My Father's Notebook (25 page)

“Better.”

“And your daughter?”

“Fine. She knitted me a cap and some mittens for the winter. She’s even weaving a carpet. She says that when it’s done, she’s going to sit on her magic carpet and fly away from the prison,” Akbar signed. “Fly away,” he repeated with a laugh, and he waved his cane in the air.

In the spring he usually sat down, drank a cup of tea with the farmers, rested for a while and then walked on.

But in the winter it was difficult. He couldn’t stop to rest,
because it was too cold. He didn’t mind, though. He spent the whole time talking to Golden Bell in his head and that kept him from feeling the cold in his feet.

On his last visit he’d noticed that Golden Bell was getting old. Her face was lined and her shoulders were slightly stooped.

Maybe he was mistaken and they weren’t really stooped, but he signed to Tina anyway, “I’ve noticed that Golden Bell has a stoop. Have you noticed it, too?”

“No, but it must be from all that sitting. With four or five girls crammed into one tiny cell, there’s not much room for her to move around. S he’ll have to do a lot of walking when she gets out. That’ll straighten her back.”

“When is she going to get out?”

“I don’t know, Akbar. They don’t tell us things like that. Maybe soon, maybe not for a long time.”

“How long is ‘a long time’?”

“Oh, honestly, Akbar, how would I know? Maybe so long that
I
won’t be able to walk any more.”

He felt saddened by her answer.

As he walked towards the prison, Akbar pondered her words. Long, Tina had said, maybe so long that she wouldn’t be able to walk any more. By that time, Akbar thought, I’ll probably be dead.

Golden Bell’s hair was turning prematurely grey. But she was clever and strong, so Akbar hoped she’d survive for years. When she was finally released, she’d still have a long life, she’d still be able to work and maybe even have children. Akbar felt sure Golden Bell would manage all right, since she’d read so many books.

Tina didn’t want Akbar to feel so sad. She told him that everything would be OK. “If you suffer from too much sadness,” she said, “you’ll fall down again and die. And if you
die, you won’t be able to visit Golden Bell any more and then Golden Bell will cry in her cell for ever.”

Tina also said that if he died he’d never see Ishmael again, either. “Maybe we’ll all go and visit Ishmael when Golden Bell gets out of prison,” Tina said. “We’ll take a plane!”

Who knows? Maybe one day they would.

“Where does Ishmael live?” Akbar asked.

“He lives in a country that doesn’t have any mountains,” Tina said. “It’s always cloudy there, the wind is always blowing and he lives at the bottom of a sea.”

“At the bottom of a sea? A sea?”

“Yes,” Tina said. “They pumped out all the water. Now there are trees growing on what used to be the bottom of the sea and cows grazing on the grass.”

It didn’t make sense to Akbar, but that’s where Ishmael lived.

As he plodded on, Akbar thought about the fact that Golden Bell was more patient than Ishmael. She explained things to him with endless patience.

Ishmael always talked to him about big things—the sky, the stars, the earth, the moon—but Golden Bell always talked to him about little things.

Once she picked up a stone. “There are tiny things moving around inside,” she said.

“Inside a stone?” Akbar couldn’t believe it.

“Yes. Little tiny things that revolve around each other,” Golden Bell explained, “the way the earth revolves around the sun.”

He still couldn’t believe it. “That’s impossible,” he signed. “A stone is just a stone. If you smashed it with a hammer, you wouldn’t see a thing. No earth, no sun.”

Golden Bell handed him a hammer. He smashed the stone. “You see, no sun.”

“Make it even smaller,” she said.

He did it. Smaller and smaller and smaller. He banged away at that stone until it was just a heap of sand and it couldn’t get any smaller.

“The sun is inside the tiniest grain of sand,” Golden Bell said.

Akbar laughed out loud.

She’s smart, he thought as he neared the prison. She gets all of that from books. He remembered another of Golden Bell’s explanations. One time she laid her head on his chest and said, “Boom, boom, boom.”

“What do you mean, ‘boom, boom, boom’?” he signed.

“Here, just under your ribs, you’ve got a motor,” she replied.

“A motor?”

He laughed, but she opened a book and showed him a picture of the motor under his ribs that went boom, boom, boom.

