comment.
‘What are you doing at the moment? Do you have your own mosque yet?’
‘No, I’m a substitute imam in a number of different cities. When the regular imam is ill or away on a trip, I get called in to take his place.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘We also make use of substitutes, except that we always call on the same one: an imam from the village of Jirya. He’s very reliable, and comes the moment he’s sent for.’
Aqa Jaan wanted to ask the young imam where his parents were from and why he hadn’t asked one of his male relatives to accompany him. But he didn’t bother, because he knew what the young imam’s answer would be: ‘I’m a grown man and I can decide for myself who I want to marry. My name is Mohammad Khalkhal. I studied under Ayatollah Almakki. What else do you need to know?’
‘How did you hear about our daughter? Have you ever seen her?’ Aqa Jaan said.
‘No, but my sister has met her. Besides, she was recommended to me by Ayatollah Almakki. He’s given me a letter to give to you.’ He took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Aqa Jaan.
If he had a letter from the ayatollah, there was nothing more to say. If Almakki approved of him, that was enough. The case was closed.
Aqa Jaan respectfully opened the envelope and read the following note:
In the name of Allah. I take the opportunity of Mohammad Khalkhal’s visit to send you my regards. Wa-assalaam.
Almakki
There was something odd about the letter, but Aqa Jaan couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The ayatollah had neither approved nor disapproved of the young man; he had merely sent his greetings. Evidently he wasn’t all that impressed, or else he would have said so in his note. But Khalkhal did have a letter from Almakki and that meant something.
Aqa Jaan slipped the note into a drawer. ‘I’m wondering how to proceed,’ he said. ‘I suggest we do the following: I’ll tell Imam Alsaberi and his daughter that we’ve met. After that we’ll set a date for you to come here with your family . . . with your father. Is that all right with you?’
‘Yes,’ Khalkhal said.
Shahbal showed Khalkhal to the door and went back to the study.
‘What do you think, Shahbal?’ Aqa Jaan asked.
‘He’s different. Very astute. I liked that.’
‘You’re right. You could tell just by the way he sat in his chair. He’s a far cry from a rural imam. But I have my doubts.’
‘What kind of doubts?’
‘He’s ambitious. The ayatollah didn’t say anything specific about him in his note. He gave him a letter of recommendation, but then didn’t comment on him. I sense hesitation in his note. Khalkhal probably isn’t a bad person, but it’s risky. Would he be the right man for our mosque? Alsaberi is soft; this young imam is hard.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Is Alsaberi still up?’
Shahbal looked out through the curtain.
‘The light’s on in the library,’ he said.
‘Let’s keep this to ourselves for a while. There’s no need to tell the women yet,’ Aqa Jaan said, and he went outside.
He knocked on the library door and went in. Alsaberi was sitting on his rug, reading a book.
‘How was your day?’ Aqa Jaan asked.
‘The same as usual,’ Alsaberi said.
‘What are you reading?’
‘A book about the political activities of the ayatollahs during the last hundred years. Apparently they haven’t been idle: they’ve always found something to rebel against, always found a way to gain more power. This book is a mirror that I can hold up to myself to judge my own performance. I have nothing against politics, but it’s not for me. I wasn’t cut out for heroics. And that makes me feel guilty.’
Alsaberi was being unusually frank. Aqa Jaan seemed to have caught him at a good moment.
‘I know that Qom isn’t happy with me. I’m afraid that if I continue my policy of not speaking out, people will switch to another mosque or stop coming altogether.’
‘There’s no need to worry about that,’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘On the contrary, the fact that our mosque doesn’t get mixed up in politics will attract more people. Most of the men and women who come to our mosque are ordinary, everyday people. The mosque is their home. They’ve been coming here all their lives, and they aren’t about to stop now. They know you too well and have too much respect for you to do that.’
‘But the bazaar,’ the imam continued. ‘The bazaar has always been at the forefront of every political movement. It says so in this book. During the last two hundred years, the bazaars have played a pivotal role. The imams have always used the bazaar as a weapon. When the merchants close the bazaar, everyone knows something important or unusual is about to happen. And I know the bazaar isn’t happy with me.’
Aqa Jaan knew perfectly well what the imam was talking about. He himself wasn’t all that happy with Alsaberi, but you can’t dismiss a man because he’s weak. Alsaberi was the imam of the mosque and would be its imam until he died. He knew that there was grumbling at the bazaar, that the merchants expected the mosque to do more, but he couldn’t help it if Alsaberi was incompetent. Aqa Jaan had even been summoned recently to Qom, where the ayatollahs had told him in no uncertain terms that the mosque needed to take a harder line. They wanted it to speak out against the shah, and especially against the Americans. Aqa Jaan had promised that the mosque would be more vocal, but he knew that Alsaberi wasn’t the man for the job.
Qom was the centre of the Shiite world. The great ayatollahs all lived in Qom and controlled every mosque from within its sacred walls. The mosque in Senejan was one of the most important in the country, which is why the ayatollahs expected it to take a more active role. Qom asked questions, Qom issued orders, but with Alsaberi as its imam, Aqa Jaan would never be able to change the mosque. Perhaps that’s why Almakki had sent the young imam to their house.
‘I have a surprise for you,’ said Aqa Jaan, changing the subject. ‘It fits in with the subject of your book.’
‘What is it?’
‘Someone has come to ask for the hand of your daughter.’
‘Who?’
‘A young imam from Qom. A follower of Ayatollah Almakki.’
‘Almakki?’ the imam said, surprised, and he put down his book.
‘He’s not afraid of politics, he dresses well, he’s confident and he wears his black turban at a jaunty angle,’ Aqa Jaan said with a smile.
‘How did he find us? I mean my daughter.’
‘Everyone in Senejan knows you have a daughter. And everyone
