The House of the Mosque

Paris

Alef Lam Ra.

We shall never know in advance

What Your plans are.

I shall follow You.

I shall follow You with my head bowed.

No one had seen it coming, no one had been expecting it and no one knew exactly what was going on, but one day the ageing Ayatollah Khomeini suddenly appeared out of nowhere at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris.

There were four of them: Khomeini, Beheshti, Khalkhal and Khomeini’s wife, Batul.

During the fourteen years of his exile in Iraq, Khomeini had never once left the city of Najaf. He woke up every day at five-thirty, said his morning prayer and read the Koran. At seven-thirty his faithful wife brought him his breakfast, after which he worked in his modest library until twelve-thirty. Then it was time for the noon prayer. After lunch he took a short nap, then went back to work until four.

Late in the afternoon he received visitors, mostly Iranian carpet merchants who had travelled to Iraq on business, though some were Islamic dissidents disguised as merchants. They carried messages back and forth, so that Khomeini could maintain his secret contacts with the ayatollahs in Qom.

During the winter, he spent the day in his library, but during the spring and summer he went out at six o’clock, after it had cooled down a bit, to work in his garden.

Later in the evening, he washed his hands and face, put on his robe and went to the Imam Ali Mosque, with his wife walking several feet behind him.

And now here he was in Charles de Gaulle Airport, leaning on a trolley by a baggage carousel.

After they had all collected their bags, the owner of the largest Persian carpet emporium in Paris drove them to a house in Neauphle-le-Château, where he had arranged for them to stay.

Approximately sixty years ago, Khomeini had left his native village and gone to Qom to become an imam.

In those days there were no cars in his village, much less roads for them to drive on. He walked through the mountains to the city of Arak, where he was planning to take a stagecoach to Qom, for it was not until decades later that Reza Khan, the father of the present shah, modernised the country and, with the help of the British, built a railway system.

When Khomeini reached Arak, he was surprised to see a lorry filled with pilgrims on their way to the holy city of Qom. The Armenian driver offered him a lift. It turned out to be an unforgettable trip, but when Khomeini finally reached Qom after the bumpy ride through the hills, he felt sick from the diesel fumes.

Later, after becoming an ayatollah, he had himself driven around in an elegant Mercedes, but every time he stepped into the car and caught a whiff of diesel fuel, his nausea returned.

And now, as he was being driven to the quiet suburb through the streets of Paris, he smelled it again.

Beheshti, who had organised everything in advance, pulled out his appointment book and picked up the phone.

He dialled the number of a young Iranian journalist who worked for the American television network ABC and informed her that Khomeini had moved from Najaf to Paris. He explained that from now on the ayatollah would be leading the revolution from Paris and offered her a scoop: ABC could be the first network to interview Khomeini in Paris, but she had to decide quickly, or else he would call the BBC.

The next day an ABC van pulled up in front of Khomeini’s house in Paris.

It was late afternoon in the city, but early evening in Iran.

Am Ramazan rode excitedly into the alley, hopped down from his donkey and hurried into Aqa Jaan’s study. ‘Khomeini is in Paris!’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s going to be on television any moment now!’

‘He’s where?’

‘We can watch it in the Hajji Taghi Khan Mosque. Are you coming?’

Aqa Jaan didn’t want to go to the Hajji Taghi Khan. It was the mosque everyone was going to these days. It had become the centre of political upheaval in Senejan.

Only the elderly still attended Aqa Jaan’s mosque. But the Hajji Taghi Khan Mosque was so full that people had to stand outside. Young imams from Qom held fiery speeches there every night, whipping the masses into such frenzy that they poured out into the streets to demonstrate.

‘I’m sorry,’ Aqa Jaan said to Am Ramazan, ‘I’m busy right now. I’ll come later.’

And yet he was curious. He felt obliged to be a witness. To see everything, record it in his journal and save it for posterity. He had to be there. So he put on his coat and hat and set off for the Hajji Taghi Khan.

