The House of the Mosque

The Cinema

Khodaa ya tu busideh-ye hich gah

labb-e sorkh-e faam-e zani mast-ra?

Be pestane kaalash zadi dast-ra?

God, have you ever kissed

the blushing lips

of a drunken woman?

Have you ever touched

her unripe breasts?

One day when Aqa Jaan was walking by Khalkhal’s desk, he happened to see a poem lying there. He picked it up and read it. He couldn’t believe his eyes: Khodaa ya tu busideh-ye hich gah…

It was a shocking poem. God, kisses, a drunken woman, unripe breasts — and all of that on Khalkhal’s desk!

The poet’s name was printed at the bottom: Nosrat Rahmani. Aqa Jaan had never heard of him.

Who was he?

How dare he write such blasphemous words?

‘Things are out of hand,’ Aqa Jaan mumbled to himself. The shah encourages this kind of rubbish, but what’s Khalkhal doing with it? And why does he bring such things back to the library?

There were other poems on the desk. Aqa Jaan began to read one. It was a remarkable poem, because it had been written by a woman:

My thirsty lips

Search yours.

Take off my clothes,

Embrace me.

Here are my lips,

My neck and burning breasts.

Here is my soft body!

He heard Khalkhal’s footsteps in the courtyard. There wasn’t time to finish reading the poem, so he swiftly put it back on the desk and hurried over to a bookcase, where he pretended to be searching the shelves.

Khalkhal came in. Aqa Jaan removed a book at random and quickly left the library. Still mulling over the poems, he went into his study. He couldn’t get the last one out of his mind. It bothered him so much he couldn’t concentrate on his work:

Here are my lips,

My neck and burning breasts.

Here is my soft body!

Who was this female poet?

Had the country changed so much that women could talk openly about themselves and express their innermost feelings? Had it changed so much that they could now talk intimately about their bodies? Why hadn’t he noticed the change? Who were these women? Why hadn’t he ever met them? What did they look like? And where did they live? In Tehran?

The shah! It was all the fault of the shah and the Americans! American culture came pouring into their homes via radio, television and film.

The regime did whatever it could to lure young people away from the mosque and transform them into supporters of the shah and his ideals.

The shah had launched his ‘White Revolution’. He had published a thin volume in which he’d outlined his hopes for the country. In an effort to combat illiteracy, he’d sent young women to the villages to work as teachers. They’d taken off their veils, donned hats, and gone into the mountains, much as the shah’s soldiers had done, to set up schools in remote villages.

Yes, everything had changed. Aqa Jaan hadn’t noticed… or hadn’t wanted to. The country was being industrialised at a rapid pace, which is why so many foreign investors had been granted permission to build factories in Tehran and other major cities.

Senejan was no exception. Dozens of Japanese and European companies had seized the opportunity to take part in this new development. A tractor factory was being built on the outskirts of the city. Soon it would be employing hundreds of young people from Senejan and the nearby villages.

The management of the factory would be in the hands of the world-famous Japanese manufacturer Mitsubishi. The idea was to produce a small tractor that could be used in the mountains. Thanks to a government subsidy, every farmer would soon have one of those tractors. And so the farmer and the shah would be bound together by Mitsubishi.

No, Aqa Jaan wasn’t up on the latest trends; on the contrary, he was far behind. He never listened to the radio and had never owned a television. If he’d seen the shah’s wife, Farah Diba, on television, he’d have a better idea of what was going on in his country. She was working hard to improve women’s lives. Aqa Jaan didn’t realise how popular she was with women, even those who went to mosque every day.

Farah Diba was the shah’s third wife — the one who finally bore him a son. His first two wives had failed to give him the crown prince he longed for. He’d met her at a party in Paris, where she was a student, and now she was the queen of Iran. She was hoping to improve the position of women, to free them from their bonds.

Until now things had gone well, and it seemed as if the shah was managing to keep the ayatollahs in line. Secure in this knowledge, Farah Diba flew to Paris once a month to shop at the famous boutiques where Hollywood celebrities bought their clothes.

While the New York Times described the country under the shah’s rule as an oasis of peace, Farah Diba made an appointment with a clinic in France to have her Persian nose shaped into a French nose. She came back home with a new hairdo as well.

No newspaper dared to mention the nose job, but every hairdresser in Iran had immediately set about imitating the hairstyle. Farah’s hair was the talk of the town. Even Fakhri Sadat, the wife of Aqa Jaan, had succumbed to the Farahi — the Farah cut — though Aqa Jaan hadn’t even noticed.

