My Father's Notebook

A New Road

“Loss is an experience that eventually leads to a new road,

to a new opportunity to think of things in a different way.

Losing is not the end of everything, but merely the end of a

particular way of thinking. If you fall in one place, get up

again in another. That’s a cardinal rule of life.”

Those were the words of the Persian poet Mohammad

Mokhtari, a comrade of Ishmael’s, who refused to flee.

His body was found behind a salvage yard outside

Tehran. According to Western news reports, he was

strangled by the secret police.

Ishmael left. He took the path to Saffron Mountain and Aga Akbar remained standing at the cemetery gate until he could no longer tell the difference between Ishmael and the rocks.

Akbar knew from experience that once people vanished to the other side of the mountain, they never returned. But where did they all go?

If Ishmael thought there was no alternative, he had to leave. But what was Akbar going to tell Tina?

The sun had risen and the mothers had slipped away from the cemetery. An old woman with a cane hobbled over to Akbar. “Good morning, Aga!” she said. “What on earth have you been staring at for so long?”

“Salaam,” Akbar gestured. “I’ve been watching the sun rise over Saffron Mountain. You can see dark clouds on the other side. It’s snowing over there.”

He had to hurry home. He’d never come back from the mosque so late. Tina would be worried.

She was waiting for him at the door. “Where have you been?” she cried. “Where’s your coat? Why didn’t you buy any bread? Where’s your toilet bag?”

Oh, the toilet bag! Where had he left it?

“I’ll tell you inside,” he gestured. “Come in, shut the door and lock it! Where’s Golden Bell? Call her! I have something important to tell you. He climbed the mountain. He left. He’s gone.”

“What are you talking about? Who climbed the mountain? Who’s gone?”

“He disappeared into the mountains. To the place with the red flags. Where’s Golden Bell? Call her! I told him to stay away from the railway tracks, otherwise the gendarmes would be able to see him through their binoculars.”

“Golden Bell!” Tina called. “Come here, I don’t understand what your father’s saying. He came home without his coat or toilet bag, he didn’t bring us any bread and he’s rambling on about someone who’s gone. God help me, that man comes home every day with a different story! Akbar, what did you do with your coat?”

Tina immediately knew what he was talking about, she just didn’t want to believe it. She needed to have it confirmed by someone else. Golden Bell came in.

“He’s gone,” Akbar signed.

“Really? When?”

“He’s on his way to Saffron Mountain.”

“Ishmael’s gone, Mother,” Golden Bell said.

Tina sat down and burst into sobs.

“You should be glad he’s gone. Imagine what would happen if the mullahs got hold of him. I mean it, Mother, don’t cry. If he takes the right route, the gendarmes won’t catch him and he’ll be free. He can do it. He knows the way, he knows how to stay out of sight. Don’t cry, Mother. You should be praying for his escape with all your heart. Sit down, Father. Here’s a glass of tea. Drink it, it’ll warm you. Tell me what happened.”

He took the tea, sat down and signed: “I was on my way to the mosque this morning when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and saw Ishmael. He said he was going to the mountains, but he didn’t have any warm clothes, or any bread, either. Oh, I think I left my toilet bag in the bakery … Anyway, he’s not wearing the right shoes.”

Golden Bell sat down beside him. “It’ll be all right. He’ll manage.”

They were sitting so close together that Tina couldn’t follow their sign language. “What are you two talking about?” she said angrily. “Are you trying to keep something from me? Is this another of your father — daughter secrets?”

“Sorry, Mother, I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, yes, you did,” Tina snapped. “I’m fed up with all the secrets in this house. I’ve had enough of father — son secrets. And of your secrets, too, Golden Bell. Where will all that secrecy lead to? Nowhere. Just look at what’s happened to your brother. He’s probably in the hands of the gendarmes right now! Oh, my God! Ishmael!”

“Mother, please don’t shout. Before you know it, the neighbours will be at the door.”

“Let this be a lesson to you, Golden Bell. Wake up, open your eyes! Your brother, your great example, is gone. You’ll be next. I wish—” She burst into loud wails.

“There’s no need for hysterics, Mother,” Golden Bell said. “Ishmael hasn’t reached the border yet. He’s still got a long walk ahead of him. Here’s your chador. Go and pray for him. That’s all you can do for him now. Father, go to your shop as usual. I’ll be along in a little while.”

Akbar got to his feet. “He’ll phone us when he reaches the other side,” he signed. “The people over there are different, you know, and they … where’s the map?”

“This is no time for maps!” Tina shrieked. She took her chador and stomped out of the room.

Ishmael didn’t phone. Nor did they get a letter from him. He wasn’t allowed to write or make phone calls. People who fled to the Soviet Union knew better than to get in touch with their families. A letter from the Soviet Union? A hammer-and-sickle postmark? A Lenin stamp? It was unthinkable!

Every time the phone rang and Tina rushed over to pick it up, Akbar looked at her.

“No?”

“No.”

Every time the postman went by the shop, Akbar gestured: “No letter?”

“No, no letter.”

However, they were almost certain that he hadn’t been arrested. Safa’s friends had told her to expect neither letters nor phone calls.

Three days after Ishmael’s departure, Akbar went to Saffron Village. He took a mule and rode from village to village, asking the elders if the gendarmes had made any arrests in the last few days. No, they hadn’t, and the elders would surely have heard about it if they had.

Months later, in the middle of the night, when they were least expecting it, the phone rang. Tina clambered out of bed and picked up the phone. “Salaam,” she said.

“Salaam,” a man replied. “Are you Ishmael’s mother?”

“Yes,” she said, terrified. She thought it was the police.

“I’m a friend of Ishmael’s. I’m calling you from Berlin. I wanted to let you know that he’s all right. He’s in Tadzhikistan. He might be coming to Berlin, but not for a while. When he does, he’ll contact you himself. Would you please pass the news on to his wife? Goodbye.”

Before Tina could say a word, he hung up.

“Who was that?” Akbar enquired.

“Ishmael! Oh, my God! No, it wasn’t Ishmael himself. Yes, he’s all right. We’ve got to call Safa right away.”

