My Father's Notebook (5 page)

“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, s he’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.”

If you face the cave, you can see Saffron Mountain’s peak to the right and a long range of brownish-yellow mountains to the left. There’s also an odd-looking spot that immediately catches your eye. Particularly if this is the first time you’ve climbed Saffron Mountain, you’ll notice it the moment you look in that direction.

It’s almost impossible to reach this spot. If you’re standing beneath it, the sun is so bright that all you can see is a craggy rock face. Rain, snow and frost have given it a miraculous shape. “Miraculous” and “sacred” are the words you automatically
associate with this spot. At the bottom of this mysterious rock face is a natural well, a deep depression probably created by an erupting volcano.

This well is of special significance to Muslims.

For centuries, Shiite Muslims have been waiting for a Messiah, for the Mahdi, since he is a
naji
, a liberator. On this point, the Shiites differ greatly from the Sunnis. The Shiites believe that the Prophet Muhammad was followed by twelve imams. The twelfth successor—and, according to the Shiites, the last of the pure ones—was called Mahdi. To be precise, he was called Mahdi ibn Hassan Askari.

Mahdi was the son of Hassan, and Hassan was the son of Hadi, and Hadi the son of Taqi, Taqi the son of Reza, Reza the son of Kazem, Kazem the son of Sadeq, Sadeq the son of Baqir, Baqir the son of Zayn al-’Abidin, Zayn al-’Abidin the son of Hussein, Hussein the brother of Hassan, and Hassan the son of Ali. And Ali was the son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad.

Fourteen centuries ago, Muhammad called his followers together after a great victory. According to tradition, Muhammad stood on a camel, lifted his son-in-law Ali by the belt and cried, “Whoever loves me, must also love Ali. Ali is my soul, my spirit and my successor.”

The Sunnis think the Persians made this story up. That’s why the Persians and the Arabs are always squabbling and why there’s constant war and bloodshed.

Ali himself was killed with a sword while praying in the mosque.

His son and successor Hassan was kept under house arrest for the rest of his life. Hussein, the third successor, was beheaded. His head was stuck on a pole and displayed on the town gate. Zayn al-’Abidin, the fourth successor, lived a life of
seclusion. Baqir recorded large numbers of traditions. Sadeq had his freedom severely curtailed: he wasn’t allowed to show himself in public during the day, or to walk past a mosque. Kazem died in prison. Reza was poisoned by purple grapes. His grave has become one of the holiest places in Iran.

Little is known about Hassan, the eleventh successor. But Mahdi, the twelfth and last successor, escaped an attempt on his life and sought refuge in Persia.

Since then Mahdi has occupied a special place in the hearts, as well as in the literature and religion, of the Persians.

The following story cannot be found in the Holy Book, or in any other book, and yet the villagers on Saffron Mountain believe it and tell it to their children:

Thus it became a sacred place.

Every year thousands of pilgrims climbed up Saffron
Mountain. They rode mules halfway up the mountain, to about 8,000 feet. There they spread their carpets out on the rocks and sat down, drank some tea, cooked some food and talked until deep into the night. The moment the moon went down behind the mountain peak, they all fell silent. In that great silence, they stared at the sacred well until a wondrous light struck the rock face, a light that seemed to come from a lamp inside the well. It shone briefly, then disappeared. The watching pilgrims all knelt in prayer.

The pilgrims believed the story and told each other that the light was the reflection of the oil lamp by which Mahdi read his book.

Yes, the Messiah sat in the well, reading and waiting for the day when he would be allowed to leave.

The well itself was inaccessible to ordinary mortals. It was also off-limits to foreigners, especially those who wanted to climb up to it with ropes and spikes.

Some of the villagers were able to reach it by jumping from ledge to ledge on the narrow mountain paths like nimble-footed mountain goats. Only a handful of the men in Saffron Village had ever accomplished this feat. Aga Akbar was one of them.

When Aga Akbar was little, his mother often talked about Mahdi.

“Does he really live in the well?” he asked her.

“Yes, he really does. God is in the sky and the holy man is in the well.”

“Have you seen him in there?”

“Me? Heavens, no, I can’t climb up there. Only a few men have ever reached the well. They looked into it and saw the holy man.”

“Who? Which men?”

“The men who wear a green scarf around their necks. Haven’t
you ever noticed? They walk through the village with their heads held high.”

“Will I be able to climb up to the well some day?”

“You have to have strong legs. But you also have to be clever and daring.”

He’d attempted the climb a few times, but had always turned back halfway. At a certain point the narrow paths were so unsafe that you didn’t dare take another step. Perhaps the paths could be crossed only once, perhaps they’d collapse behind you. How would you get back if there was no path?

You couldn’t think about that as you climbed, or you’d never reach the well. How could anyone dare to go to a place from which he might never return?

That was the secret. It wasn’t just a matter of strong legs and quick wits, but also of necessity. You had to be prepared to leave your life behind, to say goodbye, to bid your life farewell. Only then could you reach the well.

Aga Akbar was prepared. After his wife’s death, he’d reached a point where he wanted to go to the well and never come back again. He needed the holy man. He needed to kneel at the well and admit that he was afraid, that he no longer dared to live.