The prison was on a hill. By the time Akbar reached the square in front of the prison, the sun had come up. He was early, so he went to the teahouse to wait for Tina. The owner brought him a cup of tea and asked him if he wanted to eat anything.

“Bread and cheese,” he gestured.

He looked out of the window at the snow-covered mountains and at the tiny windows of the prison cells. Golden Bell is in one of those cells, he thought. She knows I’m waiting here in the teahouse. Soon I’ll be able to see her and s he’ll ask, “How are you, Father? Did you walk here? You shouldn’t do that, your knee will start acting up again. Why don’t you take the bus?”

“I don’t like the bus. I can’t think because of those smelly exhaust fumes. Walking gives me a chance to think.”

He hates it when a guard stands next to Golden Bell and keeps his eye on her during the whole visit. Tina says he ought to ignore the man, simply pretend he’s not there. But he can’t.

One time he motioned to the guard to move aside.

Tina immediately tugged at his sleeve. “Don’t do that! They might not let us see her again.”

Visiting hours are short, the time flies by. “Don’t complain,” Tina says, “it’s better than nothing.”

Akbar saw the bus go past the teahouse and stop at the bus stop. He watched the visitors get out.

He saw Tina, carrying the vegetables she’d bought for Golden Bell. She’s having trouble walking, Akbar thought. He hadn’t noticed it before. She’s getting old, he realised.

Political prisoners were not allowed to have any visitors except their parents. When the gates opened, the parents poured into the visiting room and stood behind a wall of bars. The prisoners were lined up behind another set of bars, about five feet away. Since everyone talked at the same time, you had to shout to make yourself heard. You also had to be quick, because there wasn’t much time. Any unspoken words had to be left unsaid for another month.

Sometimes a mother’s scream cut through the tumult. There was an immediate hush, because they all knew that when prisoners didn’t appear, it was because they’d been executed. Visiting hours were a torture to the parents. They died a thousand deaths before their sons and daughters appeared behind the bars. Will he be there today? Will she be there today?

Akbar wasn’t aware of this possibility. Tina had spared him the anxiety. But she was always on tenterhooks until she saw Golden Bell.

The inner door opened. The guard led the prisoners to the bars, but Golden Bell didn’t appear—her place remained empty. Tina wanted to scream, but she didn’t dare. Akbar saw the vegetables trembling in her hand. Tina fainted and Akbar panicked.

Two guards grabbed Tina under the arms, dragged her across the floor and took her outside. Akbar hurried after them, then turned and went back in.

“Where’s my daughter?” he signed to a guard standing on the other side of the bars. The guard didn’t answer.

“Golden Bell, my daughter,” he quickly gestured, while glancing anxiously at Tina, who was lying by the gate.

The guard pretended not to see him.

At the end of visiting hours, the guards sent the parents away.

“You, too! Get out!” the guard gestured.

“I haven’t seen my daughter.”

“Get out!” the policeman yelled, pointing at the door.

Akbar didn’t want to go. The policeman grabbed him by the arm, “I told you to get out!”

Akbar clamped onto the bars and shouted, “M-y-y-y G-oo-o-l!”

Three guards yanked him loose and pushed him out of the door. He lifted his cane and was about to bring it down on the head of a guard, when he suddenly remembered what Tina had said, “Don’t get angry. Don’t talk to the guards. And don’t hit anyone in uniform. If you do, they’ll kill Golden Bell!”

Akbar lowered his cane, smiled and gestured, “OK, I’m leaving.”

The other parents were waiting for him outside. They crowded around him.

“Well? Did you see her?”

“No! They shoved me out,” he gestured.

“Such rudeness. They’re not people, they’re animals,” one mother muttered.

“Where’s my wife?”

“A couple of women are taking her home,” a man gestured.

“Is she all right?”

“Don’t worry. They’ll take care of her.”

Akbar didn’t know what else to do. Everyone was whispering that Golden Bell had probably been executed.

“But in that case, the family should have been informed,” one mother murmured.

“They’re worse than you think,” another one said. “They want you down on your knees. Only then will they tell you they’ve murdered your child.”

“In the bus on the way here,” another mother whispered, “I heard that the guards had been combing the mountains all night with police dogs and searchlights, looking for some prisoners who had escaped.”

“Really?”

“Apparently three prisoners have escaped.”

“From the mullahs’ prison? Are you crazy?”

“I heard it, too,” another man said warily. “People were talking about it in the teahouse.”