In those days the Soviet Union was struggling with problems of its own. Gorbachev was trying to salvage whatever he could with his policy of glasnost. Russia could no longer welcome comrades from its neighbour to the south and international solidarity was a thing of the past. Comrades like Ishmael who had escaped to the Soviet Union used to be the responsibility of either the government or local party officials. They were offered a wealth of opportunities. They could attend a university, for example, or they could visit collective farms and factories and broaden their horizons. Now there was no question of opportunities. The entire social system had been turned upside-down. All across the country people were busy trying to save their own skins. Ishmael ended up in a small flat with seven other Iranian refugees, all stuck in the Soviet Union with no future. So much for his dreams. It took him months to realise where he was and what had happened to him.

Russia was going downhill fast. He had to get out.

A fellow refugee told him how to exploit the chaos to travel to East Germany. Thanks to an old comrade who’d lived in the GDR for years, he managed to obtain a temporary travel permit.

The moment he set foot in East Berlin, he went to a post office and called his wife. Her grandmother picked up the phone.

“Hello, it’s Ishmael.”

“Who?”

“Ishmael. Safa’s husband.”

“Oh, Ishmael! How are you? Safa’s not home right now. She’s at work. Nilufar’s here, but she’s asleep. I’m taking care of her. Yes, she’s fine. What about you? Is everything all right?”

“I’m in Berlin now. I’ll call again tonight.”

Next, he dialled his parents’ number. Tina answered the phone.

“Salaam, Tina. It’s me, Ishmael.”

Poor Tina, she nearly fainted.

“Can you hear me, Tina? How are you? Sorry I didn’t call before, but I couldn’t. Anyway, I’m in Berlin now. I have to keep this short. Where’s Father? Where’s Golden Bell?”

Tina wept.

“Why haven’t you said anything? I can’t talk long. Is Father there?”

“No, he’s at the shop.”

“What about Golden Bell?”

“She isn’t home, either.”

“Just my luck. Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll call again soon. I’ve got to hang up now. So, everything’s OK? Good. I promise I’ll call back.”

Tina didn’t tell him that the reason Golden Bell wasn’t at home was because she was in prison. Or that Aga Akbar was sick and everything was far from “OK”. His call came so unexpectedly and went so fast that Tina didn’t have a chance to tell him anything. But she wouldn’t have told him the truth even if she’d had more time. He couldn’t do anything about it and it would only have upset him. Bad news could wait, Tina reasoned. In the meantime, there was no need for Ishmael to know.

She hung up, flung on her chador and hurried to the shop to tell Akbar the good news.

“He called!” she signed to him through the window.

“He did?”

“Yes!” she said and went in.

“What did he say? Is he all right?”

“Yes, he’s fine. He asked about you. And about Golden Bell.”

“Did you tell him that Golden Bell—”

“No.”

“Why not? He’s her brother. He should be told.”

“I just couldn’t do it. I cried and forgot what I was supposed to say. My hands were shaking. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.”

“Is he going to call again?”

“Yes. He can phone us now. Golden Bell will be so happy to hear that he’s called. I’ll tell her on Friday. No, wait, why don’t you tell her in sign language? That way, the guards won’t be able to understand. Just say that he phoned. Keep it simple. I’m going to Marzi’s and Enzi’s now to tell them that he called. There’s no need for you to stay in the shop. You look pale, Akbar. Do you feel sick? Come on, let’s go home. I’ll go to Marzi’s later.”

Golden Bell had been arrested six weeks after Ishmael’s escape. No one knew exactly how it happened.

One evening she simply didn’t come home. Tina immediately feared the worst. She’d always known there was a chance that Golden Bell would be rounded up one day, like all the others. But she’d expected the police to come in a jeep and drag her daughter out of the house.

Now that Golden Bell hadn’t come home and no jeeps had pulled up to the door, Tina was even more frightened. What should she do? Should she alert the rest of the family or should she sit back and wait? Don’t panic, she thought, it’s early yet.

Tina and Akbar stayed up until long after dark. Golden Bell didn’t come home, nor did she phone.

Tina had heard from people whose children had been arrested that the secret police immediately sent a couple of agents to search the house. It suddenly occurred to her that she should get rid of any incriminating evidence. She jumped to her feet.

“Go and get a cardboard box,” she signed to Akbar. “We have to get rid of Golden Bell’s books. The police will be here soon. Hurry, we need that box!”

Tina had learned how to read, but the books in Golden Bell’s room were far too difficult for her. Which books were all right and which were dangerous?

“Put them all in the box!” she gestured.

“All of them?”

“Yes, all of them!”

She got down on her hands and knees, felt around under Golden Bell’s bed and pulled out a bag. It was filled with papers. She glanced through them to see what they were about, but they were too complicated, so she stuck them in the box, too. Then she searched the wardrobe.

“Don’t just stand there, Akbar! Look in the pockets of her clothes! Take everything out.”

While Akbar inspected Golden Bell’s clothes, Tina rolled up the carpet and checked to see if anything was hidden underneath. No, nothing.

“Come on, let’s go! We have to take the box somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. We can’t keep it here, though. Pick up the other end, I can’t carry it by myself. No, wait. We can’t throw away the books. What if Golden Bell comes home? S he’ll never forgive me for throwing them out. I know, we can put them in the shed in the almond grove. If she does come home, we can always go and get them again, and if she doesn’t … Lift up your end of the box, Akbar, and be careful.”

They carried the heavy box to the front door. Tina opened it cautiously and peeked outside.

“I don’t see anyone,” she said. “Let’s go.”

They walked to the end of the street, where they had their garden, and made their way through the darkness to an old, dilapidated shed. The door was open. Tina hid the box beneath the gardening equipment and shut the door. “Let’s go home!” she gestured.

“Thank goodness that’s done,” Tina said when they were safely back home.

“What should we do next?” Akbar signed.

“Nothing. All we can do is wait and see what tomorrow brings.”

“I was wondering—” Akbar began.

“What is it now?”

“Nothing.”

They sat quietly for a long time. Neither of them wanted to go to bed. Golden Bell might come through the door at any moment.

Tina heard footsteps. Maybe it was the police! She leapt up and peeked through the curtains, but it turned out to be their neighbours going to the mosque for their morning prayers.