In Senejan people were busy setting up a women’s clinic. According to the latest statistics, the numbers of women suffering from female disorders were higher in the more religious cities and villages, and yet devout women refused to be treated by male doctors. As a result the authorities in religious cities decided to open a clinic staffed exclusively by female physicians. The clinic in Senejan was to be the first and largest women’s clinic in the country.

Farah Diba’s royal cultural institute supported the plan, and Farah herself was scheduled to come to Senejan to open the clinic.

Khalkhal, who kept abreast of developments across the country, had gradually started including the everyday life of the city in his sermons. Recently he’d criticised the mayor because there wasn’t a decent public library in Senejan and the kiosks were selling Farsi translations of trashy American novels.

Another time he attacked the city’s theatre for putting on a play in which an imam was ridiculed. The play was aimed at schoolchildren. Every day a new group was brought in to see the performance. Khalkhal was incensed. ‘It’s a disgrace to the honourable city of Senejan. How dare they turn an imam into a figure of fun to entertain our youth? I warn the bazaar: a cunning attack has been launched in this city against Islam. Have you looked in your children’s schoolbags lately to see what kind of blasphemous ideas are being taught at their school? Are you aware of the poisonous poetry being assigned to your daughters in the name of literature? My hands shook when I read some of those poems. Out of respect for the women sitting on the other side of the curtain I won’t tell you what those poems were about. War has been declared on our faith. Don’t play with fire. I warn you! Don’t play with fire!’

The mayor heard the harsh words being hurled from the pulpit. To keep the situation from escalating, he ordered the theatre to stop performing the play.

The incident had barely died down when rumours of a plan to build a cinema in Senejan spread throughout the city.

Senejan’s oldest bathhouse had fallen into disuse, and the owner of a number of large cinemas in Tehran had purchased it with the idea of converting it into a cinema. It was a landmark, a unique place for cultural activities, the perfect spot for a cinema.

Khalkhal immediately let the mayor know that a cinema in a religious stronghold like Senejan was unacceptable, and the mayor let him know that the city had not been consulted: the decision had already been taken in Tehran. The royal cultural institute was touting it as one of its pet projects, and Farah Diba had personally approved the plan.

When the cinema owner heard that Farah Diba was going to come to Senejan for the opening of the women’s clinic, he vowed to finish the renovation on time so that she could open the cinema as well.

He contacted the authorities in Tehran and arranged for Farah to open the cinema after presiding over the opening of the clinic. Given the fact that Senejan was such a religious stronghold, it was decided to wait until the last minute to announce the news.

On a sunny Thursday afternoon a helicopter flew over the city and circled above the bazaar three times. Schoolchildren lined the streets of the route that Farah Diba’s open limousine would take to the clinic.

The children cheered, clapped their hands and shouted, ‘Jawid shah! Long live the shah!’ Three jets also thundered overhead, trailing smoke in the three colours of the Iranian flag. Dozens of plainclothes policemen mingled with the crowd, and army vehicles filled with soldiers were stationed at every corner, ready to quell any signs of unrest.

Farah Diba waved and smiled at the crowd, while a fresh breeze toyed with her hair. She radiated power. As the limousine passed by, the teachers and the clinic staff removed their veils to reveal their Farah cuts. They squealed in excitement and waved their veils.

A camera crew was on hand to capture the scene, which would be broadcast on the evening news, so everyone could see how the women in the pious city of Senejan had rallied round Farah Diba and embraced her as their role model. Since this was Farah Diba’s first visit to a religious stronghold, it was a litmus test for the regime. If Senejan could be won over, the other devout anti-shah cities could be won over as well.

Everything had gone smoothly. So smoothly in fact that the television station decided not to wait until the eight o’clock news, but to use her trip as the lead story on the six o’clock news. The visit was considered a resounding victory over the ayatollahs. But the broadcasters had overlooked one thing — a minor detail that at first glance hadn’t seemed at all important.

A number of young women from Senejan had been hired to work as nurses in the new clinic. They were standing by the door in their crisp white short-sleeved uniforms. As Farah Diba stepped out of her royal limousine, the photographers rushed over and aimed their cameras at the nurses, who bowed and presented the queen with a beautiful bouquet of flowers. But their uniforms were made of such sheer nylon that you could see the nurse’s pale-blue underpants. The bazaar was stunned, and when Khalkhal heard the news, he was so angry he couldn’t eat.

Khalkhal saw it as a slap in the face of the ayatollahs and a deliberate insult to the bazaar. The incident had taken place in his city, the city in which he was the imam of the influential Friday Mosque. He felt compelled to comment on it in tonight’s sermon.