The mothers covered their faces with their chadors and continued to stand in little groups, talking.

Akbar was standing off to the side by himself.

Two jeeps with armed guards and dogs drove down the hill and stopped in the square.

“Get out of here!” shouted one of the guards. “Go home!”

The mothers hurried off to the bus stop, where the fathers were already waiting for them.

The bus had gone and the square was empty. An icy mountain wind swept through the square. Akbar stood at the bus stop. He was hoping the prison imam would come out.

In that case he’d walk up to the imam, kiss his hand and throw himself on his mercy: “Golden Bell didn’t come. And my wife fainted. Do you perhaps know what—”

The prison gate swung open. A female guard came out, wrapped in her chador. She walked over to the bus stop.

Akbar recognised her. She was the daughter of one of his
customers. He nodded to her in greeting and she nodded back.

“My daughter,” he hesitantly gestured. “She didn’t come.”

The woman glanced up at the prison and moved a few steps away from him.

“My wife fainted,” Akbar went on. “I asked the guard where Golden Bell was, but—”

The woman looked anxiously at the gate, then at the teahouse.

“Your daughter is gone!” she signed, concealing the gesture beneath her chador.

“Gone?” Akbar gestured in surprise.

“To the mountains,” the woman signed and she hurried over to the approaching bus.

Darkness had fallen and Akbar’s house was abuzz with activity. Neighbours kept dropping in. They were all sure that Golden Bell was one of the escaped prisoners, though they had no official confirmation.

They told each other that Golden Bell had been preparing her escape for months, knitting warm clothes out of Akbar’s yarn and hoarding a supply of nuts. Still, it was hard to believe.

Tina, surrounded by family and neighbours, was beside herself with worry. Marzi and Enzi tried to reassure her.

“There’s no need to act as if Golden Bell is dead, Mother,” Enzi said to her. “I have the feeling she’s still alive. She might even have reached the top of Saffron Mountain by now.”

“The top of Saffron Mountain?” Tina wailed. “She can’t have
escaped. I know my daughter. Would somebody please go and ask what’s happened to her? Would somebody please find out?”

“She might have escaped,” Marzi said. “Everyone knows that the guards have been out all day searching the mountains. Try to pull yourself together, Mother. Even if they’ve been cap—”

“Stop!” cried Tina, putting her hands over her ears.

There was an abrupt silence. Suddenly Tina noticed that Akbar wasn’t there.

“Hasn’t Akbar come home?”

“Maybe he’s gone to the shop.”

The neighbours whispered among themselves. “Do you understand what it means if they really have escaped?” said one.

“Let’s hope the guards don’t catch them,” said another.

“I wonder if they can survive in the mountains. It’s freezing cold and Golden Bell isn’t an experienced climber.”

“Oh, but she’s tough! My guess is that they had outside help. They’d have to be crazy to head for the mountains. Maybe there was a car waiting for them outside the prison.”

“They say that Golden Bell put on a black chador, then simply walked out of the gate and disappeared.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why not? Didn’t she say she was weaving a magic carpet so she could fly away?”

“Just thinking about it makes me tremble.”

“Marzi! Enzi! Where are Bolfazl and Atri?” Tina asked. “Would somebody please go see if Father’s come back from the prison?”

The next-door neighbour was making soup and the woman from across the street was making tea. She poured glasses for everyone and took them around on a tray. Marzi put on her chador and went to see if Akbar was in his shop.

Bolfazl and Atri, the husbands of Marzi and Enzi, arrived a
little while later. They’d gone to the imam in the hope of finding out what was going on.

“Well?” Tina cried, as she leapt to her feet.

“Nothing,” said Bolfazl. “Every door in the world seems to be shut. We haven’t been able to reach anyone.”

“Here, have a cup of tea,” said Enzi. “We’ll just have to wait. There’s nothing else we can do.”

The door opened. Marzi came in and said that Akbar wasn’t back yet.

“Not back yet? Oh, my God,” cried Tina.

She grabbed her chador. “I’m going to go look for him. I’m afraid he’s fallen again. Bolfazl, Atri, will you come with me?”

“Sit down, Tina,” said Enzi. “Don’t get excited. The men will find out where he is.”

“You see?” Tina cried. “I’ve told him a thousand times to take the bus, but he never listens.”

