Читать книгу The House of the Mosque - Kader Abdolah - Страница 8

Khalkhal

The girls in the house had grown up and a few of them had reached a marriageable age. But how could they marry if no man knocked on the door and asked for their hand?

In Senejan strangers never knocked on your door to ask for your daughter’s hand. Marriages were arranged by matchmakers – older women who set up meetings between the groom and the family of the bride. These visits usually took place on cold winter evenings.

Some families did without a matchmaker. In that case the women in the family donned their chadors, the men put on their hats and the group set off to pay a surprise visit to a family with an eligible daughter. Families with unmarried daughters didn’t want to be caught off-guard by an unexpected knock, so they made sure they were always ready to receive visitors.

Such evenings were filled with long conversations about gold and carpets, the basic ingredients of the bride’s dowry and about the house, plot of land or sum of money that the groom would have to give his bride if the marriage foundered.

After the men reached an agreement, it was the women’s turn to talk. They discussed the bridal clothes and the jewellery to be presented to the bride during the ceremony. Wristwatches were currently a novelty at the bazaar in Senejan, so every bride was dying to have one.

On cold winter evenings, when the lights shone in the neighbours’ windows longer than usual, you knew that they were conducting marriage negotiations. Their living rooms were warm, and their windows steamed up from the hookahs. But those same winter evenings were a torment to the many families with an eligible daughter but no likelihood of a groom.

In the house of the mosque the imam’s daughter, Sadiq, was old enough to marry.

The family waited in silence. Perhaps someone would knock, perhaps the phone would ring. But winter was nearly over, and there hadn’t been a single suitor.

Finding a suitable husband for the daughters of the house wasn’t easy. Not just anyone could ask for their hands in marriage. Ordinary girls had enough young men to choose from: carpenters, bricklayers, bakers, junior civil servants, schoolmasters or railway employees. But such men were not suitable for the daughters of the house of the mosque.

The shah’s regime was corrupt, so anyone who worked for the government was automatically excluded. What about secondary school teachers? That was a possibility. But when all was said and done, only the sons of prominent merchants were considered suitable.

With winter almost over, the girls who hadn’t received a marriage proposal knew they’d have to wait another year. Luckily, however, life doesn’t always follow tradition, but carves out a path of its own. And so one evening there was a knock on the door.

‘Who’s there?’ asked Shahbal, the son of Muezzin.

‘Me,’ called a self-confident male voice from the other side of the door.

Shahbal opened the door and saw a young imam in a striking black turban standing in the yellow glow of the streetlight. He wore his turban at a jaunty angle and smelled of roses. His long dark imam robe was so new that this was obviously the first time he’d worn it.

‘Good evening to you,’ said the young imam.

‘Good evening,’ Shahbal replied.

‘My name is Mohammad Khalkhal,’ said the imam.

‘Pleased to meet you. How can I be of help?’

‘I’d like to speak to Imam Alsaberi, if I may.’

‘I’m sorry, but it’s late. He doesn’t receive visitors at this hour. You can see him tomorrow morning in the mosque.’

‘But I wish to speak to him now.’

‘May I ask what it’s about? Perhaps I can be of assistance.’

‘I’d like to talk to him about his daughter Sadiq. I’ve come to ask for her hand in marriage.’

Shahbal’s jaw dropped. For a moment he was too stunned to reply. Then he collected himself and said, ‘In that case you need to speak to Aqa Jaan. I’ll tell him you’re here.’

‘I’ll wait,’ the imam said.

Shahbal left the door ajar and went into Aqa Jaan’s study, where his uncle was busy writing. ‘There’s a young imam at the door. He says he’s come to ask for the hand of Sadiq.’

‘He’s at the door?’

‘Yes. He says he’d like to speak to Alsaberi.’

‘Do I know him?’

‘I don’t think so. He’s obviously not from around here. And he’s not your average imam either. He smells of roses.’

‘Send him in,’ Aqa Jaan said as he put away his papers and stood up.

Shahbal went back to the door. ‘You may come in,’ he said to the imam, and he led him into Aqa Jaan’s study.

‘Good evening. My name is Mohammad Khalkhal,’ the imam said. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you?’

‘No, not at all. Welcome! Do sit down,’ Aqa Jaan said as he shook the imam’s hand.

Aqa Jaan noticed that Khalkhal was indeed different. He liked the fact that, like the imams in his own family, the young man was wearing a black turban, since that meant that he too was a descendant of the Prophet Muhammad.

Aqa Jaan had in his possession the family’s oldest genealogical document: a parchment scroll tracing the male line all the way back to Muhammad. It was stored in a special chest in the treasure room beneath the mosque, along with a ring that had once belonged to the holy Imam Ali.

‘Would you like some tea?’

A while later Golbanu came in with a tea tray and a plate of dates and handed them to Shahbal. He poured the tea and placed the dates in front of Khalkhal, then turned to go.

‘There’s no need for you to leave,’ his uncle told him, so Shahbal took a seat in the corner.

Khalkhal popped a date into his mouth and sipped his tea. Then he cleared his throat and came straight to the point: ‘I’ve come to ask for the hand of Imam Alsaberi’s daughter.’