“God help us, it’ll be daylight soon and Golden Bell still hasn’t come home! Where should I start looking?”

She’d always known that Golden Bell would never lead a normal life. Golden Bell would never have a home, a husband, a child, a cat, a kitchen, a—

“I was wondering—” Akbar began.

“What is it this time?”

“Golden Bell left a few … I mean, if the police come, do you think they’ll look in my shop? Golden Bell left some things in the lean-to.”

Tina slapped her forehead. “What did she hide in your shop?”

“Papers,” Akbar signed.

“What kind of papers?”

“Those printed things.”

“We have to go to the shop, but we can’t go now, everybody’s awake.”

She peeked through the curtains again. “I guess it doesn’t matter. We can walk along with everyone else. Come on, now is as good a time as any.”

She put on her chador.

Tina and Akbar walked calmly out of the house and headed towards the mosque with the others.

“Turn left at the corner and go to your shop,” she signed. “Don’t switch on the light. I’ll tag along with the other women until we reach the mosque, then I’ll double back to the shop.”

Akbar did as he was told. When he reached the shop, he took out his key, stuck it in the lock, opened the door and slipped inside. He waited in the dark for Tina.

It didn’t take long. She struck a match and signed, “Go and get the oil lamp … No, wait, a candle is better.”

Akbar trotted off and came back with a candle stub. Tina lit it and went into the lean-to.

“Where are they?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t take much notice.”

Holding the candle in one hand, Tina groped around with the other until she came upon a stack of papers in a cardboard box. She held one of them up to the candle and read a few lines. It didn’t make any sense to her, but she could see that it was a flyer. She thrust it into Akbar’s hand. “How could you be so stupid?” she angrily signed. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

She got down on her knees and searched some more. She pulled a typewriter out from under a table. “How will I ever be able to get rid of this? Oh, Akbar, Akbar, you’re ruining my life!”

Tina crawled through the darkness on her hands and knees. Behind a wooden box she found a few cans of spray paint. It was the first time she’d ever seen graffiti spray. She carefully picked up a can and examined it in the dim candlelight. “What on earth is this? Oh, my God, stay back, Akbar! Don’t touch the thing, it might explode! Get me a plastic bag. OK, now put it in the bag. No, wait, I’d better do it myself.”

She picked up the cans one by one and put them in the bag. “Golden Bell,” she moaned, “you’ve not only ruined your life, but also mine.”

Then she turned to Akbar. “Hurry up! Where’s my chador? I’ll take the papers, you take the typewriter. Hide it under your coat. Or wrap it in a rag. No, a carpet. Hurry! I’ll carry those dangerous-looking cans. Now go! Follow me down to the river!”

It was light outside, though the sun hadn’t come up yet.

By the bakery they ran into some men hurrying home with fresh bread.

“Salaam aleikum!”

“Salaam aleikum!”

Tina turned down a side street, towards a grape arbor, and Akbar trailed along behind her. Fifteen minutes later they came to the river.

Tina hunted around and found a heavy rock, which she put in the box of flyers. She took off her headscarf, tied it around the box and lowered it into the water. Then she gingerly picked up the bag of spray cans. She filled the bag with water, tied it shut and pushed it gently away from the shore. It floated briefly along with the current, then sank.

“Don’t just stand there!” she snapped at Akbar. “Throw the typewriter in, too!”

But Akbar couldn’t bring himself to do it. He hesitated.

So Tina picked up the typewriter, walked down to the river’s edge and threw it as far as she could. It splashed noisily into the water, but Tina fell to her knees. “Ow, my back!” she cried. “Come here, Akbar! Hold my hand! I can’t breathe. No, don’t touch me, don’t come near me. Golden Bell, look what you’ve done to me!”

She began to cry. After several minutes, she was finally able to stand up again, with Akbar’s help. She held his arm and they slowly made their way home.

At eleven o’clock that same morning, two agents of the secret police walked into Akbar’s shop. Akbar hadn’t felt up to going that morning, but Tina had insisted: “Go to the shop as usual and do your work. We mustn’t do anything out of the ordinary, or people will realise that Golden Bell didn’t come home last night.”

Akbar was sitting at his workbench when the shadows of the two men fell across the carpet he was mending. Startled, he raised his head and began to stand.

“Don’t get up,” one of them gestured.

Akbar sensed that these were the men Tina had been talking about. The other agent went around the shop, inspecting things. He moved aside the carpets on the workbench and peered into a box on the shelf.

“Your daughter, the girl who helps you in the shop, where is she?” the agent asked, in rudimentary sign language.

Despite the man’s clumsy signs, Akbar knew what he meant.

“What did she do in your shop?” the agent continued.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Akbar signed.

“Your daughter,” the agent gestured more emphatically. “Daughter, earrings. Green earrings. Long hair. Breasts. You understand? What did she do here? Who else came to your shop?”

Akbar knew he wasn’t supposed to say anything, but he was upset by the man’s crude gestures. It was Golden Bell’s long hair and green earrings he was describing. He must have seen her without her chador. Surely that was impossible?

Though Akbar was inwardly seething, he managed to sit calmly in his chair.

“He doesn’t understand what you’re talking about,” the other agent said.

“He understands all right. Show him the photographs.”

The other agent went into the lean-to.

The first agent took a couple of pictures out of his coat pocket. He thrust the picture of a man in front of Akbar’s face. “Do you know this man?”

“I don’t understand. Let me get my wife.”

“Sit down. Look at this picture. Have you ever seen this man in your shop? Did he have any contact with your daughter? Did he—”

“I don’t understand. You have to send for my wife,” Akbar gestured for the second time.

“I bet you’ll understand now. Here’s another picture. I’m sure you’ll recognise her,” he said with a smirk. And he showed him a picture of Golden Bell with her hair in a tangle and her face covered with cuts and bruises.

That did it. The man had violated the inviolable. Akbar snatched the picture out of his hand, leapt to his feet and pushed the man aside.

The agent backed up a few steps, pulled out a gun and yelled, “Sit down!” But that only made things worse. Akbar grabbed a stick and started hitting him, shrieking all the while, “GEEEEE OUOUOU!”

