she spent most of her time reading, especially the books and women’s magazines that her brother-in-law Nosrat brought her from Tehran.
During the autumn, when there was a spell of good weather, she trapped migrating birds. On those days the grandmothers went down into the cellar and helped her bring up a snare – a large wicker basket attached to a long rope. Then Fakhri Sadat scattered some grain in the courtyard, sat in a chair by the hauz and waited for the birds. Eventually a flock of birds flew in from the other side of the mountains and landed in the courtyard. When a bird pecked its way into the basket in search of food, Fakhri Sadat yanked the rope, and the snare snapped shut.
Fakhri Sadat kept the trapped birds for several days in the Bird Room. She fed them, talked to them, examined their feathers and sketched the intricate patterns on a sheet of drawing paper. When she was working, everyone tiptoed around and talked in whispers. Afterwards, when the drawings were done, she set the birds free.
The hairdresser had just finished waxing Fakhri Sadat’s legs when the crow flew down and perched on the edge of the roof, cawing loudly to bring its news.
No one knew how old the crow was, but references to it in the mosque’s archives went back a century. The crow was part of the house, like the dome, the minarets, the roofs, the cedar tree and the hauz, whose water it drank.
Fakhri sat up. ‘Salaam, crow!’ she said. ‘Do you have good news? Who’s on the way? Who’s coming to see us?’
As evening fell, the caretaker emerged from the mosque. Behind him was Imam Alsaberi, dressed in festive clothes. They usually entered the house through the courtyard gate, but today they went up the stone steps and walked across the flat roof – perhaps because it was made of a mixture of desert clay and plants that gave off a delightful smell in springtime.
‘Do I have time for a quick nap?’ Alsaberi asked the grandmothers when he reached the courtyard. ‘I don’t feel well.’
‘Yes,’ Golbanu replied, ‘you’ve got about half an hour. We’re waiting for Aqa Jaan. When he gets home, we’ll go to the banquet room. At midnight we’ll all meet in the courtyard for the New Year’s prayer. Meanwhile, we’re going to lay a few carpets on the ground. I’ll wake you up in time.’
A taxi stopped in front of the gate. The children raced outside. ‘Uncle Nosrat’s here!’ they shouted.
Fakhri Sadat opened the window of her second-floor bedroom and looked out. Nosrat wasn’t alone; he had brought along a young woman. Fakhri flung on her chador and went downstairs.
Nosrat and the woman came into the courtyard and were met with a stunned silence. The young woman wasn’t wearing a chador! She did have on a headscarf, but it was pulled back so far that her hair was visible.
The grandmothers, looking out from the kitchen, couldn’t believe their eyes.
‘How dare he bring a woman dressed like that into this house!’ Golbanu cried.
‘Who is she?’ asked Golebeh.
‘I don’t know. Some slut!’
Zinat Khanom, the imam’s wife, and her daughter Sadiq joined the group. Shahbal watched the scene from the window. It was brave of his uncle to bring along an emancipated woman, he thought. He admired Nosrat for ignoring tradition and rebelling against the antiquated customs of his family.
This was the first time in the long history of the house that a woman had crossed its threshold without a chador or any other kind of veil.
They stood there, gawking. Should they welcome her or not? What would Aqa Jaan say?
Darkness had just fallen, but in the lamplight the grandmothers could see that the woman was wearing sheer nylon stockings. You could actually see her legs!
Nasrin and Ensi, Aqa Jaan’s daughters, cheerfully kissed their Uncle Nosrat.
‘I’d like to introduce you to my fiancée,’ Nosrat said. ‘Her name is Shadi.’
Shadi smiled and greeted the girls.
‘That’s wonderful news!’ exclaimed Nasrin, Aqa Jaan’s eldest daughter. ‘When did you get engaged, Uncle Nosrat? And why didn’t you tell us?’
‘Engaged?’ Golbanu said to Golebeh. ‘What does he mean, engaged?’ She jerked the curtains closed. ‘He’s lying, the rascal. He’s not about to get married. He’s brought that slut from Tehran so he can have some fun. Where’s Aqa Jaan? He’ll soon put a stop to this!’
Fakhri Sadat kissed the woman. ‘Shadi,’ she said. ‘What a lovely name! Welcome to our home.’
‘Where’s Aqa Jaan?’ Nosrat asked. ‘Where’s Muezzin? Where’s the imam? And where’s Shahbal?’
‘Aqa Jaan hasn’t come home yet, but Alsaberi is probably in the library,’ the imam’s wife told him.
‘I’ll go and surprise him,’ Nosrat said, and he headed towards the library.
Fakhri Sadat led Shadi to the guest room, and all the girls followed them.
The grandmothers waited in the kitchen, where they could keep an eye on the gate. The moment they caught sight of Aqa Jaan, they called out, ‘Nosrat’s here!’
‘Good,’ he said happily. ‘Just in time for the New Year. So my younger brother hasn’t forgotten us. Our celebration will have an added glow tonight.’
‘There’s something else, though,’ Golbanu said anxiously.
‘What?’
‘He’s brought a woman with him.’
‘He says they’re engaged,’ Golebeh added.
‘That’s good news. At last he’s come to his senses.’
‘Not quite,’ Golbanu said. ‘She isn’t wearing a chador. Just a skimpy little headscarf.’
‘And nylons,’ Golebeh added softly.
‘Nylons? What are nylons?’
‘Long transparent stockings. They make your legs look bare. That’s the kind of woman he’s brought to this house. Heaven help us! Luckily it was dark when they arrived. Imagine if he’d walked past the mosque with her in the daytime! Tomorrow everyone in the city would be saying, “A woman in nylon stockings is staying at the house of the mosque!”’
‘I’ve heard all I need to,’ Aqa Jaan said calmly. ‘I’ll talk to him. I want you to welcome her as usual and give her an ordinary pair of stockings and a chador, in case she wants to go into town tomorrow. You have so many beautiful chadors. Give her one of them as a gift.’
‘I don’t think they’re engaged. He’s just brought one of his girls along,’ Golbanu said.
‘We don’t know that,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘Let’s hope they are engaged. Where is he now?’
‘In the library, I think, or else in Muezzin’s room.’
Aqa Jaan knew