As evening fell, Aqa Jaan’s phone rang. A man from Qom asked to speak to Khalkhal. It was a short, one-sided conversation. Khalkhal listened for a long time, then just before hanging up said, ‘No, I didn’t know. Yes, I understand. Right, I have all the information I need. So do you.’

Aqa Jaan had no idea what they’d been talking about, nor did he ask Khalkhal whom he’d been talking to. Later, when he glanced through the library window, he saw Khalkhal pacing back and forth.

The news broadcast seemed to suggest that Farah Diba had left the city after the opening of the clinic and had gone back to Tehran. In fact she was still in Senejan. A helicopter had flown her to a historical site on the outskirts of the city, at the edge of the desert, so she could view a citadel that had been converted into an inn. Once upon a time it had been a caravanserai on the Silk Road, where merchants and wayfarers could spend the night.

Farah, who had studied architecture in Paris, was now in charge of the restoration of several of the country’s historic buildings. Much of her time had been spent on the improvements to the citadel.

She was scheduled to go back to Senejan later that evening for the opening of the cinema. For this special occasion the cinema owner had sent to Tehran for a Hollywood love film that had never been shown before in Iran. He had told no one of the royal visit, saying only that a few VIPs from Tehran would be on hand for the opening.

As Farah Diba sat down to dinner in the ancient citadel, Khalkhal slipped into Aqa Jaan’s study to make a phone call. He had a short, whispered conversation with someone in Qom.

At seven o’clock he was ready to go to the mosque. When Shahbal came to the library to escort him, he noticed that Khalkhal was restless.

‘Is anything wrong?’ he enquired.

‘No, why do you ask?’ Khalkhal replied, as they headed out the door.

‘What are you going to talk about tonight?’

‘I haven’t decided. I’ve been too preoccupied with the visit of that slut.’

Shahbal wanted to ask, ‘What slut?’, but didn’t, for the simple reason that he couldn’t bring himself to utter the word ‘slut’.

‘Where’s Aqa Jaan?’ Khalkhal asked.

‘In the mosque.’

They went into the mosque. The prayer room was full. In fact, there were more people than usual. Everyone was curious to see how their imam would react to Farah Diba’s visit.

Khalkhal calmly climbed into the pulpit, took his seat and began to talk in a quiet voice about the mosque and the role of the imam. He saw the mosque as the heart of the city and the imam as the wakeful conscience of the faithful.

He made no reference to the opening of the clinic. Nor did he mention the television broadcast of Farah Diba’s visit. Instead, he aimed all of his arrows at the cinema.

‘Beware!’ he suddenly exclaimed and raised a warning finger. ‘You must know what’s going on!’

He paused dramatically. ‘In the name of the mosque, in the name of the city, in the name of the bazaar,’ he resumed, ‘I ask you, I beg you, I warn you not to continue. Put a stop to these diabolical plans! Senejan is no place for promiscuous American culture. No place for sin. Put a stop to it, or we will do it for you!’

‘Allahu akbar!’ someone shouted.

‘Allahu akbar!’ the worshippers replied in unison.

No one knew exactly what Khalkhal was talking about, but everyone understood that he was voicing his anger at the cinema.

The men of the bazaar nodded in satisfaction at Aqa Jaan. They approved of Khalkhal’s reaction.

Aqa Jaan was proud of him too. He realised, though, that at some point Khalkhal was bound to move on. He was too ambitious to remain the imam of a mosque for long. He needed more breathing space. One day the walls of the mosque would prove too confining, and he would decide to spread his wings. But their mosque was a good place for him to start.

The cinema owner had expected Khalkhal to rant and rave about his cinema, but he wasn’t afraid. He knew that both the secret police and the local police would be on hand to protect him. On this particular Thursday evening he was glad the faithful were sitting in the mosque and listening to Khalkhal, for it meant that he could welcome Farah Diba to the opening without having to worry about her safety.

And yet he had underestimated his enemy, for Khalkhal was well informed. He knew that the queen would be at the opening.

Khalkhal looked at his watch. The queen would be arriving at the cinema shortly. So he relaxed, stroked his beard and smiled. Aqa Jaan assumed that Khalkhal had finished talking about the cinema and would now start in on another topic, that he would be satisfied with merely issuing a warning. But Khalkhal surprised him by quoting the fiery Abu Lahab surah, the one about the woman to whom God had spoken in anger. Khalkhal began chanting calmly and quietly:

Break the hands of Abu Lahab!

Destroy Abu Lahab!

Destroy his fortune!

Destroy the wife of Abu Lahab!

Abu Lahab shall burn in a blazing fire!

And his wife shall carry the faggots!

Around her neck is a cord of palm fibre!