The other agent rushed out of the lean-to and was about to grab Akbar from behind, when Akbar wheeled around and whacked him on the shoulder with his stick. The agent doubled over in pain.

Akbar hurried outside and began shouting: “MYYYY GOOLGOOL EAEAEAR RRRGGG!”

Shopkeepers raced outside and passers-by rushed to his aid. “What’s wrong?”

“In there. Those men. A picture. Golden Bell. Her hair. Her earrings,” he gestured.

No one knew what he was talking about.

The situation had got completely out of hand. The hated agents of the secret police slinked off to their car and disappeared.

The shopkeepers took Akbar back to his shop.

“What did they want?”

“That man had a picture in his pocket. Golden Bell’s long hair. Her green earrings. And her … How could he have seen her green earrings? Do you understand?”

“No,” said the grocer.

“Golden Bell didn’t come home, I mean, she got home late last night, but my wife can tell you more. And that man pulled out a gun. He had the picture in his pocket. Suddenly I got angry, I picked up a stick and hit him. The other agent was about to grab me from behind. I hit him hard on his … the picture, where’s the picture?”

“I think we’d better get his wife,” the baker said. “He’s upset about something.”

• • •

Ishmael phoned a few more times, but Tina couldn’t bring herself to tell him that Golden Bell was in prison. Instead, every time he called, she told him that Golden Bell just happened to be away at that moment.

“Tina, it’s hard for me to phone. I can’t do it often. I’ll try again tomorrow evening at around seven,” he finally said. “Tell Golden Bell, because I want to talk to her. And can you ask Father to come home earlier tomorrow night? I want to hear his voice. He’s all right, isn’t he?”

“We’re old. Some days are better than others. But he’s doing fine. He’s working the same long hours he always has.”

That was a lie, because at that very moment Akbar was lying ill in bed. Tina had deliberately stood with her back to Akbar so he wouldn’t notice that she was talking to Ishmael, but he sensed that she was hiding something. He struggled to his feet, walked over to Tina and signed, “Who’re you talking to?”

“Our next-door neighbour,” she replied.

Akbar could tell that she was lying.

“Is it Ishmael?” he signed, and he began to say out loud, “Ismaa Ismaa Ismaa Agggaaa Aga Akkekebaaraa.”

“Tina!” Ishmael yelled into the receiver. “Is that Father?”

Akbar grabbed the phone and started telling him Golden Bell’s story in a trembling voice: “I I I crrrr sh sh sh is gogogo I I I Akka am iiin bedbedddd ohohoh shop shop is clo sh sh sh is gogogo oh nonono.” Then he handed the phone back to Tina, wiped away his tears and went back to bed.

Sobbing, Tina told Ishmael the truth. She told him that Golden Bell was in prison, that after six months they’d finally been given permission to visit her once a month, that Akbar had collapsed by the cedar trees and the neighbours had carried him home on their shoulders.

• • •

Akbar went back to his shop, but he had trouble working.

“My head doesn’t feel right,” he told Tina. “I keep weaving the wrong flowers into the carpets I’m mending.”

“You just need to concentrate. If you make mistakes, we won’t earn any money. Go to the shop and work calmly and quietly. It’ll all come back to you.”

A month later, when he didn’t come home from work one day, Tina went looking for him. She found him lying on the carpet with his cuneiform notebook beside him. He had fainted. Tina ran to the bakery. The baker immediately called an ambulance and Akbar was taken to the hospital. “Your husband needs to rest,” the doctor told Tina. “Work will kill him.”

After a week, Akbar was released from the hospital. He now walked with a cane.

He hated sitting around the house, so one morning he shuffled to the shop with his cane, unlocked the door, moved his chair over to the window, sat down and tried to do a bit of work. In the afternoon he walked to the cemetery and sat by the grave of his nephew Jawad. From there he looked up at Saffron Mountain. When evening came, he went back home. “Where have you been?” Tina burst out. “What will I do if you fall?”

He went in the house, picked up a pen and crossed off another day on the calendar. Then he counted the number of days left before they could visit Golden Bell.

On visiting days he got up at the crack of dawn, grabbed his cane and walked the six miles to the prison on his own.

Tina used to beg, “Don’t do it. It isn’t good for you. Why don’t you take the bus, like I do?”

But Akbar never listened. “It makes me feel better. You don’t have to worry about me. I don’t walk fast. I stop and rest along the way.”

When he got to the prison, he usually sat in the teahouse on the square until the bus arrived with its load of visitors. The moment he saw Tina, he stood up and went over to meet her.

Akbar always took along a few skeins of yarn that he’d dyed himself, because Golden Bell was knitting socks, mittens and a warm robe. Since she was ruining her eyes in her dark cell, Tina took her fresh vegetables and lentils. On a previous visit, Golden Bell had asked them to bring her walnuts and dried figs.

“What do you need those for?” Tina said. “You don’t get much exercise, so don’t eat too many figs.”

“Don’t worry, Mother, I won’t.”

And so, the months and the years went by. The Berlin Wall fell and Ishmael ended up in the Netherlands, in a house in the polder. He had a place to sit and a window through which he could look out over his past.

These were difficult years, but he wasn’t sorry he’d escaped or made the political choices he had. He’d learned a lot, he’d had all kinds of experiences and he’d even enjoyed life. Golden Bell’s imprisonment, however, was a constant source of pain and worry. He also felt terribly guilty.

It was winter. Early one morning Akbar grabbed his cane and set off for the prison.

In the spring or summer he always ran into farmers walking out to their fields to work the land. “Salaam, Aga Akbar, how are you?”

“Better.”

“And your daughter?”

“Fine. She knitted me a cap and some mittens for the winter. She’s even weaving a carpet. She says that when it’s done, she’s going to sit on her magic carpet and fly away from the prison,” Akbar signed. “Fly away,” he repeated with a laugh, and he waved his cane in the air.

In the spring he usually sat down, drank a cup of tea with the farmers, rested for a while and then walked on.

But in the winter it was difficult. He couldn’t stop to rest, because it was too cold. He didn’t mind, though. He spent the whole time talking to Golden Bell in his head and that kept him from feeling the cold in his feet.