The mosque was packed and hundreds of people were milling around outside the gate. He sought a dark corner where he wouldn’t be noticed, then reproached himself: ‘You’re not a thief, so why are you hiding in the dark? Go in and see what’s happening.’

He pushed his way through the crowd. The men were in the courtyard, the women in the prayer room.

At a certain point he realised he wasn’t making any headway, so he turned round and went up to the roof. There he found a spot with a good view of the mosque. Three large television sets had been mounted high up on the wall so everyone could watch the unprecedented event.

Aqa Jaan was reminded of the portable television that Shahbal had brought home years ago so that he and Alsaberi could watch the moon landing. The conversation he’d had with Shahbal was still fixed firmly in his mind.

‘May I have a word with you, Aqa Jaan?’ Shahbal had asked him.

‘Of course, my boy. What’s on your mind?’

‘The moon.’

‘The moon?’

‘No, I mean, television.’

‘Television?’ Aqa Jaan had said in surprise.

‘An imam needs to know what’s going on. He has to keep up with current events,’ Shahbal had replied.

Alsaberi had died and Khalkhal had taken his place. Then Ahmad had come, and now there was this.

There was a flurry of movement by the gate.

‘Salla ala Mohammad wa ale Mohammad!’ shouted the men standing in the street.

Aqa Jaan looked down at the gate. A group of bearded men in stylish suits came into the courtyard and ushered a young imam over to the television screens, where Khomeini’s interview would soon be shown. Aqa Jaan recognised the men: they were the merchants who had taken control of the bazaar.

A woman came up to the men in the suits, exchanged a few words with them and went back into the prayer room. It was Zinat, but because she was so far away and wearing a black chador like the other women, Aqa Jaan hadn’t recognised her.

A young bearded man switched on the television sets. The crowd held its breath, and people craned their necks to get a better view.

At first the camera showed the quiet streets of Neauphle-le-Château. Then you saw a couple of French women go into a supermarket. Next a school bus drew up to a bus shelter, where you could see a brightly coloured ad of a sleek young French woman. Two girls with rucksacks got out of the bus and stared straight into the lens. The camera then panned to a house and showed the trees, the pergola, the garden.

At last Khomeini appeared on the screen. He was sitting on a Persian rug.

The crowd in the mosque went wild and shouted in one voice, ‘Salaam bar Khomeini! Salaam bar Khomeini!’

Back in those days you couldn’t watch a live foreign broadcast on Iran’s state-controlled television network, but the organisers had put a satellite dish on the roof of the mosque. The images were being beamed in from neighbouring Iraq.

The camera zoomed in on Khomeini’s face. It was the first time people had actually seen the ageing ayatollah who wanted to oust the Americans.

Few people knew Khomeini personally, and no recent pictures of him had ever been published. Since no one knew exactly what he looked like, the camera stayed on his face for a long time. He had a long grey beard, and his face glowed in the light of the cameras, which made him look like a saint.

He started to stand up. Someone — probably one of the camera crew — offered him a helping hand, but he waved it away and got to his feet unaided.

He went out into the garden, where two rugs — a large one and a small one — had already been spread on the ground. He took off his shoes and stepped onto the small rug. Then he reached into his pocket, took out a compass and tried to find the east, but couldn’t see the needle. So he patiently put on his glasses, consulted the compass, and turned to face Mecca.

Beheshti was standing behind him, on the large rug. Khalkhal had deliberately kept out of sight. He knew that, as Khomeini’s most loyal adviser, it would be better to remain anonymous.

Khomeini’s wife, Batul, shrouded from head to foot in a black chador, came out for the prayer and took her place behind Beheshti. The camera focused on her for a moment, and she stood as still as a statue. Then the scene shifted to a green hedge, where a few French women and their children were watching in amazement.

Within days a horde of journalists from all over the globe descended on Neauphle-le-Château, thereby focusing the attention of the world on the approaching revolution.

