My Father's Notebook (7 page)

“Hurry up! We’re nearly there!”

After walking uphill for another half an hour, they finally reached the farm, which was guarded by a big, black, barking dog.

A farmer came to meet them with an oil lamp in his hand.

“Who’s there?”

Aga Akbar began shouting in his deaf-mute voice: “Aka, Aka, Akba, Akba, Is, Isma, Isma.”

“Is that you, Akbar? Salaam aleikum! Hello, young man, what’s your name? Come this way. Stop barking, dog, shoo! Come in.”

The dog disappeared into the darkness. They went inside.

“So, you’re Aga Akbar’s son, Ishmael. Allah, Allah, that’s good. I knew Aga Akbar had a son, but I didn’t know he had such a bright, decent-looking boy. It’s an honour to welcome you to my humble farm. Come on in, my boy. Yes, this is a real honour.”

He called to his wife, “Where are you? Come and look who’s here!”

The farmer’s wife came in. She looked in surprise at Aga Akbar, who had thrown his arm around Ishmael’s shoulder.

“So, that’s your son?” she signed. “Allah, Allah, who could have imagined that Aga Akbar would have such a fine son?”

She planted a kiss on Ishmael’s forehead.

“Welcome, my boy. We never had children, so you’re like a son. Welcome to our humble abode. Make yourself at home. We’re friends of your father. Go on into the living room and sit down on that rug over there.”

A while later the farmer’s wife came in with a big brass tray of food on her head.

They ate and talked about the past. Ishmael didn’t need to interpret, since the three adults all understood each other. Then it was time for Ishmael to ask the farmer about his father’s story.

“Haven’t you heard that one before, my boy? Oh, of course not, how could you if I never told it to you?”

Aga Akbar kept his eyes on the farmer’s mouth and followed every word of the story, as if he could actually hear it being told. “Do you know who Reza Khan is?” the farmer began. “Reza Shah? Have you ever heard of him? Or read anything about him?”

“Of course. There’s a picture of him in our schoolbook. A man in a military tunic with a field marshal’s baton under his arm.”

“That’s the one! Allah, today’s children. They know everything! Yes, he was the father of our present shah. Before Reza Khan, we didn’t have compulsory military service. When he became shah, he ordered all young men to serve in the military for two years. But we didn’t want to go. Who would work the soil and plough the fields and mow the hay? After two years, we wouldn’t have a farm to come home to. So, whenever we saw a gendarme, we ran and hid on a roof or in a haystack.

“Sometimes, though, dozens of gendarmes swept down on the village and seized all the young men.

“Can you believe that, my boy? They just grabbed you, pushed you into a truck and took you away. And two years went by before you saw your family again. He was hard as nails, that Reza Shah.”

“Did you get picked up by the gendarmes?”

“Yes, they found me and beat me up. One day a truck pulled into the village and gendarmes hopped out. The young men made a run for it, scattering in all directions. They hid
up on the roofs, down in the wells, up in the trees, you name it. Soon there wasn’t a single young man to be seen in the entire village. The gendarmes started shooting in the air. Just then your father rode into the town square on his horse, on his way to a customer.”

“Where were you? I thought you said you were hiding.”

“Clever boy! You’re a good listener. I was lying on the roof of the mosque and watching the whole thing from there.”

Aga Akbar laughed.

“Do you remember?” the farmer signed to him. “Akbar, do you remember when the gendarmes starting shooting in the air and … no, of course not, you couldn’t hear the shots.”

“No, I didn’t hear the shots,” Aga Akbar signed to Ishmael.

“Anyway, he rode into the square, sitting straight and tall in the saddle. Then he noticed a couple of gendarmes with rifles. He stopped and looked at them for a moment, then calmly rode on. ‘Stop!’ yelled one of the gendarmes. But Akbar didn’t hear him. ‘Stop, I said!’ There was no one in the square to tell the gendarme that Aga Akbar was a deaf-mute. ‘Stop!’ the gendarme yelled for the third time. ‘Stop, or I’ll shoot.’ Allah, what a moment. I lay on the roof and watched.”

“Then what happened?”

“Well, I had a tough decision to make. Actually, it wasn’t all that tough. All I had to do was stand up and say, ‘Stop! Don’t shoot.’”

“And did you?”

“Of course I did. I stood up then and there, put my hands in the air and shouted, ‘He’s deaf! Don’t shoot, he’s deaf!’”

“And then?”

“The gendarme pointed his gun at me and yelled, ‘Get down here!’”

“And my father?”

