as twilight fell, the men escorted the bridegroom from the village bathhouse to his home.

Aga Akbar looked strong and healthy in his suit. The blind Sayyid Shoja was his best man. He sat on a horse with Jafar the Spider in front of him, holding the reins. They climbed the hill to the house, where the women were to bring the bride and seven mules.

Everyone stood around outside, waiting and watching for the procession.

Before long, seven mules came into sight. The women let out cries of joy and a group of local musicians began to play. Aga Akbar helped his bride to dismount. He offered her his arm and escorted her, as tradition dictated, to the courtyard. Then he shut the door.

The only person who knows exactly what took place behind those closed doors was the old woman who was hiding in the bridal chamber so she could later testify that the marriage had been consummated.

As soon as the groom disappeared with his bride, the guests left. The old men sat around Kazem Khan’s and smoked until the old woman came and announced, “It’s over. He did it!”

The men all shouted in chorus, “Allahom salla ’ala Mohammad wa ahl-e Mohammad [Peace be upon Muhammad and all of his descendants].”

Since Ishmael was Aga Akbar’s son, he was allowed to hear the story in greater detail. By then, several older family members, including Kazem Khan, had died. On one of his visits to Saffron Mountain, his elderly aunt invited him in.

How old had he been? Fifteen? Sixteen? At that time, he’d been making frequent visits to his father’s village. He’d spent the entire summer there, in his family’s summerhouse. He wanted to know more about his father’s past.

“Ishmael, my boy,” his elderly aunt said as he stepped into the hall, “give me your hand. Come in, my boy.”

She squeezed his hand and stared at him with unseeing eyes, as she expressed her admiration for her nephew’s son by uttering God’s words, “Fa tabaraka Allah al-husn al-khaleqan [And God was pleased with the beauty of the one he had created].” (According to the Holy Book, God fell in love with his own creation.)

Ishmael was not just a son, but the son the whole family had been waiting for. They’d prayed that he would be big and healthy enough for his father to lean on. He’d been a godsend, exactly what everyone had been hoping for. Surely it had been Allah’s will.

Auntie took Ishmael into the courtyard.

“Before I die, I have something to tell you about your father’s wedding. Come, let’s and go and sit over there. I’ve spread out a carpet in the shade of the old walnut tree.”

She leaned back against the trunk and said, “What happened is this, my boy. I stuck a roll of yellow opium in my bag and went off to the matchmaker’s with the other women to find a wife for your father. That was wrong. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not?”

“We failed to carry out the job properly, which is why we were punished by God.”

“Punished! Why?”

“Because we forgot that God was watching over your father. We insisted that he get married. We were behaving as if we didn’t believe in God, as if we didn’t trust Him, as if He had forsaken your father. And we were punished for that reason.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“The women escorted the bride and her seven mules from the village of Saruq to your father’s house. I placed her hand in your father’s hand and led them to the bedroom. I was the woman who was hiding behind the curtains.”

“Hiding behind the curtains?”

“It was the custom back then. I was supposed to watch in secret and see if everything went all right. To see if the woman … Oh, never mind, my boy. If only someone else had stood behind those curtains instead of me!

“I listened and sensed that something was wrong. Though I didn’t know what the problem was, I had the feeling that God was somehow displeased.

“Your father went to bed with his bride. He was strong, he had such broad shoulders. I could hear him, but not her. No movement, no words, not even a sigh, a moan, a cry of pain, nothing, absolutely nothing.

“But the marriage had been consummated, so I tiptoed out and went over to the other house, where I signalled to Kazem Khan that the celebration could begin.

“Everyone cheered, everyone smoked and ate, and we celebrated for seven days. But we knew that God was displeased with us. And that was my fault.

“I was the oldest, I should have known better. I should have kept my eyes open and bided my time. I should have told everyone not to be in such a hurry.”

“How come?”

“I was worried. I don’t know why. I hadn’t seen any sign of the bride. After all, she’s supposed to show herself. To stand by the window or smile or open the curtains. But no, she didn’t do a thing.”

“Why are you telling me all of this? Are you talking about my mother?”

“No, my boy. Let me finish. On the seventh night, your father went to bed with his bride as usual. I was asleep in another room, since I was supposed to stay near them for the first seven nights. In the middle of the night, I heard loud footsteps. Your father burst into the room. It was dark, so I couldn’t see his face. He uttered a few choked sounds. I didn’t know what he was trying to say, but I knew it was serious. I got out of bed and led your father into the courtyard, into the moonlight. What’s happening? ‘Cold,’ he gestured. ‘The bride is cold.’ I raced into the bedroom and held up the oil lamp so I could see her face. She was as cold as marble, my boy. She was dead.”

“Really?” Ishmael said in surprise. “So my mother wasn’t Father’s first wife?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t anyone ever tell me this?”

“I’m telling you now, my boy. There was no point in telling you before.”

Years later, Ishmael came home one night from Tehran and said to his father, “Come! I want to show you something.” He took a picture of a young woman out of his bag and handed it to Aga Akbar.

“Who is she?” his father signed.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Ishmael said, “but I might marry her some day.”

Aga Akbar studied the picture. He smiled and gestured: “Very pretty. But be careful! Check her out. Listen to her lungs. Make sure they’re working all right, make sure she breathes properly. I, I can’t hear, but you can, you have good ears. Healthy lungs are important.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve listened. She has healthy lungs.”

“And her chest? Does she have pain in her chest?”

“No, her chest is fine, there’s no pain.”

“Her arms?”

“Fine.”

His father smiled. “Check out her stomach, too.”

That evening was the first time Aga Akbar had ever talked to Ishmael about his first wife. He told him that the bride had had aches and pains all over. She’d had some kind of disease in her chest, in her lungs. He still didn’t know exactly what. “A woman’s breasts should feel warm, my boy, not cold. No, they should never feel cold.”