Just when his bride was being placed in her coffin so she could be carried to her grave, he slipped out through the back door. He started up the mountain in order to forget life.

People looked all over for him. The entire village was waiting at the cemetery, wondering where he could have gone.

Kazem Khan decided to go look for him in the mountains. He thought he knew where his nephew was headed, but he was afraid that Akbar wouldn’t be able to reach the well, that he’d fall and no one would be able to rescue him.

He saddled up his mule, grabbed his binoculars and
climbed the mountain. He rode until the animal refused, or perhaps didn’t dare, to go any farther. He stood on a rock and peered at the sacred spot through his binoculars. No Akbar in sight.

He looked again to see if … Wait a minute, someone was kneeling down, touching his forehead to the ground, or, rather, looking into the well. No, he was sitting on his knees and writing.

“What a clever boy!” Kazem Khan said and laughed aloud. Akbar had reached the well!

What could he do to help him? Nothing, no one could do a thing.

Kazem Khan laughed again. The mountain echoed his laughter. “He’s reached the well!” he shouted. “My Akbar! Hurrah! Hurrah for him! Hurrah for me! Let him weep! Let him write! Ha, ha, ha. I wish I had my pipe. Oh, God, I wish I’d brought my opium. Then I’d sit on this rock and watch him and quietly smoke my pipe.”

How would Akbar get back down the mountain? Don’t worry. Anyone who could make it up to the well ought to be able to get back down. Clever mountain goats always find their way home again.

What should he do? Wait for Aga Akbar here or go home?

He retraced his steps, for now he had a reason to celebrate, a reason to sit on his pipe-smoker’s carpet. Maybe it wasn’t quite the thing to do, he thought, given that Akbar’s wife had just been buried, but her family should have mentioned their daughter’s illness. We’re not going to mourn, we’re going to celebrate! We have to help Akbar get over her death. We’ll hold a party, first thing in the morning. No, we’ll hold it now, tonight, in the dark. I’m going to say to everyone I see, “Hurry! Hurry! Go up onto your roof! Salute my nephew! He’s reached the well!”

Kazem Khan went straight to the house of his oldest sister.
“Where are you? Go and get a green scarf for Akbar! What a man! Our Akbar has reached the sacred spot. At this very moment, he’s standing at the edge of the well! Here, take the binoculars! Hurry! Go up onto the roof! Look! He’s still standing there!”

Then he rode over to the mosque, where people were mourning the bride. He got down from his mule and raced inside. “Men! Allah! Allah! Look, a green scarf! Here, take my binoculars! Go up onto the roof and look before it gets dark! Akbar has reached the well!”

In the middle of the night, when everyone had begun to fear that he’d never be seen again, a dark figure strode into the town square. Akbar.

Kazem Khan wrapped a green scarf around his neck and wept.

Back before the railway had been built, in the days before the train, the area around the well had been shrouded in mystery. It was said that even the birds muffled their wing beats and bowed their heads when they flew over the well.

The train changed all that. The well used to be synonymous with inaccessibility, but that was no longer true. It was hard to know whether the railway had desecrated the site or made it even holier.

For the first two years after the train began running past the cave, the sacred well was still inaccessible.

The mountain-dwellers took no notice of the train. It was as though that newfangled thing snaking its way up to the border had nothing to do with them. After all, it was Reza Shah’s train, not theirs. Gradually, however, they got used to the steel tracks cutting through the rock to the top of Saffron Mountain.

As time went by, more and more pilgrims climbed the mountain by walking up the rails.

“Look! A road! A divine road, ready and waiting!”

Why take the treacherous mountain paths when there was a railway track? It even brought you a bit closer to the sacred well. (Did Aga Akbar use this route? It’s impossible to tell from his notes.)

Now that people had discovered this holy path, they wanted to teach the mules to climb up the railway track. But the mules refused. They were frightened by the rails, which reeked of oil, and didn’t dare place their hooves between the wooden sleepers. The older and more experienced mules, in particular, were terrified. They fled.

So, they tried younger mules. People spent days, even weeks, teaching young mules to step between the railway sleepers.

And so, an entire generation of mules growing up on Saffron Mountain went and stood on the tracks the moment you smeared a bit of oil on their muzzles. Then the pilgrims mounted the mules and the animals gingerly made their way up the mountain, one railway sleeper at a time.

The pilgrims, especially the older ones, were hesitant at first. But before long, you saw even little old ladies in chadors, giggling as their mules climbed up the tracks.

The stream of pilgrims quickly swelled. Men came to Saffron Mountain from all over the country, carrying sick children, crazed wives and ailing mothers and fathers on their backs. They hired mules to take them up the mountain.

The boom didn’t last long. On Friday evenings, when the train tooted its horn, the animals panicked. They shook off their mounts and raced back to the village and their stables. One of the mules invariably broke its leg, or even its neck. Others got their hooves caught between the rails. An old woman was sure to snag her chador on a railway bolt.

Then, one day, a couple of trucks drove up. They were loaded with fencing materials and barbed wire. Dozens of
labourers from the city fenced-off the tracks and strung barbed wire over the top. Not even a snake could crawl onto the rails now.