“He hadn’t heard a thing. He didn’t realise what was happening, so he just went on.”

“Now the gendarme was after me. ‘Jump!’ he yelled. And I had to jump down from that high roof. Did you happen to notice the mosque in our town square?”

“No, we didn’t come through your village.”

“Well, it has a high roof. I jumped from it. The heel of my right foot still acts up from time to time. Anyway, the gendarmes tied my hands together with a rope and shoved me into the truck. Then they went after your father. They didn’t believe he was a deaf-mute.”

“Why not?”

“They just didn’t. Your father was sitting up so straight and tall in the saddle and riding with such self-confidence that they had a hard time believing he couldn’t hear or talk.”

“And so they arrested him?”

“Yes. They grabbed the horse’s reins and beat your father up. Then they tied his hands behind his back and threw him into the truck next to me. And that’s how I wound up spending two years in the military.”

“And my father?”

“It’s a long story. Let’s have some tea first.”

The farmer’s wife came in with a cup of tea for Aga Akbar and her husband, and some hot cinnamon rolls for Ishmael.

“Haven’t you heard this story before?” she asked.

“Not really. My father’s tried to tell it to me many times, but I had no idea it went like this.”

“I must have heard it a hundred times. Your father used to visit us often, and the moment those two men sat down, they started in again on the gendarmes and the military service.”

The farmer drank his tea and continued his story.

“I swore up and down that Akbar was a deaf-mute. But the gendarmes wouldn’t listen. They took us to the army barracks in the city. The thing was, all kinds of people were trying to avoid the draft by pretending to be deaf and dumb, or blind.
Some of the draftees even chopped off their forefingers so they couldn’t shoot a rifle. The gendarmes thought your father was faking it, so they locked him up.”

“In a prison cell?”

“Yes.”

“What’d my father do?”

“I don’t know. He probably didn’t have the faintest idea what was happening.”

“Why not? He must have been able to work it out. Didn’t he know what military service was?”

“I don’t think so. I wasn’t really sure myself. The whole idea scared me, it scared us all. The girls in the village wept when we left. They thought we’d never come back.”

“Why’d they put him in a cell?”

“They always locked up the men pretending to be deafmutes. They didn’t give them anything to eat or drink. After a while the men opened their mouths and begged, ‘Water, water! Please, I’m thirsty! Can you hear me? I’m not a deafmute. Water, please!’

“I was afraid that Akbar would get dehydrated. I had to do something.”

“Couldn’t you have reported it to the general or one of the officers?” Ishmael asked.

“No, they wouldn’t talk to the likes of me. Besides, I wouldn’t have dared. I’d never lived anywhere but in our village. I’d never been to the city before. I’d never even seen an officer or a general.

“Then things went from bad to worse. They found a book, a strange little book, in the pocket of your father’s coat.”

“What kind of book?” Ishmael asked.

“How would I know? I didn’t even know your father had a book. Anyway, the gendarmes got together to discuss it: What is it? How did this man get hold of a book written in cuneiform?

“Things were looking bad. I was called into the office. The chief gendarme asked me, ‘Do you know anything about this book?’

“‘Me? No.’

“I looked at it. I didn’t know how to read, but I flipped through it and saw that it wasn’t an ordinary book. It was written in a funny kind of writing. Hundreds of little wedges and spikes that looked like they’d been drawn by a child.

“They brought your father into the office. He’d lost a lot of weight. He was nothing but skin and bones. ‘What’s this?’ they asked.

“‘It’s mine,’ he signed.

“‘How did you get hold of it?’

“Me, Akbar, I wrote it,’” he signed.

“‘You? You wrote this book?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘What did you write about?’

“‘The things in my head,’ he signed.

“The gendarmes didn’t understand him and they certainly didn’t believe him.”

“And you? Did you believe him?”

“I knew your father, but I didn’t always understand him, either. To be honest, I had my doubts. I was afraid he’d stolen the book from one of those foreigners, one of those cuneiform experts.

“‘My uncle,’ Akbar suddenly gestured. ‘My uncle knows all about it. He told me to write down the things in my head.’

“‘Come with me,’ the gendarme gestured. ‘We’ll go and see the general!’

“So, they took us to see the general. The gendarme put the book on the general’s desk.

“‘A book? In cuneiform?’ the general exclaimed. ‘Where did you get this?’

“‘I found it in his pocket,’ the gendarme replied. ‘He claims he’s deaf and dumb.’

“Only God could help him now.

