the prayer? There was no time to waste; people were already waiting in the mosque.
‘Allah!’ he cried, with a lump in his throat. Then he stumbled outside, naked, and raced towards the hauz.
‘Come back!’ Golbanu screamed. ‘It’s been snowing. Come back!’
Alsaberi plunged into the hauz and disappeared under the water.
The fish fled to the far end, the crow screeched loudly and the grandmothers scurried down to the cellar and came back up with clean towels.
‘You’ve been in there long enough!’ Golebeh cried.
‘Please come out!’ Golbanu implored.
Alsaberi came up for air, then ducked back under the water again.
‘Come out of there this instant!’
Alsaberi stood up. He momentarily lost his balance, but managed to right himself. Then he stepped out of the hauz and went over to the grandmothers, who threw some towels around him. Golbanu raced ahead to turn up the heater in the library, while Golebeh went down to the cellar to get more towels.
The heater was red-hot and the extra towels had been warmed, but where was Alsaberi?
‘Maybe he went to his bedroom,’ Golebeh said.
‘Alsaberi!’ Golbanu called.
‘May God watch over him! Where on earth did he go? Alsaberi!’
The fish were huddled together in the hauz, the crow was screeching non-stop and the cats were peering over the edge of the roof as the grandmothers hurried over to the hauz. Alsaberi was stretched out in the snow, with the yellow glow of the lantern lighting up his face. His eyes were closed. On his lips was a frozen smile.
‘Alsaberi!’ the grandmothers shrieked.
But no one was home, everyone was in the mosque. The grandmothers ran up the stairs to the roof, scattering the cats as they went. Standing by the left minaret, which was Muezzin’s usual post, they shouted with all their might, ‘Alsaberi is gone!’
Inside the mosque, people heard their cry. Muezzin came charging up to the roof, followed by the caretaker and several men from the bazaar. They hurried down the stairs to the courtyard and went over to the hauz. The moment the caretaker saw Alsaberi’s lifeless body, he cried, ‘Enna lellah!’
At the familiar words, everyone knew that Alsaberi was dead.
The men carried him into the library. The grandmothers dried their tears, because they knew you were supposed to be restrained in the presence of death. Mindful of their duties, they went to an antique cupboard behind the bookcase, took out a white sheet – the shroud the imam had bought for himself in Mecca – and handed it to the caretaker. He unfolded it and draped it over Alsaberi, all the while chanting a sacred verse.
Aqa Jaan came running in.
‘Enna lellah!’ the men cried in unison.
‘Enna lellah,’ Aqa Jaan replied calmly.
He knelt by the body, gently pulled back the shroud and looked at Alsaberi’s face. Then he kissed him on the forehead and covered him up again.
Suddenly Zinat appeared in the doorway. Weeping, her face pale, she threw herself onto her husband’s body.
The grandmothers helped her up and led her away.
Voices could be heard from the courtyard. People had hurried out of the mosque to see what was happening.
Aqa Jaan left the library and went to the courtyard. The news had travelled fast. Some men were already there with a coffin, which they carried over to the hauz. The imam’s body was laid inside and taken to the mosque.
Seven men went up to the roof and cried in unison, ‘Hayye ale as-salat!’
Everyone who heard this call to prayer realised that the imam was dead. Every shopkeeper in the city, except for the bakers and the pharmacists, shut their doors and came to the mosque. A long line of police vehicles drove up, and the mayor’s car drew up outside the mosque.
It was a blessed death, everyone said, because Alsaberi died on the same day as the holy Ali.
At nine o’clock that evening the coffin was placed on a catafalque by the mosque’s hauz. It had been decided to leave the body there until the following day, so that people could pay their respects, and relatives who lived far away would have time to get to the funeral.
Aqa Jaan went back to the house. Before morning, he had to find an imam to lead the prayer for the dead. The most logical choice was Ahmad, Alsaberi’s son and intended successor, but Ahmad hadn’t completed his training. The other obvious person was the imam’s son-in-law, but Aqa Jaan didn’t have Khalkhal’s address or phone number. Nor could he be sure that Khalkhal would arrive on time.
‘We need him early tomorrow morning,’ Aqa Jaan told Shahbal.
‘We also need to find Sadiq. She should be told of her father’s death,’ Shahbal replied.
‘I’ll do what I can. I’ll phone Ayatollah Almakki in Qom. This is Khalkhal’s chance to show himself in a good light. The whole town will be here, and they’re all anxious to meet him. I’ll call everyone I know in Qom.’
The next morning Aqa Jaan went to the mosque to finalise the details. Thousands of people would soon be pouring in from the surrounding villages, so it was essential to have an imam of some standing to lead the prayer. To be on the safe side he’d sent a message to the imam in the village of Jirya, who normally substituted for Alsaberi, and warned him to be prepared.
Aqa Jaan was talking to the caretaker when a taxi pulled up in front of the mosque. Straightaway he recognised Khalkhal’s black turban and saw Sadiq.
Khalkhal got out, came over to Aqa Jaan, offered his condolences and briefly bowed his head.
Aqa Jaan interpreted his bow as a gesture of reconciliation and an acknowledgement of Aqa Jaan’s loyalty to the mosque. Ever since Khalkhal had shown up at the wedding without the necessary documents and Aqa Jaan had made him go to Qom to fetch them, Khalkhal had avoided him. Now he had bowed his head. Aqa Jaan therefore replied, ‘I’m proud of you, and I’d like you to be the imam of this mosque until Ahmad is ready to follow in his father’s footsteps. Do you accept this offer?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Khalkhal.
Aqa Jaan kissed Khalkhal’s turban, and Khalkhal kissed Aqa Jaan’s shoulder in return.
‘Go inside and get some rest. The men from the bazaar will come for you shortly. Shahbal will let you know when it’s time.’
It was busy in the house. Many of the guests had already arrived. The grandmothers were bustling about, making sure everything was in order. The moment they saw Khalkhal, they rushed into the kitchen to fetch the traditional symbols – a mirror, red apples and a fire – so he could be properly welcomed to the house as an imam.
At noon carpets were laid on the street in front of the mosque