Aqa Jaan, who had been about to take a sip, put down his glass of tea and glanced over at Shahbal. He hadn’t expected the subject to be broached so abruptly, not to mention that a man didn’t usually come on his own to ask for a girl’s hand. Tradition demanded that the father of the groom did the talking. But Aqa Jaan was used to dealing with all kinds of people, so he replied in an even voice, ‘You’re welcome to my home, but may I ask where you live and what you do for a living?’

‘I live in Qom and I’ve just completed my training as an imam.’

‘Who was your supervisor?’

‘The great Ayatollah Almakki.’

‘Almakki?’ Aqa Jaan said in surprise. ‘I’ve had the honour of making his acquaintance.’

When he heard the name Almakki, Aqa Jaan knew that the young imam was part of the revolutionary anti-shah movement. The name Almakki was virtually synonymous with the underground religious opposition to the shah. Though many of the young imams who studied under Almakki shunned politics, anyone who had been trained by him was suspect.

Aqa Jaan assumed that the young imam, who wore his turban at a jaunty angle and doused himself with rosewater, was far from neutral. But he refrained from comment.

‘What are you doing at the moment? Do you have your own mosque yet?’

‘No, I’m a substitute imam in a number of different cities. When the regular imam is ill or away on a trip, I get called in to take his place.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘We also make use of substitutes, except that we always call on the same one: an imam from the village of Jirya. He’s very reliable, and comes the moment he’s sent for.’

Aqa Jaan wanted to ask the young imam where his parents were from and why he hadn’t asked one of his male relatives to accompany him. But he didn’t bother, because he knew what the young imam’s answer would be: ‘I’m a grown man and I can decide for myself who I want to marry. My name is Mohammad Khalkhal. I studied under Ayatollah Almakki. What else do you need to know?’

‘How did you hear about our daughter? Have you ever seen her?’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘No, but my sister has met her. Besides, she was recommended to me by Ayatollah Almakki. He’s given me a letter to give to you.’ He took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Aqa Jaan.

If he had a letter from the ayatollah, there was nothing more to say. If Almakki approved of him, that was enough. The case was closed.

Aqa Jaan respectfully opened the envelope and read the following note:

In the name of Allah. I take the opportunity of Mohammad Khalkhal’s visit to send you my regards. Wa-assalaam.

Almakki

There was something odd about the letter, but Aqa Jaan couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The ayatollah had neither approved nor disapproved of the young man; he had merely sent his greetings. Evidently he wasn’t all that impressed, or else he would have said so in his note. But Khalkhal did have a letter from Almakki and that meant something.

Aqa Jaan slipped the note into a drawer. ‘I’m wondering how to proceed,’ he said. ‘I suggest we do the following: I’ll tell Imam Alsaberi and his daughter that we’ve met. After that we’ll set a date for you to come here with your family . . . with your father. Is that all right with you?’

‘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.

Aqa Jaan’s two daughters hid behind the curtains so they could see Khalkhal when he left the guest room.

The meeting between Khalkhal and his prospective bride had gone on for almost an hour when the guest-room door opened and Sadiq came out. She looked happy. She glanced at the grandmothers and went up to her room.

Shahbal gave Khalkhal a tour of the courtyard and introduced him to the grandmothers. Then Fakhri Sadat came downstairs. ‘This is Aqa Jaan’s wife – the queen of our household,’ Shahbal said, laughing.

Khalkhal greeted her without looking directly at her. Then the girls were introduced, one by one. After Khalkhal had met everyone, Shahbal took him to the bazaar, so Aqa Jaan could speak to him.

A few days later Aqa Jaan received Khalkhal and his father in his study. Alsaberi was also present. Their conversation had little in common with traditional marriage negotiations, since not a word was said about money or carpets. The bride would present the groom with a gold-embossed Koran, and she would leave her father’s house in a white chador, taking with her a collection of poems by the medieval poet Hafez. After all, everyone knew that the daughters of the wealthy families in Senejan weren’t sent to their new homes empty-handed. Of course Sadiq would be provided with everything she needed. And so the rest of the conversation was about the mosque, the library, the books, the centuries-old cellars, the blind muezzin and the cedar tree in the courtyard. Lastly they set a date for the wedding.

‘Mobarak inshallah,’ the men said, and they shook hands.

When they were done, Sadiq came in bearing a silver tray with five silver teacups.

The wedding was scheduled to take place on the birthday of the holy Fatima – one of the best days for a wedding. The weather would be relatively hot, but a breeze from the mountains would cool things down and make you want to take your bride in your arms and crawl under a light blanket. During the summer, most people slept on their roofs. Here and there you saw a gauzy white canopy on the roof, which is where the brides and grooms slept.

There would be a special ceremony, to which the leading families in the city and the bazaar would be invited. After all, this wasn’t an ordinary wedding, but the wedding of Imam Alsaberi’s daughter. And the groom wasn’t an ordinary teacher or a registry clerk or even a merchant. He was an imam in a black turban who came from Qom.