“‘Mine. It’s mine,’ Aga Akbar gestured. ‘Uncle. My uncle knows about it. I think, then I write in the book.’

“‘Do you know this man?’ the general asked me.

“‘Yes, he’s a friend, uh, I mean an acquaintance. He’s a craftsman, the best carpet-mender in the whole region. He lives with his uncle in Saffron Village.’

“‘Do you know how he got hold of this book?’

“‘No.’

“‘OK, you’re dismissed.’

“I had no idea what they were going to do with him.

“An hour later I heard someone shout, ‘Look, it’s Aga Akbar!’ I went out to see what was going on. The gendarmes had taken off his clothes and thrown him into a freezing pond.”

Ishmael looked at his father in surprise. Aga Akbar, who was following every word of the story, nodded and smiled.

The farmer’s wife sat down next to Ishmael and put her arm around his shoulder. “Now, thank God, Aga Akbar has a son to help him.”

The farmer continued. “I couldn’t be sure that Akbar was telling the truth. It was hard to believe he’d written those things. But I was the only one who could do anything and after a while I couldn’t bear to watch any longer. I ran over to the general, who was standing by the pond. I knelt at his feet and said that Akbar was telling the truth, that he was a good man and that they should send for his uncle Kazem Khan.”

“Did that help?” Ishmael asked.

“It did, thank God. They hauled him out of the pond, draped a blanket over his shoulders and took him back inside. Do you remember, Akbar?”

Aga Akbar nodded. “Yes, I remember. I haven’t forgotten.”

“Three days later Kazem Khan turned up at the army barracks with the imam from Saffron Village. The imam placed
the Holy Book on top of the general’s desk and swore that Akbar’s book was nothing more than a deaf-mute’s attempt to imitate cuneiform writing, that they were just Aga Akbar’s meaningless scribbles.”

Many years later, after Aga Akbar’s death, the mail-carrier handed Ishmael a package.

By then Ishmael was the same age his father had been when captured by the gendarmes. He opened the package. It was a book. The notebook with Aga Akbar’s scribbles.

Ishmael sat down at his desk, thumbed through the pages and thought: How will I ever discover the secrets contained in these pages? How can I let the book tell its own story? How can I translate it into a readable language?

Sometimes you have to be patient. If whatever it is you’re doing doesn’t seem to be working out, leave it for a while. That way you give life a chance to sort itself out.

Kazem Khan was away on a trip. He couldn’t go home because the snow was nearly three feet deep. It would take a few days to clear the road.

So he rode around in search of a fellow opium smoker. Just as it was getting dark, he came to the village of Khomein.

“Good evening!” he called to an old man clearing the road.

“Good evening, stranger. Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for the hunter.”

“Which one? Everyone in this village is a hunter.”

“Er … the one who hunts mountain goats.”

“Ah, yes, I know who you mean. He used to hunt mountain goats, but he’d be lucky to hit a farm goat these days. Anyway, go down the road I’ve just cleared until you see an old oak tree. Take the path to your left and keep going up the hill through the snow. In the distance you’ll see a house with a long stone wall and a large pair of goat horns above the gate. That’s where your hunter lives.”

Kazem Khan rode up the hill through the snow to the house, but it looked deserted. From his horse, he called out, “Hello, is anyone home?”

No answer.

He knocked on the door with his riding crop. “Hunter! Are you there?”

“Hold on!” came the voice of a young woman, “I have to clear the snow.”

Had the voice come from the courtyard or the roof? He couldn’t tell.

“Salaam, stranger!” the woman called.

Kazem Khan looked over his shoulder.

“Here, I’m up here. Who do you want to talk to?”

“Oh, up there! Hello. I’m looking for the hunter.”

“He’s asleep.”

“So early?”

“Yes,” she said and vanished.

Kazem Khan needed a place to sit down and smoke his pipe. It was his usual time and he was already beginning to get the shakes. So he called out again, “Yoo-hoo, young lady, where are you?”

Again no answer.

“What on earth are you doing up there?”

“Clearing the snow, so the roof won’t fall down on the head of your hunter.”

“Come on down. This is urgent. I need—”

“I know what you need,” she said. “But you won’t get it here. Goodbye.”

“Please wake up the hunter and say that Kazem Khan is here. Did you hear me? Kazem Khan.”

“No, I won’t wake him up. I refuse to have any more strangers in the house. Goodnight, sir!”

“I’m not a stranger, I’m Kazem Khan.”

“I don’t care who you are, you aren’t getting anything from me. No opium, no fire, no tea. Pleasant journey!”