Destroy Abu Lahab!

Aqa Jaan caught his breath. Suddenly he realised that Khalkhal was going to do more than issue a warning.

Abu Lahab had been Muhammad’s uncle — his father’s brother — and also the sworn enemy of Muhammad and the Koran. Once, during Islam’s early years, Muhammad had been trying to convince Mecca’s rulers of his mission when Abu Lahab had cursed him and left the gathering. Abu Lahab’s wife had done likewise: she had cursed Muhammad and said offensive things about the Koran. Not content to stop there, the two of them had taken their hostility to the bazaar, cursing the Koran and especially Allah. Muhammad had suffered greatly under their attacks but had been unable to stop them. Then one night the Abu Lahab surah had been revealed to him:

Tabbat yada abee lahabin!

Around her neck is a cord of palm fibre!

Destroy Abu Lahab!

When someone quoted Abu Lahab, you knew that things were serious. Khalkhal continued his tirade:

Break the hands of the man who bought the bathhouse.

Break the hands of the man who turned it into a cinema.

Break the door of the bathhouse.

Break the legs of the men now assembled in the bathhouse.

Place a cord of palm fibre around the necks of the wives

Of the men now assembled in the bathhouse.

Aqa Jaan was unable to lift his head. Instead of looking at Khalkhal, he found himself staring at the patterns in his prayer rug. He had the feeling that Khalkhal was holding him from behind and pressing his head to the ground.

Khalkhal had surprised him. Aqa Jaan supposed he ought to be pleased, but he felt torn. Why hadn’t Khalkhal told him he was going to talk about the cinema? Why had he suddenly adopted that harsh tone? Would it be good for the mosque? What effect would it have on the city?

But there was no time to ponder all of this now. He took a deep breath, raised his head and looked around.

There was a hushed silence. All eyes were focused on Khalkhal. ‘I warned the authorities long ago,’ he said. ‘I also warned the new owner of the bathhouse. But they wouldn’t listen. Now they’ve even gone so far as to show a sinful American film in the bathhouse tonight. Tonight of all nights! Do you know what day it is today? It is the anniversary of Fatima’s death!

‘I, Khalkhal, the imam of the mosque, forbid it. I, Khalkhal, the imam of the Friday Mosque, forbid you to enter that cinema! I, Khalkhal, will hold the Koran up high and board up the door of that sinful place!’ he thundered. And he took his Koran out of his pocket.

‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’ the crowd roared.

‘To the bathhouse!’ Khalkhal cried, and he jumped down from the pulpit.

The crowd stood up for him.

Aqa Jaan, who hadn’t been expecting this sudden turn of events, was rooted to the spot. Khalkhal had deceived him: he had taken control of the mosque. But it wasn’t too late. After all, Aqa Jaan was more experienced than he was. Somehow he had to take command again, in order to uphold the prestige of the mosque. Khalkhal’s reputation didn’t count, only that of the mosque.

He turned and raced after Khalkhal. ‘Run!’ he shouted to Shahbal. ‘Stay with him. Don’t let him out of your sight!’

The tension had mounted to fever pitch and the crowd was now out of control. ‘I’ve got to do something,’ Aqa Jaan mumbled to himself. ‘I’m the only one who can put a stop to this madness.’

Khalkhal was striding towards the cinema, holding his Koran high above his head. The faithful were following behind, chanting ‘Allahu akbar’.

The agents of the secret police, caught off-guard by the demonstration, ran in panic down the dark streets. ‘A riot’s broken out!’ they shrieked into their walkie-talkies. ‘Guard the cinema!’

After a while, two patrol cars came roaring up, but the patrolmen had no idea what was going on or where the crowd was headed.

A couple of army lorries were blocking the street leading to the cinema. Armed soldiers leapt out and formed a line to hold back the demonstrators.

A helicopter landed in the square by the bathhouse, ready to fly Farah Diba to safety.

The mayor’s car screeched to a halt by the kerb. The mayor jumped out and ran over to the demonstrators with his hands above his head. He scanned the sea of faces until he saw Aqa Jaan. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he roared. ‘You’ve walked into a trap! Call off the demonstration, or there will be a bloodbath!’

‘What do you mean? The authorities don’t listen to a thing the mosque says these days! They insult us by building a cinema and now you’re threatening us with a bloodbath?’

‘No, you don’t understand. I’m not threatening a bloodbath, I’m asking you to help me prevent one! There’s something you need to know, but I can’t say it out loud.’ He whispered it in Aqa Jaan’s ear: ‘Farah Diba is inside the cinema. Believe me, if these people come any closer, the army is going to open fire. Do something! Stop them!’

