to fit in.
‘It will all work out,’ he told the grandmothers, and went to see Muezzin.
‘Dinner’s ready!’ called Golbanu.
‘Children! Dinner’s ready!’ called Golebeh.
Everyone gathered in the banquet room.
After the women had seated themselves on the right side of the massive dining table, the men entered in their festive clothes.
Fakhri Sadat introduced Shadi to Aqa Jaan, Alsaberi and Muezzin.
‘Welcome, my daughter,’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘If we’d known that Nosrat was going to bring his fiancée, we would have organised a dinner in your honour. Still, just having you here is a celebration.’
Imam Alsaberi greeted her from a safe distance. Fakhri Sadat described her to Muezzin. ‘Tonight we have at our table a woman from Tehran. She’s different from the women in Senejan and very different from those women you visit in the mountains,’ she said archly. ‘Her name is Shadi and she’s beautiful, with lovely dark-brown eyes, brown hair, gleaming white teeth and a charming smile. Tonight she’s wearing a pretty white chador with green flowers, which was given to her by the grandmothers. What else would you like to know?’
‘Ah, so she’s beautiful!’ Muezzin said, and he laughed. ‘Just what I would have expected from Nosrat!’
The grandmothers came in with a burning brazier, into which they threw a handful of esfandi seeds that filled the room with a fragrant smell, while the girls carried the food in from the kitchen.
‘Aren’t we going to wait for Ahmad?’ Alsaberi asked.
‘Forgive me,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘I was so excited at seeing Nosrat that I forgot to give you the message. Ahmad phoned me at the bazaar and told me he wouldn’t be coming. They’re having their own celebration in Qom.’
Ahmad was Alsaberi’s seventeen-year-old son. He was in Qom, studying to be an imam with the great moderate cleric Ayatollah Golpayegani.
The grandmothers had cooked a delicious New Year’s dinner, and everyone lingered at the table. After the meal the girls brought in sweets made specially for the occasion.
The women had accepted Shadi and were bombarding her with questions about Tehran and the female half of its population. Shadi had brought them presents: lipstick, nail polish, nylons and fancy bras. The men, finding that they were no longer welcome, retreated to the guest room.
It was nearly midnight when one of the grandmothers announced, ‘Ladies! It’s time to get ready for the New Year’s prayer.’
Nosrat moved closer to Shadi. ‘What do we need to do to get ready?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. I’m not interested in all that mumbo-jumbo,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘They’ll have to pray without me. I’m taking you to the library instead.’
‘Why, what are we going to do in there?’
‘You’ll find out,’ he said. He grabbed her hand, led her on tiptoe past the cedar tree and softly opened the library door.
‘Why don’t you switch on the light?’
‘Shh, not so loud! The grandmothers see and hear everything. If they find out we’re here, they’ll swoop down on us like two ghosts,’ he said, and he began to undo the buttons of her blouse.
‘No, not in here,’ she whispered, and gently pushed him away.
He put his hands around her waist, pressed her against the bookcase, then lifted her skirt.
‘No! It’s spooky in here.’
‘It’s not spooky; it’s thrilling. The ancient spirit of our house is here. For the past seven hundred years imams have been preparing themselves for prayers in this room. It’s a sacred place. A lot of things have happened within these hallowed walls, but not this. I want to make love to you here, to add something beautiful to the history of this room.’
‘Oh, Nosrat,’ she sighed.
He lit the candle on the imam’s desk.
‘Nosrat, where are you?’ Golbanu shouted from the courtyard. ‘Hurry, the imam is ready!’
Two large carpets had been spread out in the courtyard so the family could pray. Everyone was there, except for Nosrat and his fiancée.
‘I told you he’s a rascal,’ Golbanu said. ‘He sneers at the mosque every chance he gets, but I won’t let him. He simply must come to the prayer!’
‘Where could they be?’ Golebeh asked.
They turned their heads towards the library.
Quietly they crossed the courtyard. The library windows were rattling. Or were they imagining it? No, the curtains were moving too.
The grandmothers tiptoed over to the door, but didn’t dare open it. They knelt cautiously by the window, looked through the gap between the curtains and saw to their surprise that the imam’s candle, which they never lit, was now burning brightly.
They cupped their hands over their eyes and peered into the room.
The bookcases were jiggling slightly in the candlelight. The two women were so startled by what they saw next that they simultaneously leapt to their feet.
What should they do? Should they tell Aqa Jaan?
No, that wasn’t a good idea, not on a special night like this.
But what should they do about the unforgivable sin taking place in the library?
Nothing, they told each other with their eyes.
Like generations of grandmothers before them, their duty was to pretend that nothing had happened. They had been entrusted with so many family secrets they had long ago learned to lock them in their hearts and throw away the key. No, they hadn’t seen or heard a thing.
The imam had already begun the prayer. The rest of the family was lined up behind him, facing Mecca. The grandmothers slipped in unnoticed beside the other women. The house was silent. The only sound was that of the imam’s prayer:
Allaho nur-os-samawate wa-alard
mathalo nurehi kameshkaatin feeha . . .
He is light.
His light is like a niche with a lantern.
The glass is like a shining star,
Lit by the oil of a blessed olive tree.
Its oil is almost aglow.
Light upon light!
Khalkhal
The