“God, what a difficult woman! Listen to me! I need to smoke my pipe this instant. If I don’t, I’ll drop dead here on your doorstep.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“This is different.”

“Your name means nothing to me, so go ahead and drop dead on my doorstep. But smoke a pipe? No, not in my house, not any more. Who do you think will have to make the fire? Me. And who will have to make the tea? Me! Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m never going to do those things for anyone ever again!”

“Then go and get the hunter!”

“The hunter is dead. Now are you happy?”

“Do you want me to beg? Do you want this old man to go down on his knees? Look at me, I’m practically falling off my horse.”

She ignored his pleas.

He thought about it, then tried another tack.

“I understand what you’re saying. You’re absolutely right. But I’m not your average opium smoker. I’m the most famous man on Saffron Mountain. I read books and I know hundreds of poems by heart. I also write them. If you open the door, I’ll write a poem especially for you.”

No answer.

“Who are you anyway?” he called angrily. “His new wife?”

“Me? The hunter’s wife? Don’t be ridiculous! After that remark, you can be sure I won’t open the door.”

Discouraged, he rode off.

“Stranger! Wait a moment,” she called and came downstairs.

She opened the gate. Kazem Khan rode inside.

Just then he was struck by an idea: maybe she was the woman they’d been looking for. But the idea disappeared as quickly as it had come.

He got down from his horse. The woman led him into the opium room, where the hunter, his pipe in his hand, had fallen asleep beside the cold brazier.

She lit a few dry almond twigs and got a fire going. Then she transferred the glowing twigs into a clean brass brazier, placed a few chunks of pure yellow opium on a porcelain plate and fetched a bowl of fresh dates. “Here, these are for you,” she said and disappeared.

Kazem Khan was speechless. He’d been smoking opium since he was a young man, but in all that time no one had ever presented him with such a clean opium kit.

“What’s your name?”

“Tina,” she said from the adjoining room.

“What?”

“Tina.”

“Is that a Persian name? Or is it a name from the other side of the mountains, from Russia?”

She didn’t know. Kazem Khan smoked and thought: no, it probably wouldn’t work. Even if he promised her a mountain of gold, she wouldn’t agree to marry Akbar.

He smoked and blew the smoke out through the shutters and into the cold night air. Something will eventually unfold, he thought. Life, a miracle, a secret. Or maybe it won’t, maybe I’m mistaken.

“Tina,” he called again. “Where are you? Your name
is
Tina, isn’t it? Come here, I have something for you.”

She appeared with a fresh pot of tea and a bowl of brown sugar, which had come from far, far away.

“Is this the hunter’s house or is it paradise? Thank you. I have a turquoise ring for you. I have no children—no sons or daughters—but you could be my daughter. Go ahead, put it on your finger. Why don’t you come and sit by me?”

Tina warily sat down across from him and tried on the ring, which had a beautiful turquoise stone. Then, apparently having decided that the old man wasn’t serious, she started to get up.

“Please don’t go. You’re the hunter’s daughter, aren’t you? Good, may I ask you a question? Do you live here with your father, or are you just visiting?”

He saw the sudden fear in her eyes. She handed him back the ring and ran out of the room.

Just then the hunter woke up.

“My God, look who’s here! Is this a dream, or are you real?”

“It’s a dream,” Kazem Khan said. “As for me, I’m in paradise. Your daughter let me in. Come sit over here. The fire is as red as a ruby. That Tina of yours is worth her weight in gold.”

“I’m at your service. It’s an honour to have Kazem Khan as my guest,” the hunter replied. “Tina,” he called, “prepare a meal for this gentleman.”

Kazem Khan took out his wallet and tucked a few bills under the carpet on which the hunter was sitting.

“Heavens, no. You’re my guest. You’re welcome in my house.”

“I insist, hunter, but thank you. Anyway, you’re lucky to have such a nice daughter.”

“Nice? She’s a shrew.”

“A shrew?”

Kazem Khan passed him the pipe. After the hunter had taken a few puffs and relaxed, he continued. “She sits up on the roof like a tiger and won’t let anyone through the gate.”

“Does she live here with you? I mean, is she married?”

“Married? She’s been married three times. She hates men. If you even mention the subject, she screams, and the women in the neighbouring houses go running up to their roofs and shake their brooms. They think I’m trying to sell her to some old opium addict. Hey, Tina, where are you?”

While millions of stars twinkled in the sky, Tina served the aging poet a delicious meal. She treated him with such extraordinary kindness that her father was amazed.

