of mine, young imams, members of left-wing or right-wing underground movements. Have you ever heard of these movements?’
‘No.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, in this house, in this city.’
‘Not much. I go to school and to mosque.’
Khalkhal shook his head. ‘I knew it. Nothing’s going to happen in this city. It’s weak. All over the country people are gradually turning against the shah, but Senejan is blissfully asleep. What else can you expect from a city with such a weak Friday Mosque? What does Alsaberi do all day in his library? Nothing, except let the grandmothers wash his balls! It’s a shameful waste of this big, beautiful mosque. It’s had a brilliant past. A history. It’s time it had a fiery speaker. Do you know what I’m saying?’
Shahbal lapped up Khalkhal’s words. He thought of Khalkhal as great and himself as small. He wanted to ask questions, but didn’t dare. He was afraid of sounding stupid.
One time he’d hardly said a word all evening. Then, suddenly, just as he was about to leave, he blurted out, ‘I’d like to show you something.’
‘What?’
‘My stories,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I write.’
‘How interesting! Show them to me. Have you got them here? Read one out loud.’
‘I don’t know if they’re any good.’
‘I wouldn’t know either, but it’s good that you write. Go and get your stories!’
Shahbal went to his room and quickly returned with three notebooks, which he modestly handed to Khalkhal.
‘You’ve written quite a lot,’ Khalkhal said in surprise as he thumbed through them. ‘I knew you were clever from the moment I laid eyes on you! Pick one of your stories and read it to me.’
‘I’ve never shown them to anyone before,’ Shahbal said. He flipped through a notebook until he found the page he wanted. ‘I hardly dare to read it, but I’ll do my best.’ And he began to read: ‘Early one morning, when I was going to the hauz to wash my hands before the prayer, I noticed that the light wasn’t on in my father’s room. It was the first time this had ever happened. He was always awake before I was and always went to the hauz before I did, but that morning everything was different. The mahiha – the fish – which usually darted through the water when they saw me, weren’t moving, and their tails were all pointing in my direction. Brightly coloured scales floated on the surface, and there was blood on one of the tiles. I realised immediately that something was wrong. I ran to my father’s room, pushed open the door, switched on the light and—’
‘Very good!’ Khalkhal said. ‘You can stop now, I’ll read the rest on my own. You have talent. Leave your notebooks with me. I’ll look at them later.’
He went down to the courtyard and walked over to the hauz, where he stared at the sleeping fish in the glow of the lantern. A light was on in the library. The shadow of the imam fell on the curtain. He quietly opened the gate and went outside, towards the river.
Aba
It was five o’clock in the afternoon. The courtyard was covered in snow. Darkness was gradually closing in, and there was an icy wind. As usual the grandmothers were carrying towels and clean clothes into the bathroom so Alsaberi could bathe before the evening prayer.
Even though they’d lit the stove early in the morning, the bathroom was still cold. ‘This has got to stop,’ Golbanu grumbled. ‘It’s no longer healthy. He should bathe in the municipal bathhouse. If he goes on like this, he’ll make himself ill.’
It was a special night – the anniversary of the night on which Imam Ali had been killed.
Ali was Islam’s fourth caliph. On that night he had been in the mosque, leading the prayer with hundreds of believers lined up behind him, when Ibn Muljam came in, took a place behind Ali and started praying along with him. He waited until Ali got to the end of his prayer, then took out his sword and killed him with a single blow to the head. From that moment on, Islam was divided into two factions: Shiites and Sunnis.
The Shiites wanted Hassan, Ali’s oldest son, to be his successor; the Sunnis backed a candidate of their own. The Shiites and the Sunnis have been at each other’s throats ever since. Ali became the most beloved of the caliphs. Fourteen centuries after his death, the Shiites still mourned him as if he had just been slain.
Tonight the mosque would be filled to capacity. Alsaberi, who had memorised his sermon, was planning to talk at length about Ali. He had come up with a novel approach: after fourteen centuries of enmity between Shiites and Sunnis, he was going to suggest reconciliation.
He’d been practising his sermon all day in front of the mirror. ‘There has been enough enmity! We are brothers! Let us be friends. Let us shake hands in the name of friendship and Islamic unity!’
He wanted his sermon to be a surprise, so he hadn’t discussed it with Aqa Jaan. Besides, if he’d mentioned it beforehand, Aqa Jaan would have said, ‘Why bother? There aren’t any Sunnis in Senejan.’
Although there might not be any Sunnis here, and although they might not hear him, tonight he was determined to say something new, something no other imam had ever said before.
The grandmothers had kettles of water heating on the stove and were waiting for Alsaberi.
He was lost in thought. He tested the water with his hand and cautiously stepped into the tub. Holding onto the rim with both hands, he immersed himself in the water. After resurfacing, he exclaimed, ‘Sunnis, let us shake hands! We are brothers! It’s cold! So cold!’
One of the grandmothers poured hot water over his head while the other began washing him with soap. Meanwhile Alsaberi practised his sermon, all the while shivering with cold. ‘Islam is in danger! We must forget our differences and fight side by side against our common enemy! Cold!’
He was still wondering whether he should change the last words to ‘a common enemy’? It was ambiguous, because what did he mean by ‘a common enemy’? The shah? The Americans? If he dared to utter those words, it would be the fieriest sermon he’d ever given, but he was in doubt.
‘We’re done!’ said one of the grandmothers.
Alsaberi stood up. He stepped out of the tub, placing his right foot on the towel that had been spread on the floor, but because he’d let go of the rim, he suddenly slipped and fell, his left leg still in the tub.
‘Dead!’ he blurted out in shock.
The grandmothers were upset, but they immediately pulled him up and tried to get him back into the tub because, having touched the ground, he was unclean and would have to be washed all over again. Just then one of the cats bolted out from behind the stove. Frightened by Alsaberi’s loud cry, it fell into the tub, brushed against his leg, leapt out of the tub and ran outside. The imam’s wet, bare leg had been touched by a cat! Just the thought of it made Alsaberi nauseous. Maybe there were mice too. Alsaberi shivered in horror. The bathroom was unclean, the water was unclean, the towels were unclean, the grandmothers were unclean – and all of this