The armed soldiers held back the demonstrators, while the commanding officer shouted into a megaphone, ‘Turn around! Go back!’

Khalkhal ignored him. Holding his Koran high above his head, he strode past the officer and tried to push through the line, but the officer stopped him. ‘Turn back!’ he warned, ‘or they’ll shoot.’

‘Then let them shoot!’ Khalkhal cried, and tried to break through the line again.

The officer grabbed him by the collar, pulled him away from the line of soldiers and shouted into his face, ‘If you don’t turn back, I’ll ram your turban down your throat and haul you off to jail!’

Khalkhal flew into a rage, shoving the officer so hard the man stumbled and nearly fell. The officer whipped out his gun.

Aqa Jaan quickly grabbed hold of Khalkhal and dragged him away. ‘Get him out of here!’ he yelled to Shahbal.

But Khalkhal didn’t want to go. He twisted free of Aqa Jaan’s grasp and headed back towards the officer, but before he could reach him, Aqa Jaan grabbed him again. ‘That’s enough! Stop it!’

Khalkhal shook him off and lunged at the officer, but once again Aqa Jaan caught up with him, seized him and said, ‘Don’t forget, I make the decisions round here!’

Taking the megaphone from the officer, he shouted, ‘Quiet, everyone! I have good news for you!’

The crowd quieted down.

‘I’ve just talked to the mayor. The authorities have backed down. There won’t be a cinema in this city! So go back to the mosque!’

‘Allahu akbar!’ the crowd shouted.

The event had made quite an impression. Much to Aqa Jaan’s satisfaction, people had milled around outside the mosque for a long time afterwards.

The mosque had taken its battle to the streets, and he had been able to prevent a bloodbath. It had been a direct attack from an unexpected corner on the plans of the shah, and a slap in the face of his prime minister. The shah was hoping to wrest power from the religious cities and foist decadent Western culture on them. Tomorrow the incident would be reported in every major newspaper: MUTINY IN SENEJAN!

The Friday Mosque in Senejan had once more let its voice be heard. The ayatollahs in Qom would sit up and take notice, and every imam in the country would be talking about the disturbance.

It was midnight. Everyone had gone home. The mosque was empty and the caretaker had locked the doors. Aqa Jaan was sitting in his study, writing in his journal. ‘After a long silence, our mosque has again let its voice be heard,’ he wrote. ‘Perhaps we have found the way back to our true path.’

He was still writing when two cars pulled up in front of the mosque. One of them parked under the trees, while the other switched off its lights and drove quietly down the alley to the house.

Three men, who looked like plainclothes policemen, got out. The driver stayed inside the car. The man in charge went up to the gate and rang the bell while the other two men stayed by the car.

Aqa Jaan heard the bell and was immediately on the alert. He’d expected the police to come by the bazaar tomorrow, but not to appear on his doorstep in the middle of the night.

The grandmothers also heard the bell. They knew that something unusual was happening and that it would be better for them to stay in their room and let Aqa Jaan take care of it.

Shahbal, who had also heard the bell, immediately went to Aqa Jaan’s study.

‘It’s probably the police,’ Aqa Jaan said softly. ‘Go and warn Khalkhal. Tell him he has to leave and then help him sneak out over the roof.’

Khalkhal had been expecting the police, so he was still in the library when the doorbell rang. He swiftly turned off the light, tiptoed out of the library and started up the stairs.

Aqa Jaan put on his hat and coat, and went into the courtyard. He saw Khalkhal’s silhouette by the stairs, so he waited until it had been enveloped by the darkness.

The doorbell rang again.

‘I’m coming!’ he called as he headed towards the gate.

The women were watching from behind the curtains in their rooms.

‘Who’s there?’ Aqa Jaan called before unlocking the gate.

‘Open up!’

He swung open the gate. The man in charge and the two men by the car were clearly illuminated in the glow of the streetlight.

He knew instantly that they were agents of the secret police. No local policeman would have dared to knock on his door in the middle of the night. They must be new, or else from another district. It was obvious from their attitude that they didn’t know who he was. They didn’t even bother to greet him civilly.

‘What brings you gentlemen to my door in the middle of the night?’ he asked.

‘We’re looking for the imam,’ the man in charge said. He flashed his badge. ‘We’ve been ordered to bring him in.’

So the situation was serious. To gain time, Aqa Jaan stepped outside and quietly shut the gate behind him. ‘The imam isn’t home,’ he said. ‘If it’s urgent, you can speak to him tomorrow morning at the mosque.’

The agent, caught off-guard by Aqa Jaan closing the gate, belatedly bellowed, ‘Leave it open!’