“Maybe he stopped off at a friend’s,” Enzi said. “Let’s phone a few people first. If he isn’t there, the men can go and look for him. Sit down, everything will be all right.”

Three men—Tina’s sons-in-law and one of the neighbours—put on warm coats, grabbed a couple of lanterns and went out into the darkness to look for Akbar.

They walked towards the prison, scanning the snow to see if he’d fallen. They asked every person they ran into if they’d seen him.

“Excuse me, have you seen Aga Akbar?”

“Aga Akbar?”

“Yes, the carpet-mender. You know, the deaf-mute.”

“The Akbar who walks to the prison?”

“Yes.”

“I often see him, but not today.”

They went on, until they ran into an old farmer, pushing a cartload of wood through the snow.

“Salaam aleikum,” they said.

“Good evening, what are you gentlemen doing out in this cold?”

“We’re looking for Aga Akbar, the carpet-mender.”

“Oh, the man with the cane who walks to—”

“Yes. Did you happen to see him today?”

“No. I’ve been inside.”

In the distance they saw the bus coming down the mountain. They held up their lanterns. The bus came to a cautious stop at the side of the icy road.

“Aren’t you going to get in?” the driver called out of the window.

“No. We’re looking for Aga Akbar.”

“Which Aga Akbar?”

“The carpet-mender.”

“You mean the deaf-mute whose daughter is in prison?”

“Yes, have you seen him?”

“I think so.”

“Where? When?”

“I’m not sure. This morning? This afternoon? Maybe around eleven, or was it twelve? Anyway, I think I was heading up the mountain when I saw him, but I don’t remember where.”

He turned to his passengers. “Has anyone seen the deafmute carpet-mender today? No?”

The bus drove off. The men went on looking.

“Something must’ve happened to him,” said the neighbour. “Maybe we ought to contact the police.”

“The police! Do you think they would help us?”

“Let’s go on for a couple of miles,” said Atri. “There’s a garage just outside the next village. We can ask there. Somebody must have seen him!”

A cold wind blew down from the mountains and brought the snow along with it.

“I don’t understand how a sick man like Akbar can walk all this way,” said the neighbour.

“He’s strong.”

“Yes, but he’s sick.”

“He walks very slowly and doesn’t push himself,” said Bolfazl. “He rarely takes a bus or a taxi. He may be sick, but he’s stronger than I am.”

“It looks like the garage is closed,” said Atri. “Nobody’s out on these icy roads tonight.”

Still, they went on walking until they reached the garage.

“Oh, good, there’s a phone box,” Bolfazl said. “I’ll call home. Who knows? Maybe he’s returned by now.”

Marzi answered the phone.

“It’s me, Bolfazl. Has he come home yet? No? We’ve looked almost everywhere. OK, we’ll keep on looking. I’ll call if we find him.”

“The garage owner lives in the village,” said Atri. “He must have seen him. Let’s go to his house.”

They walked to the village. At the grocer’s, they asked where the garage owner lived. “A few streets away,” said the grocer, “in a house with a big iron door.”

The doorbell was broken. Atri picked up a rock and banged it against the door. A dog barked.

“Who’s there?” a woman called.

“Sorry. Is the—”

The door opened and the garage owner himself appeared.

“Excuse me for disturbing you so late at night,” said Atri, “but we’re looking for the carpet-mender who walks to the prison. Do you know who I mean?”

“Sure. Aga Akbar. I know him well. He mended one of our carpets. He always waves when he walks past on his way to the prison. Why? Has something happened to him?”

“He walked to the prison this morning, but he hasn’t come
home yet. He’s got heart problems, so we’re worried about him. We’ve been searching all along the road. Have you seen him today?”

“I saw him walking towards the prison this morning when I was working in the garage, but I don’t remember seeing him come back. You should ask the people in the teahouse on the square by the prison. Have you got a car? No? It’s a long walk. Just let me grab my coat and I’ll drive you there.”

The garage owner fetched his jeep and the men got in.

“Akbar’s a good man,” he said as he drove. “People say he brings luck. He mended my carpet so well that you can’t even tell it’s been mended. His life hasn’t been easy, but we’re living in a crazy world now. It’s wrong to put women and girls in jail. Allah is sure to punish us for that. Even the shah didn’t dare lock up women, but the imams do whatever they want.”