On his last visit he’d noticed that Golden Bell was getting old. Her face was lined and her shoulders were slightly stooped.

Maybe he was mistaken and they weren’t really stooped, but he signed to Tina anyway, “I’ve noticed that Golden Bell has a stoop. Have you noticed it, too?”

“No, but it must be from all that sitting. With four or five girls crammed into one tiny cell, there’s not much room for her to move around. S he’ll have to do a lot of walking when she gets out. That’ll straighten her back.”

“When is she going to get out?”

“I don’t know, Akbar. They don’t tell us things like that. Maybe soon, maybe not for a long time.”

“How long is ‘a long time’?”

“Oh, honestly, Akbar, how would I know? Maybe so long that I won’t be able to walk any more.”

He felt saddened by her answer.

As he walked towards the prison, Akbar pondered her words. Long, Tina had said, maybe so long that she wouldn’t be able to walk any more. By that time, Akbar thought, I’ll probably be dead.

Golden Bell’s hair was turning prematurely grey. But she was clever and strong, so Akbar hoped she’d survive for years. When she was finally released, she’d still have a long life, she’d still be able to work and maybe even have children. Akbar felt sure Golden Bell would manage all right, since she’d read so many books.

Tina didn’t want Akbar to feel so sad. She told him that everything would be OK. “If you suffer from too much sadness,” she said, “you’ll fall down again and die. And if you die, you won’t be able to visit Golden Bell any more and then Golden Bell will cry in her cell for ever.”

Tina also said that if he died he’d never see Ishmael again, either. “Maybe we’ll all go and visit Ishmael when Golden Bell gets out of prison,” Tina said. “We’ll take a plane!”

Who knows? Maybe one day they would.

“Where does Ishmael live?” Akbar asked.

“He lives in a country that doesn’t have any mountains,” Tina said. “It’s always cloudy there, the wind is always blowing and he lives at the bottom of a sea.”

“At the bottom of a sea? A sea?”

“Yes,” Tina said. “They pumped out all the water. Now there are trees growing on what used to be the bottom of the sea and cows grazing on the grass.”

It didn’t make sense to Akbar, but that’s where Ishmael lived.

As he plodded on, Akbar thought about the fact that Golden Bell was more patient than Ishmael. She explained things to him with endless patience.

Ishmael always talked to him about big things — the sky, the stars, the earth, the moon — but Golden Bell always talked to him about little things.

Once she picked up a stone. “There are tiny things moving around inside,” she said.

“Inside a stone?” Akbar couldn’t believe it.

“Yes. Little tiny things that revolve around each other,” Golden Bell explained, “the way the earth revolves around the sun.”

He still couldn’t believe it. “That’s impossible,” he signed. “A stone is just a stone. If you smashed it with a hammer, you wouldn’t see a thing. No earth, no sun.”

Golden Bell handed him a hammer. He smashed the stone. “You see, no sun.”

“Make it even smaller,” she said.

He did it. Smaller and smaller and smaller. He banged away at that stone until it was just a heap of sand and it couldn’t get any smaller.

“The sun is inside the tiniest grain of sand,” Golden Bell said.

Akbar laughed out loud.

She’s smart, he thought as he neared the prison. She gets all of that from books. He remembered another of Golden Bell’s explanations. One time she laid her head on his chest and said, “Boom, boom, boom.”

“What do you mean, ‘boom, boom, boom’?” he signed.

“Here, just under your ribs, you’ve got a motor,” she replied.

“A motor?”

He laughed, but she opened a book and showed him a picture of the motor under his ribs that went boom, boom, boom.

The prison was on a hill. By the time Akbar reached the square in front of the prison, the sun had come up. He was early, so he went to the teahouse to wait for Tina. The owner brought him a cup of tea and asked him if he wanted to eat anything.

“Bread and cheese,” he gestured.

He looked out of the window at the snow-covered mountains and at the tiny windows of the prison cells. Golden Bell is in one of those cells, he thought. She knows I’m waiting here in the teahouse. Soon I’ll be able to see her and s he’ll ask, “How are you, Father? Did you walk here? You shouldn’t do that, your knee will start acting up again. Why don’t you take the bus?”

“I don’t like the bus. I can’t think because of those smelly exhaust fumes. Walking gives me a chance to think.”

He hates it when a guard stands next to Golden Bell and keeps his eye on her during the whole visit. Tina says he ought to ignore the man, simply pretend he’s not there. But he can’t.

One time he motioned to the guard to move aside.

Tina immediately tugged at his sleeve. “Don’t do that! They might not let us see her again.”

Visiting hours are short, the time flies by. “Don’t complain,” Tina says, “it’s better than nothing.”

Akbar saw the bus go past the teahouse and stop at the bus stop. He watched the visitors get out.

He saw Tina, carrying the vegetables she’d bought for Golden Bell. She’s having trouble walking, Akbar thought. He hadn’t noticed it before. She’s getting old, he realised.

Political prisoners were not allowed to have any visitors except their parents. When the gates opened, the parents poured into the visiting room and stood behind a wall of bars. The prisoners were lined up behind another set of bars, about five feet away. Since everyone talked at the same time, you had to shout to make yourself heard. You also had to be quick, because there wasn’t much time. Any unspoken words had to be left unsaid for another month.

Sometimes a mother’s scream cut through the tumult. There was an immediate hush, because they all knew that when prisoners didn’t appear, it was because they’d been executed. Visiting hours were a torture to the parents. They died a thousand deaths before their sons and daughters appeared behind the bars. Will he be there today? Will she be there today?

Akbar wasn’t aware of this possibility. Tina had spared him the anxiety. But she was always on tenterhooks until she saw Golden Bell.

The inner door opened. The guard led the prisoners to the bars, but Golden Bell didn’t appear — her place remained empty. Tina wanted to scream, but she didn’t dare. Akbar saw the vegetables trembling in her hand. Tina fainted and Akbar panicked.

Two guards grabbed Tina under the arms, dragged her across the floor and took her outside. Akbar hurried after them, then turned and went back in.

“Where’s my daughter?” he signed to a guard standing on the other side of the bars. The guard didn’t answer.