‘Keep your voice down. Everyone’s asleep,’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘Open this gate!’ the agent ordered, and he banged on it with his fist.

‘Calm down! I told you — the imam isn’t home. He’s gone. And gone means gone! He’ll be at the mosque tomorrow morning.’ He raised his voice so Khalkhal would be sure to hear him. ‘Have you got that?’

‘Open the gate this instant, or I’ll shoot the lock off!’ the agent said. And he unsnapped the black holster of his gun.

Suddenly one of his underlings came running into the alley. ‘He’s on the roof of the mosque!’ he shouted. ‘Let’s go!’

The other two agents climbed up the gate and onto the courtyard wall. Within seconds they were on the roof, running towards the minarets.

Aqa Jaan opened the gate and was about to race up the stairs to the roof when one of the agents barked, ‘Stay where you are!’ So he went over to the guest room and stood beneath the trees, where he had a good view of the roof.

‘I saw a shadow behind the dome!’ one of the agents called up from the street.

‘Come out with your hands up!’ the man in charge shouted from the roof.

Aqa Jaan was sure they’d spotted Khalkhal. He ran over to the cedar tree to get a better look at the roof. In the green glow of the minarets he saw the man in charge walking towards the dome with his gun drawn, but he couldn’t see Khalkhal.

‘There’s no one here!’ the man in charge shouted to the agent in the street.

‘I saw his shadow just a minute ago,’ the agent shouted back. ‘He can’t be far away.’

Aqa Jaan was relieved. He moved into the circle of light by the hauz. ‘Agent!’ he called up to the roof. ‘The shadow you saw was that of the mosque’s caretaker. He’d just been to see me when you came. You’re making this much more complicated than it needs to be. Since you’re from another district, you aren’t familiar with the layout of the mosque. I can assure you that anyone trying to escape from the roof would be spotted by the men posted in the street. Here, let me show you.’ And he went up the stairs.

‘As I already told you,’ he said to the man in charge when he reached the top, ‘the imam isn’t here. He took the night train to Qom. Call the station and check, if you like. He’s well known there. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. There’s nothing on this roof except the dome and the minarets. Take a look round, then get out! Have I made myself clear?’

The man shone his torch around the roof, but made no reply.

‘And now get yourself and your filthy shoes off the roof of this mosque!’ Aqa Jaan snapped. He pointed to the stairs. ‘And get out of my house!’

The agents muttered all the way down the stairs and into the courtyard.

‘No one has ever dared to enter this house uninvited,’ Aqa Jaan said, ‘and now four of you bastards have come bursting in. I’ve had it. Get out, all of you!’

But the man in charge, unfazed by Aqa Jaan’s hostility, issued an order to his men: ‘Search every room. Now!’ The agents rushed boldly into the house.

‘Shahbal!’ Aqa Jaan called.

There was no reply.

‘Phone the mayor!’ he called again, knowing full well that Shahbal had left with Khalkhal.

He hurried into his study, rifled through his papers until he found the mayor’s phone number and dialled. ‘Get these bastards out of my house,’ he said, ‘or I’ll get my rifle and shoot them!’

The agents dragged blind Muezzin out of his room and looked in every nook and cranny.

‘Bastards!’ Muezzin yelled. ‘All of you! Get out of my room! Get out of this house!’

The door to the library was locked.

‘Give me the key!’ the man in charge demanded.

‘I haven’t got one,’ Aqa Jaan called from where he was standing on the other side of the courtyard.

‘Give me the key or I’ll break the door down!’

The grandmothers emerged from the darkness, opened the door and switched on the light.

One of the agents was about to enter the library when Golbanu screeched, ‘Take off your shoes!’

He ignored her.

‘Take off your shoes, you bastard!’ she shrieked.

The agent didn’t go in, but hovered on the threshold, clearly impressed by the antiquity of the library. He stared at the centuries-old bookcases and the imam’s antique desk, then turned and went into the courtyard.

The other agents stormed into the Carpet Room, where a half-finished carpet was hanging on the wall. They peered behind the carpet, opened the antique cupboards and threw spools of wool on the floor. Then they left the Carpet Room and started in on the Opium Room.

A walkie-talkie crackled. The man in charge went over to the hauz and mumbled something into his walkie-talkie. After a moment he came back. ‘That’s enough,’ he called to his men. ‘Let’s go!’

They met in the courtyard, slammed the gate shut on their way out and drove off.

Aqa Jaan locked the gate and switched off the lights.

‘Is there anything to eat?’ he asked the grandmothers. ‘I’m starving. And dying of thirst.’

He had just sat down when Shahbal came in.