Until then Beheshti and Khalkhal had been the only men at Khomeini’s side, but within twenty-four hours of the interview seven more arrived from America, Germany, England and Paris. For a while they formed the new Revolutionary Council.

Later, after the shah had been toppled and the revolution had been won, they were appointed to top government posts. It was these men who became president, prime minister, minister of finance, minister of foreign affairs, minister of industrial affairs, chairman of the Parliament and chief of the newly formed secret police.

What became of these seven men? Within a few short years, one was executed as an American spy, another was imprisoned for corruption, three of them were assassinated by the Resistance, the man who’d served as president fled to Paris, where he requested political asylum, and shortly thereafter the prime minister was dismissed from his post.

In Tehran millions of people took part in demonstrations being held almost daily. It seemed that no earthly power could prevent Khomeini’s return.

The face of the country changed almost overnight. Men grew beards and women enveloped themselves in chadors.

Massive strikes in the oil sector brought the country to an economic standstill. Workers abandoned their machines, students stopped attending classes, schoolchildren left their schools and everyone took to the streets.

The revolution also left its mark on the house of the mosque.

Zinat openly distanced herself from the family, and Sadiq went out more often. Both she and Zinat often attended mass gatherings of Islamic women.

Sadiq, who had never worn a headscarf inside the house, now swathed herself in a chador when she was at home. She used to spend all of her time indoors, cooking and taking care of Lizard. Now she dropped everything in order to go out. She came home late, grabbed a bite to eat and went to bed.

Aqa Jaan went to the bazaar every day, but the carpet business was the last thing on people’s minds. He felt himself to be more and more of a stranger in his own shop.

The storerooms were stacked with rugs that should have been posted to other countries weeks ago. The corridors and workrooms were filled with yarns and other materials that should have been sent to the workshops in the outlying villages.

His trusty office boy, whose job it was to usher customers into his office and bring them tea, had grown a beard. He no longer came to work on time, and left the building at odd moments, saying only that he had to go to the mosque.

The employees had cleared out one of the offices and turned it into a prayer room. They had removed the desks and chairs, put down a few rugs and hung a large portrait of Khomeini on the wall. They had even brought in a mosque samovar and set it on a table.

No one did any work. His employees hung around the shop all day, discussing the latest events. They drank tea in the prayer room and listened to the BBC’s Persian broadcasts so they could follow the developments in Paris.

Aqa Jaan could see that his business was on the brink of collapse, but he was powerless to do anything about it.

At home he saw that Fakhri Sadat no longer sparkled. She had lost her customary cheerfulness. She used to go into town periodically to buy new clothes, especially nightwear, but her shopping sprees were now a thing of the past.

Aqa Jaan always enjoyed watching Fakhri standing in front of the mirror, feeling her breasts to see if they were still firm. But she didn’t do that any more, and she also stopped wearing her jewellery. One day she tidied up her jewellery box, which had always lain on her dressing table, and put it away for good.

Nasrin and Ensi were also victims of the change. No one seemed to notice that Aqa Jaan’s daughters had reached a marriageable age and were still not spoken for.

Aqa Jaan missed Shahbal. He wanted to talk to him, to pour his heart out to him, but he didn’t get the chance. Shahbal came home for a quick visit every once in a while, then left again. Aqa Jaan knew that he was no longer attending classes. He tried to approach him a few times, but he got the feeling that Shahbal didn’t want to talk to him.

And yet he trusted him. He knew that Shahbal would eventually come back to him.

Aqa Jaan had taken to going down to the river and strolling along its banks in the dark. He remembered his father’s advice: ‘When you’re feeling sad, go down to the river. Talk to the river, and your sorrows will be borne away on its swift current.’

‘I don’t want to complain,’ Aqa Jaan said to the river, ‘but there’s a lump in my throat the size of a rock.’

His eyes were stinging. A tear rolled down his cheek and fell to the ground. The river caught it and bore it away in the darkness, without telling a soul.