When the hunter fell asleep again, Kazem Khan called to her.

“Tina? Please sit down. Here, take the ring, it’s yours. I’d like to talk to you. I have a problem and you may be the only person who can help me.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Listen, child. I’m going to ask you a few questions. You can answer or not, as you please. I’m going to spend the night here, then go back home in the morning. Who knows? Maybe it was fate that brought me to this house. Maybe you’re the one we’ve been looking for. I have a son … well, actually he’s my nephew. A strong, handsome young man from a good family. But we have a problem.”

“What’s the problem?”

“He’s a deaf-mute. And we still haven’t found him a wife. We’re looking for an intelligent woman. Do you understand me?”

They talked until deep in the night.

The next morning, as soon as the sun’s first rays hit the snow, Kazem Khan mounted his horse. Though it still wasn’t
safe to travel, he rode through the snow to Saffron Village.

“Where’s Akbar?”

He went from house to house in search of his nephew, and finally found him at a customer’s.

“Come with me, Akbar! No, leave that. I want you to go to the bathhouse, then put on your Isfahan suit and comb your hair with brilliantine. Here, take the fastest horse. Don’t forget to put some dried rose petals in your pockets. Hurry, Akbar! Now ride with me. Here’s a necklace. As soon as she opens the door, throw back your shoulders and hold your head high! Then take the necklace out of your pocket and give it to her.”

They reached the hunter’s house at nightfall. Kazem Khan knocked on the door. Tina opened it.

“Here he is,” Kazem Khan said aloud and he pointed at Aga Akbar, dressed in his good black suit and looking down at Tina from his horse. Neither of them knew what to do next. Even the experienced Kazem Khan was at a loss for words.

“Come in,” Tina said. She turned to Aga Akbar and welcomed him with a gesture.

Kazem Khan’s eyes filled with tears.

“Excellent. You’re an excellent woman. Come, Akbar, get down from your horse. Stop staring. We’re going into the house. But first, Tina, my daughter, I have something to say to you. Tomorrow our family will be coming to pick you up and soon you’ll be our bride. We’ll take you home and give you a hearth of your own. But I warn you that your life may be hard. Or maybe it won’t be. There’s no way of knowing in advance. I do know, however, that it won’t be easy, especially not in the beginning. Now you’ve seen your future husband. Take your time, you can still change your mind. Go stroll by the cedars and think it over. I’ll wait for you.”

But Tina didn’t need to take a stroll. She walked up to Aga
Akbar and gestured, “Go inside. My father will be here shortly.”

“Oh, my God, oh, merciful God, what a moment, what a wonderful woman! Where are you, hunter? Roll out the carpets and stoke up the fire.”

The horses arrived the following day. The family brought gold, silver, clothes, cloth, walnuts, bread, meat, sheep, chickens, eggs and honey. All for the hunter. They dressed Tina in a flowery white chador and helped her mount the horse. No party, no songs, no guests—just a bride on a horse. It was as if they were afraid to celebrate, to express their feelings.

Don’t say a word, just go, you read in their eyes. Nevertheless, the imam recited a short melodious sura: “
Ar-
rahman,
alam al-Qur’an, Khalaqa al-
insan,’ allamahu al-bayan. Ash-
shams wa al-qamaru be-husbanin, wa as-
sama’a rafa ’ha wa
waza’a al-
mizan
.”

The bride was taken to Akbar’s house. “Here’s your home, your husband, your bed.”

This time there was no old woman behind the curtains. “Here’s the frying pan, the bread, the tea, the cheese. We’ll leave you to it, Tina,” they said and left.

They let matters take their own course.

It had been ordained by fate, by life itself. And Tina became pregnant.

One cold night in November, Tina lay under the blankets by the tiled stove, a special stove that people slept beside during particularly cold winters. She pressed her foot against Akbar’s back and woke him up. He knew the baby was due, so he leapt out of bed and lit the oil lamp.

“Are you in pain?”

“Hurry,” Tina signed, “go and get the midwife.”

The men of the family arrived even before the women did. Someone brought a large samovar. Someone else a large brazier.
Kazem Khan brought his yellow opium. Who knew? Maybe they’d have something to celebrate.

Kazem Khan was sure they would, since he had consulted the Koran. The answer had come in the sura of Mary:

The men sat in a circle in the guest room and waited in silence. It took so long that the fire almost went out. The men all looked at Kazem Khan, who had lit the brazier so he’d be able to reach for his pipe the moment the baby was born. There was an ominous silence, then suddenly they heard the wail of an infant from the next room.