‘Where is he?’ Aqa Jaan asked.

‘In the mosque.’

‘Where exactly?’

‘In the oldest crypt. The caretaker let him in,’ Shahbal said.

‘He’s safe for now, but those agents are bound to come back. This isn’t going to blow over. They’ll be keeping an eye on the mosque. We’ve got to send him to Qom. Tomorrow, when the doors open for the morning prayer, they’ll come in when everyone else does, and we won’t be able to stop them. We’ve got to come up with an escape plan.’

The grandmothers came in, bearing a silver tray. They unfolded a clean cotton napkin and laid it on Aqa Jaan’s desk. On top of that they carefully arranged two glasses, an antique gold-rimmed teapot filled with fragrant tea and a delicate porcelain plate heaped with warm bread and cheese. Then they left. Aqa Jaan looked over at Shahbal and smiled.

‘Apparently they approve of your actions,’ Shahbal commented as Aqa Jaan poured him some tea.

‘Grab a chair and have a bite. We’ve got work to do. We won’t be getting any sleep tonight!’

After they’d eaten, Aqa Jaan rummaged through the cupboard in his study and came back with a hat, a suit and a pair of scissors. He placed them on the table in front of Shahbal. ‘I have a plan,’ he said. ‘In a little while I’ll go and stand outside the mosque. I’ll pretend to be waiting for someone. I know the secret police are keeping watch from their cars, so I’ll do my best to attract their attention. Meanwhile, you’ll go up to the roof and slip over to the mosque, taking the clothes and the scissors with you. Then you’ll help Khalkhal trim his beard and tell him to put on the hat and the suit. The sun will be coming up soon, and people will start arriving for the morning prayer. Because of last night’s events, I’m expecting more people than usual. At the end of the prayer, when everyone is leaving, I want you and Khalkhal to walk out behind me. I’ll take care of the rest. Is that clear?’

‘Absolutely.’

It wasn’t cold, but at that hour of the morning a brisk wind was blowing from the mountains. Aqa Jaan took up his position outside the mosque and noticed that the streetlight, which had been broken for months, was now shining brightly. The caretaker had complained repeatedly to the electricity company, but the light had never been fixed. Aqa Jaan himself had phoned several times to complain to the manager, but had never been put through.

The street was empty, except for two men standing on the corner smoking a cigarette. When they realised that Aqa Jaan had spotted them, they slipped into the darkness.

A car with four men inside drove past the mosque, turned and drove past again without stopping.

The two men who’d slipped into the darkness came back into the glow of the streetlight. They strolled towards Aqa Jaan, still smoking their cigarettes, and passed him without a greeting. Obviously they were not from around here; otherwise they would have recognised him, even in the darkness, and said hello.

As he waited, Aqa Jaan realised more than ever how much the city had changed in recent years. Strangers were now in charge. Until a few years ago he had known everyone in a position of authority in Senejan: men from good families, sons of the merchants in the bazaar. And when he went into a government office, the director himself always jumped up to welcome him. He didn’t know any of the new directors, who avoided all contact with the mosque. They wore tight suits and ties and smoked fat cigars. The city appeared to be divided in two: on the one side, the traditionalists, the historical buildings and the bazaar; on the other side, the new directors, the new policemen, the modern buildings, the theatres and the cinemas. In the old days he could get anything done with the wave of a hand. Nowadays he couldn’t even get a streetlight fixed.

Only now did he understand the mayor’s warning: ‘Remember, Aqa Jaan, I can’t help you the way I used to.’

He — who didn’t frighten easily — was now afraid. Until a few short hours ago he thought he’d eventually be able to work things out, even if Khalkhal did get arrested. All it would take, he had assumed, was one phone call to the chief constable and Khalkhal would be released. Now he knew he’d been wrong.

Apparently the brisk mountain air blowing across Senejan had cleared his head and helped him to think straight. Even Khalkhal was a stranger, he realised, and an untrustworthy one at that. Who was he really? An unknown imam who had come from Qom to ask for the hand of Alsaberi’s daughter. What else did he know about him? Nothing.

The mountain air had done its work — the mist had lifted from his eyes and he now saw everything in a clear light. Khalkhal had been playing a dangerous game. He had known that Farah Diba would be in the cinema, but had deliberately neglected to tell him. His aim had been to create chaos in the city. He’d lured the unsuspecting mosque-goers to the cinema so that Farah Diba would walk into his trap, the country would be turned upside down and the event would be world news. And Aqa Jaan hadn’t suspected a thing. Thank goodness he’d been able to defuse Khalkhal’s plan in time. Khalkhal had deceived him and was now hiding in the crypt. His fate was in Aqa Jaan’s hands.