“Golden Bell, my daughter,” he quickly gestured, while glancing anxiously at Tina, who was lying by the gate.

The guard pretended not to see him.

At the end of visiting hours, the guards sent the parents away.

“You, too! Get out!” the guard gestured.

“I haven’t seen my daughter.”

“Get out!” the policeman yelled, pointing at the door.

Akbar didn’t want to go. The policeman grabbed him by the arm, “I told you to get out!”

Akbar clamped onto the bars and shouted, “M-y-y-y G-oo-o-l!”

Three guards yanked him loose and pushed him out of the door. He lifted his cane and was about to bring it down on the head of a guard, when he suddenly remembered what Tina had said, “Don’t get angry. Don’t talk to the guards. And don’t hit anyone in uniform. If you do, they’ll kill Golden Bell!”

Akbar lowered his cane, smiled and gestured, “OK, I’m leaving.”

The other parents were waiting for him outside. They crowded around him.

“Well? Did you see her?”

“No! They shoved me out,” he gestured.

“Such rudeness. They’re not people, they’re animals,” one mother muttered.

“Where’s my wife?”

“A couple of women are taking her home,” a man gestured.

“Is she all right?”

“Don’t worry. They’ll take care of her.”

Akbar didn’t know what else to do. Everyone was whispering that Golden Bell had probably been executed.

“But in that case, the family should have been informed,” one mother murmured.

“They’re worse than you think,” another one said. “They want you down on your knees. Only then will they tell you they’ve murdered your child.”

“In the bus on the way here,” another mother whispered, “I heard that the guards had been combing the mountains all night with police dogs and searchlights, looking for some prisoners who had escaped.”

“Really?”

“Apparently three prisoners have escaped.”

“From the mullahs’ prison? Are you crazy?”

“I heard it, too,” another man said warily. “People were talking about it in the teahouse.”

The mothers covered their faces with their chadors and continued to stand in little groups, talking.

Akbar was standing off to the side by himself.

Two jeeps with armed guards and dogs drove down the hill and stopped in the square.

“Get out of here!” shouted one of the guards. “Go home!”

The mothers hurried off to the bus stop, where the fathers were already waiting for them.

The bus had gone and the square was empty. An icy mountain wind swept through the square. Akbar stood at the bus stop. He was hoping the prison imam would come out.

In that case he’d walk up to the imam, kiss his hand and throw himself on his mercy: “Golden Bell didn’t come. And my wife fainted. Do you perhaps know what—”

The prison gate swung open. A female guard came out, wrapped in her chador. She walked over to the bus stop.

Akbar recognised her. She was the daughter of one of his customers. He nodded to her in greeting and she nodded back.

“My daughter,” he hesitantly gestured. “She didn’t come.”

The woman glanced up at the prison and moved a few steps away from him.

“My wife fainted,” Akbar went on. “I asked the guard where Golden Bell was, but—”

The woman looked anxiously at the gate, then at the teahouse.

“Your daughter is gone!” she signed, concealing the gesture beneath her chador.

“Gone?” Akbar gestured in surprise.

“To the mountains,” the woman signed and she hurried over to the approaching bus.

Footprints

It’s hard to tell whether they’re

animal tracks or footprints.

Darkness had fallen and Akbar’s house was abuzz with activity. Neighbours kept dropping in. They were all sure that Golden Bell was one of the escaped prisoners, though they had no official confirmation.

They told each other that Golden Bell had been preparing her escape for months, knitting warm clothes out of Akbar’s yarn and hoarding a supply of nuts. Still, it was hard to believe.

Tina, surrounded by family and neighbours, was beside herself with worry. Marzi and Enzi tried to reassure her.

“There’s no need to act as if Golden Bell is dead, Mother,” Enzi said to her. “I have the feeling she’s still alive. She might even have reached the top of Saffron Mountain by now.”

“The top of Saffron Mountain?” Tina wailed. “She can’t have escaped. I know my daughter. Would somebody please go and ask what’s happened to her? Would somebody please find out?”

“She might have escaped,” Marzi said. “Everyone knows that the guards have been out all day searching the mountains. Try to pull yourself together, Mother. Even if they’ve been cap—”

“Stop!” cried Tina, putting her hands over her ears.

There was an abrupt silence. Suddenly Tina noticed that Akbar wasn’t there.

“Hasn’t Akbar come home?”

“Maybe he’s gone to the shop.”

The neighbours whispered among themselves. “Do you understand what it means if they really have escaped?” said one.

“Let’s hope the guards don’t catch them,” said another.

“I wonder if they can survive in the mountains. It’s freezing cold and Golden Bell isn’t an experienced climber.”

“Oh, but she’s tough! My guess is that they had outside help. They’d have to be crazy to head for the mountains. Maybe there was a car waiting for them outside the prison.”

“They say that Golden Bell put on a black chador, then simply walked out of the gate and disappeared.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why not? Didn’t she say she was weaving a magic carpet so she could fly away?”

“Just thinking about it makes me tremble.”

“Marzi! Enzi! Where are Bolfazl and Atri?” Tina asked. “Would somebody please go see if Father’s come back from the prison?”

The next-door neighbour was making soup and the woman from across the street was making tea. She poured glasses for everyone and took them around on a tray. Marzi put on her chador and went to see if Akbar was in his shop.

Bolfazl and Atri, the husbands of Marzi and Enzi, arrived a little while later. They’d gone to the imam in the hope of finding out what was going on.

“Well?” Tina cried, as she leapt to her feet.

“Nothing,” said Bolfazl. “Every door in the world seems to be shut. We haven’t been able to reach anyone.”

“Here, have a cup of tea,” said Enzi. “We’ll just have to wait. There’s nothing else we can do.”

The door opened. Marzi came in and said that Akbar wasn’t back yet.

“Not back yet? Oh, my God,” cried Tina.

She grabbed her chador. “I’m going to go look for him. I’m afraid he’s fallen again. Bolfazl, Atri, will you come with me?”

“Sit down, Tina,” said Enzi. “Don’t get excited. The men will find out where he is.”

“You see?” Tina cried. “I’ve told him a thousand times to take the bus, but he never listens.”

