out and placed on a silk rug. Thousands of people were gathered outside, waiting for Khalkhal to appear. A group of the bazaar’s most influential men escorted Khalkhal to the coffin, where he would lead the prayer.
From the roof of the mosque, blind Muezzin shouted, ‘Allahu akbar!’
At this signal, everyone lined up in rows behind Khalkhal.
Imam Khalkhal loosened his black turban so that the end dangled against his chest – a sign of mourning – then turned towards Mecca and chanted:
Oh, you shrouded in your garments!
Stay awake, but not all night,
Half of it or a bit less,
Or a bit more.
By the night when it retreats!
We have sent you a messenger,
As we once sent a messenger to Pharaoh.
Oh, you cloaked in your mantle!
Stand up and deliver your warning!
By the moon,
And by the morning when it dawns.
Family
According to tradition, Alsaberi’s death was to be followed by forty days of mourning. During this period, relatives who lived far away and had been unable to attend the funeral would come and stay for a week. These family gatherings were special. Everyone ate together and stayed up until the small hours, talking in groups and moving about from room to room.
One of the guests was Kazem Khan, Aqa Jaan’s ageing uncle and the oldest male member of the family. He was treated by everyone with love and respect.
Kazem Khan never came by himself, but was always accompanied by a group of villagers. Nor did he ever take a bus or taxi. In the old days he and his contingent of villagers arrived on horseback. Later, when he was too old to ride, he was driven to Senejan in a jeep.
He always got out of the jeep in front of the mosque, went into the courtyard, brushed the dust from his clothes and washed his hands and face in the hauz. Then he climbed the stairs to the roof, paused to get his breath, took off his hat, said salaam to the crow and to the storks nesting on the minarets, put his hat back on his head and went down the stairs to the courtyard.
When the mourners saw Kazem Khan on the roof, they raced over to the stairs to greet him. Then, surrounded by the group of men as if he were an ancient king, he made his way to the Opium Room, where an opium kit and a brazier had been made ready for him.
Women and children adored Kazem Khan. His pockets were always full of poems for the women and banknotes for the children. He was a famous village poet, an eccentric who lived in the mountains. He’d been married once, but his wife had died young. Since then he’d lived alone, though plenty of women welcomed him to their beds.
He ate sparingly, looked healthy and enjoyed life. He had seen everything, done everything and lost a great deal, but there were three things in his life that never changed: his love of poetry, his love of opium and his love of women.
The moment he arrived, the grandmothers dropped whatever they were doing and catered to his every whim. They had an uncanny ability to sense when he was coming, and the first thing they did was to air out the Opium Room.
Next they got out a special teapot and placed it on a tray so they could serve him a glass of freshly brewed tea. As soon as he crossed the threshold, they heated his opium pipe, sliced the opium, arranged the slices on a porcelain plate and set the plate beside the brazier, in which a pile of cherry twigs burned with a soft, blue flame.
When Kazem Khan came for a visit, the grandmothers put on their best clothes and daubed themselves with scent. Everyone knew they did it specially for him. Then they waited to be summoned. When they heard him call out ‘Khanom!’ – the Persian word for ‘lady’ – the grandmothers went to his room. Not at the same time, but one by one. Golebeh stood guard outside the door when Golbanu was inside and vice versa.
It had been that way from the beginning. They had known Kazem Khan since they were girls, and had been brought down from the mountains to work in the house as maids. Kazem Khan had promptly claimed them both. In those days how could any girl have resisted his charms? The first time they’d met – when he entered the house in the company of his horsemen – he had laid his hands on the two maids and received them, in turn, at night in his bed.
The hours they spent with Kazem Khan were the happiest the grandmothers had ever known in that house. In their younger years, they sparkled when he was there, skipping across the courtyard and singing as they worked in the kitchen.
Now that they were old, they could no longer be heard giggling in the kitchen, but if you looked carefully, you could see the smiles on their faces and smell their delightful rose perfume.
After Kazem Khan had rested for a while, eaten a bit and smoked enough opium to relax him, he got up and went into the courtyard to greet his relatives. First, however, he went up to the old cedar tree, poked the trunk with his walking stick, inspected the branches and touched the leaves. Then he went over to the hauz and recited his latest poem:
Del-araaie del-araaie del-araa,
Samman-qaddi, boland-baalaa, del-araa . . .
Darling, darling, my darling,
My tall, jasmine-scented darling,
The clouds are crying lover’s tears,
The garden is a sweetheart’s laugh.
The thunder grumbles as loudly
As I do at this early hour.
The children raced over when they saw him standing by the hauz. He patted them on the head and read them a new poem, which he’d written specially for them:
A deaf man thought:
I can sleep a bit longer,
Until the caravan passes by.
The caravan passed by,
In a billowing cloud of dust,
But the deaf man didn’t hear it.
Kazem Khan provided the children with a brief explanation: ‘The caravan is a symbol of fleeting time, and the deaf man represents people who fritter away their precious time.’
At the end of the poetry session he handed each child a banknote, pausing longer by the girls, who were encouraged to give him a kiss, for which they received an additional red banknote.
Then he turned to the women. Fakhri Sadat, the wife of Aqa Jaan, was obviously accorded the most