Despite the cold, he could feel the sweat on his forehead. To allay his fear, he began to chant:

By the morning light,

And by the night when it is still!

He has not abandoned you.

Did He not find you an orphan and guide you?

And find you in need and make you rich?

Did He not lift the burden from your shoulders?

He spread your fame, for with hardship comes ease.

He turned to the window and noticed that it had grown light. Hordes of people were heading towards the mosque. Feeling his heart grow lighter, he squared his shoulders and went inside.

Never before had so many people attended the morning prayer, and they were still pouring in. Aqa Jaan hadn’t listened to the radio, but others had heard that a riot had broken out in Senejan and that the city had been turned upside down by a fanatical imam.

All of the morning papers carried reports of Farah Diba’s royal visit to the clinic and mentioned her presence at the cinema. Here and there it had been hinted that the mosque-goers had been mobilised by the imam for the most dubious of reasons.

And that’s why they had all come to the mosque: to experience what was left of the excitement.

The caretaker came out and greeted Aqa Jaan, then the two of them took a short stroll so they could go over their plan. On the way back, Aqa Jaan stole quietly into the cellar and headed towards the crypt. Suddenly Shahbal loomed up out of the darkness.

‘Where’s Khalkhal?’ Aqa Jaan asked.

‘In the storeroom.’

‘Go upstairs and ask your father to start the azan.’

He cautiously opened the storeroom door. ‘It’s me,’ he said.

In the dim light of the candle Khalkhal was totally unrecognisable. He was wearing the suit and the hat, and his beard had been clipped short.

‘The secret police are looking everywhere for you. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you why. I’ll do what I can to help you escape, but first there’s something I need to get off my chest: I’m not pleased with that demonstration of yours. You deceived me. You should have told me what you were doing, but you deliberately kept me in the dark. We’ll discuss this some other time. Now we need to concentrate on your escape. Shahbal will come for you after the prayer, and the two of you will leave the mosque along with everyone else. The caretaker’s cousin will be waiting for you outside the bazaar. You’ll get on the back of his motorcycle, and he’ll drive you to the village of Varcheh. The imam of Varcheh will somehow get you to Kashan, and the imam of Kashan will make arrangements for your trip to Qom. Here’s some money,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘I’m going now.’ He turned and walked off without waiting for a reply.

He had wanted to lash out at Khalkhal, to say, ‘You deliberately put the city, the mosque, the house and the family at risk. My faith in you has been destroyed. I knew from the start that you couldn’t be trusted, but luckily the damage isn’t irreparable. Now get out. I don’t want to have to see you for a long, long while.’ But he hadn’t said it. He was glad he’d managed to keep his temper under control and had softened his language.

As soon as Aqa Jaan entered the prayer room, everyone stood up for him. They’d heard that the house had been raided last night and that Khalkhal had escaped.

A group of prominent merchants escorted Aqa Jaan to the place where the imam usually led the prayer. ‘I’m going to need your help,’ Aqa Jaan whispered to them. ‘This is a critical moment for the mosque. Khalkhal is in danger. I’ll lead the prayer. I know it’s unusual, but this is an emergency. I’d like all of you to stay here afterwards, so we can walk to the bazaar together.’

Aqa Jaan went over to the pulpit, mounted the first step and said, ‘Listen, everyone. Imam Khalkhal had to go to Qom suddenly, so we’re without an imam. I know it’s unusual, but I’ll take his place today. The morning prayer is short. Follow me!’

There was a buzz of consternation, but at Muezzin’s cry of ‘Hayye ale as-salat’, everyone fell silent and turned towards Mecca.

The morning prayer is the shortest of the day. It consists of standing up two times, bowing two times and touching your forehead to the ground two times.

At the end of the prayer, the merchants solemnly walked over to Aqa Jaan and escorted him to the courtyard, where they were joined by Shahbal and Khalkhal, who had emerged from the cellar and were mingling with the crowd. Aqa Jaan had invited only a few of the men to walk with him to the bazaar, but others had apparently sensed the air of urgency and were now walking silently behind Aqa Jaan.

Everywhere you looked there were policemen who had no idea why such a large group of people were strolling so casually down the street towards the bazaar.

The caretaker’s cousin was waiting with his motorcycle by the streetlight at one corner of the square. Khalkhal slipped away from the crowd and seated himself on the back of the motorcycle. The cousin revved the engine and off they drove, without so much as a backward glance. Shahbal watched until the motorcycle was safely out of sight. Then he rejoined the crowd, sidled up to Aqa Jaan and whispered, ‘He’s gone.’