“Maybe he stopped off at a friend’s,” Enzi said. “Let’s phone a few people first. If he isn’t there, the men can go and look for him. Sit down, everything will be all right.”

Three men — Tina’s sons-in-law and one of the neighbours — put on warm coats, grabbed a couple of lanterns and went out into the darkness to look for Akbar.

They walked towards the prison, scanning the snow to see if he’d fallen. They asked every person they ran into if they’d seen him.

“Excuse me, have you seen Aga Akbar?”

“Aga Akbar?”

“Yes, the carpet-mender. You know, the deaf-mute.”

“The Akbar who walks to the prison?”

“Yes.”

“I often see him, but not today.”

They went on, until they ran into an old farmer, pushing a cartload of wood through the snow.

“Salaam aleikum,” they said.

“Good evening, what are you gentlemen doing out in this cold?”

“We’re looking for Aga Akbar, the carpet-mender.”

“Oh, the man with the cane who walks to—”

“Yes. Did you happen to see him today?”

“No. I’ve been inside.”

In the distance they saw the bus coming down the mountain. They held up their lanterns. The bus came to a cautious stop at the side of the icy road.

“Aren’t you going to get in?” the driver called out of the window.

“No. We’re looking for Aga Akbar.”

“Which Aga Akbar?”

“The carpet-mender.”

“You mean the deaf-mute whose daughter is in prison?”

“Yes, have you seen him?”

“I think so.”

“Where? When?”

“I’m not sure. This morning? This afternoon? Maybe around eleven, or was it twelve? Anyway, I think I was heading up the mountain when I saw him, but I don’t remember where.”

He turned to his passengers. “Has anyone seen the deafmute carpet-mender today? No?”

The bus drove off. The men went on looking.

“Something must’ve happened to him,” said the neighbour. “Maybe we ought to contact the police.”

“The police! Do you think they would help us?”

“Let’s go on for a couple of miles,” said Atri. “There’s a garage just outside the next village. We can ask there. Somebody must have seen him!”

A cold wind blew down from the mountains and brought the snow along with it.

“I don’t understand how a sick man like Akbar can walk all this way,” said the neighbour.

“He’s strong.”

“Yes, but he’s sick.”

“He walks very slowly and doesn’t push himself,” said Bolfazl. “He rarely takes a bus or a taxi. He may be sick, but he’s stronger than I am.”

“It looks like the garage is closed,” said Atri. “Nobody’s out on these icy roads tonight.”

Still, they went on walking until they reached the garage.

“Oh, good, there’s a phone box,” Bolfazl said. “I’ll call home. Who knows? Maybe he’s returned by now.”

Marzi answered the phone.

“It’s me, Bolfazl. Has he come home yet? No? We’ve looked almost everywhere. OK, we’ll keep on looking. I’ll call if we find him.”

“The garage owner lives in the village,” said Atri. “He must have seen him. Let’s go to his house.”

They walked to the village. At the grocer’s, they asked where the garage owner lived. “A few streets away,” said the grocer, “in a house with a big iron door.”

The doorbell was broken. Atri picked up a rock and banged it against the door. A dog barked.

“Who’s there?” a woman called.

“Sorry. Is the—”

The door opened and the garage owner himself appeared.

“Excuse me for disturbing you so late at night,” said Atri, “but we’re looking for the carpet-mender who walks to the prison. Do you know who I mean?”

“Sure. Aga Akbar. I know him well. He mended one of our carpets. He always waves when he walks past on his way to the prison. Why? Has something happened to him?”

“He walked to the prison this morning, but he hasn’t come home yet. He’s got heart problems, so we’re worried about him. We’ve been searching all along the road. Have you seen him today?”

“I saw him walking towards the prison this morning when I was working in the garage, but I don’t remember seeing him come back. You should ask the people in the teahouse on the square by the prison. Have you got a car? No? It’s a long walk. Just let me grab my coat and I’ll drive you there.”

The garage owner fetched his jeep and the men got in.

“Akbar’s a good man,” he said as he drove. “People say he brings luck. He mended my carpet so well that you can’t even tell it’s been mended. His life hasn’t been easy, but we’re living in a crazy world now. It’s wrong to put women and girls in jail. Allah is sure to punish us for that. Even the shah didn’t dare lock up women, but the imams do whatever they want.”

The teahouse was dark, but the garage owner knew where the teahouse owner lived. He drove towards the mountains. After a few miles they saw the lights of a village. He parked in front of a house on the village square.

“Mashhadi! Hey, Mashhadi, are you home?” he shouted up at a lighted window on the second floor.

The teahouse owner looked out of the window. He recognised the jeep and came downstairs.

“Welcome, come in. What can I do for you?”

“Can you help these people?” the garage owner asked. “They’re looking for Aga Akbar, the carpet-mender. You know, the deaf-mute who walks with a cane and goes to visit his daughter in prison.”

“I know who you mean.”

“He hasn’t come home. He’s got health problems, and they’re afraid he’s fallen down somewhere. They’ve searched the whole road. I thought you might have seen him.”

“You’re right, I have. He always waits for his wife in my teahouse. This morning he had breakfast and when she came, the two of them went to the prison. But after that? I haven’t the faintest idea. Let me think… Yes, I saw him again after visiting hours. He was standing at the bus stop, talking to a woman.”

“Then what happened?” Bolfazl asked.

“The bus came, but Akbar didn’t get on. He stood there for a while, staring up at the mountains. That’s all I remember.”

“Where on earth could he have gone after that?” Bolfazl wondered.

“Maybe he went to visit someone?” Atri suggested.

“No, he knew Tina had fainted.”

“So he must have headed home,” Atri concluded.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then where did he go?” the neighbour asked.

“Well, I think he went uphill instead of downhill.”

“Uphill?”

“Yes, into the mountains,” Bolfazl said.

“Into the mountains?” the neighbour asked, in surprise.

“Perhaps he did,” Atri said. “It’s entirely possible.”

“May I ask you a question?” Bolfazl said to the teahouse owner. “According to rumours, a few prisoners have escaped. Do you happen to know anything about that?”