The teahouse was dark, but the garage owner knew where the teahouse owner lived. He drove towards the mountains. After a few miles they saw the lights of a village. He parked in front of a house on the village square.

“Mashhadi! Hey, Mashhadi, are you home?” he shouted up at a lighted window on the second floor.

The teahouse owner looked out of the window. He recognised the jeep and came downstairs.

“Welcome, come in. What can I do for you?”

“Can you help these people?” the garage owner asked. “They’re looking for Aga Akbar, the carpet-mender. You know, the deaf-mute who walks with a cane and goes to visit his daughter in prison.”

“I know who you mean.”

“He hasn’t come home. He’s got health problems, and they’re afraid he’s fallen down somewhere. They’ve searched the whole road. I thought you might have seen him.”

“You’re right, I have. He always waits for his wife in my teahouse. This morning he had breakfast and when she came,
the two of them went to the prison. But after that? I haven’t the faintest idea. Let me think… Yes, I saw him again after visiting hours. He was standing at the bus stop, talking to a woman.”

“Then what happened?” Bolfazl asked.

“The bus came, but Akbar didn’t get on. He stood there for a while, staring up at the mountains. That’s all I remember.”

“Where on earth could he have gone after that?” Bolfazl wondered.

“Maybe he went to visit someone?” Atri suggested.

“No, he knew Tina had fainted.”

“So he must have headed home,” Atri concluded.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then where did he go?” the neighbour asked.

“Well, I think he went uphill instead of downhill.”

“Uphill?”

“Yes, into the mountains,” Bolfazl said.

“Into the mountains?” the neighbour asked, in surprise.

“Perhaps he did,” Atri said. “It’s entirely possible.”

“May I ask you a question?” Bolfazl said to the teahouse owner. “According to rumours, a few prisoners have escaped. Do you happen to know anything about that?”

The teahouse owner looked first at the garage owner, then at Bolfazl. “I’m sorry, but I prefer to mind my own business. I have five children, so the answer is no, I don’t know anything about an escape. I saw the carpet-mender standing at the bus stop and that’s all I can tell you. I’m sorry.”

“That’s enough,” the garage owner said. “They have an answer to their question. I don’t want to get mixed up in this, either, but the carpet-mender is a decent man. That’s why I brought them here. Don’t worry, we’re leaving.”

The teahouse owner went back into his house and locked the door.

The garage owner started his jeep. “I don’t know what
you’re planning to do,” he said, “but I’m going home. Please forgive me for not helping you more.”

“You’ve already done a lot,” Bolfazl said. “Thank you. We’d appreciate it if you could give us a ride back to the square.”

He drove them to the square and they got out.

While the three men waited at the bus stop, they talked about what they should do next.

“We can’t give up yet,” Bolfazl said. “Let’s search the mountain path.”

“That’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,” the neighbour said.

“I know Akbar,” Bolfazl replied. “If he thought Golden Bell was in the mountains, he’d go looking for her.”

“Surely he wouldn’t go into the mountains with all this snow?” the neighbour said.

“That’s what I’d do if I were in his place,” Bolfazl said.

“This is no time for talk,” Atri said. “Let’s start up the mountain. He can’t have gone far with his cane.”

They took the mountain path, shining their lanterns on the footprints in the snow.

“This one was made by a soldier’s boot,” Bolfazl said. “And that one and all of those, too.”

“What about these?” Atri asked.

“They were made by ordinary shoes. We should follow them.”

“The prison guards must have followed them, too,” Atri said.

“I don’t think so,” said the neighbour. “This isn’t the route you’d take if you were escaping from prison.”

“Why not?” Bolfazl asked.

“Because your footprints would show up clearly in the snow,” the neighbour explained.

“If you were in danger and had no other options, you’d want to get up the mountain as quickly as possible.”

“I don’t agree,” the neighbour said. “My guess is that they took the paved road to the village, then went on to the next village and so on. If they’re smart, they’ll hide for a few days, then go into the mountains.”

At that point, the soldiers’ footprints stopped and only one set of footprints went on, gradually merging with those of the mountain goats.

The men climbed higher and higher until they came to a path that could be traversed only by nimble-footed mountain goats and mountain climbers with ropes and spikes. It also happened to be the path that led to the cave with the cuneiform relief.

“He must have taken this path,” said Bolfazl.