Jaan and Shahbal got back to the house, Aqa Jaan said to the grandmothers, ‘I’ll have my dinner in the library with the imam. I need to talk to him. Make sure we’re not disturbed.’
He went to the library and found the imam on the floor, sitting on his carpet and reading a book. Aqa Jaan sat down beside him and asked him what he was reading.
‘A book about Khadijah, the wife of Muhammad. She owned three thousand camels – the equivalent of three thousand delivery vans in today’s terms. Undreamt-of wealth. It makes sense to me now: Muhammad was young and poor, Khadijah was old and rich. Muhammad needed her camels – her vans – to launch his mission,’ said the imam, smiling.
‘That’s no way to talk about the Prophet!’ Aqa Jaan said.
‘Why not? Women were attracted to him, so why did he choose the widow Khadijah? She was nearly twenty years older than he was.’
The grandmothers came in with two round trays, set them down on the floor in front of the men and went out again.
‘Shahbal has been talking to me about the moon,’ Aqa Jaan said as they ate. ‘He thinks you ought to look at it.’
‘At the moon?’ said the imam.
‘He says that the imam of this city ought to be aware of the developments in this country and around the world. He objects to the fact that you don’t read a newspaper, that you read nothing but the old books in your library.’
The imam took off his glasses and wiped them casually on the tail of his long white shirt. ‘Shahbal has already told me all of this,’ he said.
‘Listen, his criticism is directed at me as well as you. In recent years we’ve focused entirely on religion. The mosque should introduce other topics as well, such as the men who will be walking on the moon tonight.’
‘That’s a lot of rubbish,’ the imam said.
‘Shahbal thinks you ought to watch. He wants to bring a television in here.’
‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Aqa Jaan?’
‘He’s bright, and I trust him. As you know, he’s a good boy. It’ll be our little secret. It won’t take long. He’ll remove the television the moment the programme is over.’
‘But if the ayatollahs in Qom find out we had a television in our house, they’ll—’
‘Nobody’s going to find out. It’s our house and our city. We can decide how we do things here. The boy’s right: almost everyone who comes to our mosque has a television. And although it’s taboo in this house, we mustn’t lock ourselves inside and close our eyes to what’s happening in the world.’
The grandmothers watched from behind the kitchen curtains as Shahbal stole through the darkness and carried a box into the library.
Shahbal greeted the imam and Aqa Jaan. Then, ignoring their curious stares, he took a portable television out of the box and placed it on a table by the wall. Next he took out a long cable, plugged one end of it into the back of the television, carried the other end outside and climbed up a ladder to the roof, where he’d already rigged up a temporary aerial. He attached the cable to the aerial, made sure it couldn’t be seen and went back to the library.
First he locked the door behind him, then he placed two chairs in front of the television. ‘You might want to sit here,’ he said.
After the imam and Aqa Jaan had taken their seats, he turned on the television and switched off the lights. Then he lowered the sound and gave a brief introduction: ‘What we’re about to see is actually taking place right now in outer space. Apollo 11 is orbiting the moon. The lunar module will be landing soon. It’s a historic moment. Look, there it is! Oh, my God!’
Aqa Jaan and the imam leaned forward in their seats and stared at the vehicle as it touched down on the lunar surface. There was a hushed silence.
‘Something’s going on in the library,’ Golbanu said to Golebeh. ‘Something important that even we aren’t supposed to know about.’
‘The boy climbed the ladder to the roof, hid something there and hurried back down,’ Golebeh said. ‘Then the lights in the library went out. What are they doing there in the dark?’
‘Let’s go and see.’
They crept through the darkness and stopped by the library.
‘Look! There’s an electrical cord running down from the roof and into the library.’
‘An electrical cord?’
They tiptoed over to the window, but the curtains were closed. They walked softly past the window and stopped at the door. A mysterious silver glow was shining through the crack.
They put their ears to the door.
‘Impossible!’ they heard the imam exclaim.
‘Incredible!’ they heard Aqa Jaan exclaim.
They looked through the keyhole, but all they could see was an eerie glow.
Frustrated, they tiptoed away and vanished into the darkness of the courtyard.
Nowruz
Along with spring comes Nowruz, the Persian New Year. Originally a royal feast, the lavish celebration of spring dates back to the first Persian kings.
Spring cleaning begins two weeks before Nowruz. To welcome the new season, wheat is sown on plates and the sabzeh – wheat sprouts – are placed on the table. New clothes and shoes are bought for the children to wear on their visits to relatives, especially grandparents.
The women of the household are in charge of the preparations. Only when everything has been arranged to their satisfaction do they devote some time to their own appearance.
In the house of the mosque a few extra people had been brought in to help the grandmothers clean the house for Nowruz. An elderly hairdresser had also come over to beautify the women. Her job was to cut their hair, pluck their eyebrows and remove excess facial hair.
She had been doing this for more than fifty years. The first time she had come – she must have been about ten or twelve – had been in the company of her mother. Later, when her mother died, she took over the business. Before long, she had become a confidante of the women of the house.
Whenever she was there, certain sections of the house were off-limits to the men. The women’s laughter could be heard all day long. They walked around the house without their veils and crossed the courtyard with bare legs. The grandmothers pampered them, bringing them lemonade, hookahs and other treats.
The hairdresser told them the latest gossip. Since she made the rounds of the wealthiest families in the city, she had a good idea of what was going on in the women’s world. She always arrived with a suitcase full of perfume, hair dye, make-up, nail scissors, hairpins and other products that were for sale. Her wares were not the run-of-the-mill kind you could buy in the bazaar. Her son was a migrant worker in Kuwait, and every time he came home, he filled his suitcase with exclusive products for his mother’s clients.
Today