The teahouse owner looked first at the garage owner, then at Bolfazl. “I’m sorry, but I prefer to mind my own business. I have five children, so the answer is no, I don’t know anything about an escape. I saw the carpet-mender standing at the bus stop and that’s all I can tell you. I’m sorry.”

“That’s enough,” the garage owner said. “They have an answer to their question. I don’t want to get mixed up in this, either, but the carpet-mender is a decent man. That’s why I brought them here. Don’t worry, we’re leaving.”

The teahouse owner went back into his house and locked the door.

The garage owner started his jeep. “I don’t know what you’re planning to do,” he said, “but I’m going home. Please forgive me for not helping you more.”

“You’ve already done a lot,” Bolfazl said. “Thank you. We’d appreciate it if you could give us a ride back to the square.”

He drove them to the square and they got out.

While the three men waited at the bus stop, they talked about what they should do next.

“We can’t give up yet,” Bolfazl said. “Let’s search the mountain path.”

“That’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,” the neighbour said.

“I know Akbar,” Bolfazl replied. “If he thought Golden Bell was in the mountains, he’d go looking for her.”

“Surely he wouldn’t go into the mountains with all this snow?” the neighbour said.

“That’s what I’d do if I were in his place,” Bolfazl said.

“This is no time for talk,” Atri said. “Let’s start up the mountain. He can’t have gone far with his cane.”

They took the mountain path, shining their lanterns on the footprints in the snow.

“This one was made by a soldier’s boot,” Bolfazl said. “And that one and all of those, too.”

“What about these?” Atri asked.

“They were made by ordinary shoes. We should follow them.”

“The prison guards must have followed them, too,” Atri said.

“I don’t think so,” said the neighbour. “This isn’t the route you’d take if you were escaping from prison.”

“Why not?” Bolfazl asked.

“Because your footprints would show up clearly in the snow,” the neighbour explained.

“If you were in danger and had no other options, you’d want to get up the mountain as quickly as possible.”

“I don’t agree,” the neighbour said. “My guess is that they took the paved road to the village, then went on to the next village and so on. If they’re smart, they’ll hide for a few days, then go into the mountains.”

At that point, the soldiers’ footprints stopped and only one set of footprints went on, gradually merging with those of the mountain goats.

The men climbed higher and higher until they came to a path that could be traversed only by nimble-footed mountain goats and mountain climbers with ropes and spikes. It also happened to be the path that led to the cave with the cuneiform relief.

“He must have taken this path,” said Bolfazl.

“With a cane?” said Atri.

Bolfazl knelt in the snow and inspected the tracks by the light of his lantern.

“The mountain goats come here in search of food,” he said. “Most of them don’t dare go any further. It’s impossible to make out a human footprint among all these tracks. I think we’d better turn back.”

They arrived home with their darkened lanterns in the middle of the night. The women received them in silence. No one dared cry, no one dared speak. The night had swallowed up Akbar and Golden Bell.

Daylight broke through the window. The sun rose slowly, but brought no news. The days came and went, and so did the nights, and still there was no news.

Then, on one of the first days of spring, when a shepherd was out looking for grass for his flock, his dog began to bark. The shepherd hurried over to investigate. There, between the rocks, he found the body of an old man, his grey hair glinting like polished silver in the freshly fallen snow.

The Cuneiform Notebook

AGA AKBAR’S NOTES

This is the end of Aga Akbar’s story, though not the end of his cuneiform notebook. Unfortunately, the last few pages are indecipherable.

It’s hard to know where he wrote those last few pages.

At home?

No, probably not.

They’re completely illegible. Perhaps he wrote them in the mountains, by a craggy cliff, which he’d helped Golden Bell to climb.

Which he’d helped Golden Bell to climb?

No, that’s impossible.

Anyway, you can see that he wrote the last few pages in difficult conditions.

He no doubt wrote them in the snow, in the freezing cold.

Nothing more was ever heard of the escaped prisoners. To this day their fate is unknown. Perhaps Akbar did find them in the mountains. Perhaps he told them not to follow the railway tracks and showed them the path that would lead them to Saffron Mountain.

Perhaps he said to Golden Bell, “Once you reach the cave, go into it as far as you can. Go all the way to the back until you can no longer stand. On your right you’ll see a ledge and on that ledge there will be bags of raisins and dates and dried fruits. Take those, along with the warm clothes and flashlights for mountain climbers in need, and go even farther into the cave. Go all the way back until you can crawl no longer. There you’ll be safe. Stay there for several days until the guards have stopped searching the mountains.”

In all likelihood these were the last few sentences in Akbar’s notebook.

He must have kissed Golden Bell goodbye. “Now go. You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll dig a hole in the snow and wait here until tomorrow. Then I’ll make my way back. It’s a good thing I’m here, because if the guards come, I’ll shout as loud as I can and you’ll know what’s going on. Have a safe journey, my child.”

Did Golden Bell and the other escaped prisoners ever reach the cave?

It’s entirely possible. Just as it’s possible that they slept in the cave’s recesses and never woke up again.

A hundred years from now, or maybe three hundred years from now, they will awaken, like the men of Kahaf, whose story is told in the Holy Book:

And so it went until the men of Kahaf finally sought refuge in the cave. “Grant us Thy mercy,” they said.

In that cave We covered their ears and their eyes for years.

And when the sun came up, the men saw it rise to the right of the cave. And when the sun went down, the men saw it set to the left, while they were in the space in between.

They thought they were awake, but they were asleep.

And We turned them to the right and to the left.

Some said, “There were three of them, and a fourth watched over them.”

Others, hazarding a guess, said, “There were five of them, and a sixth watched over them.”

And there were those who said, “There were seven of them.” No one knew.

We woke them, so that they might question one another.

One of them spoke: “We have been here for a day or part of a day.” Another said: “Allah alone knows how long we have been here. It would be best to send one of us to the city with this silver coin. We must be careful. If they find out who we are, they will stone us.”

Jemiliga then left the cave with the silver coin in the palm of his hand.

When he reached the city, he saw that everything had changed and that he did not understand the language.

They had slept in the cave for three hundred years and did not even know it. And some say there were nine more.

One day Golden Bell will wake up.

She will leave the cave with a silver coin in the palm of her hand.

And when she reaches the city, she will notice that everything has changed.