The House of the Mosque

The Gardens of Bliss

Alef Lam Mim Ra. Years went by, and the house’s sorrow grew like the trees in the garden.

The American hostages had long ago returned to their own homes and their own beds. Khomeini had died.

The war had ended, and America — having failed to achieve its objective through Saddam — had grounded its spy planes.

The migratory birds still flocked to the city and flew over the house of the mosque, but since no grain had been put out for them, they continued on their way.

Aqa Jaan’s daughters were living in Tehran. They had been quietly married during the frantic years of the war and the executions. Ensi had given birth to a son, whom she named Jawad in honour of her brother. She came home from time to time with her husband and laid the baby in her mother’s arms.

Fakhri Sadat, who had once thought she would never get over her grief, kissed her grandson. ‘Aqa Jaan!’ she called excitedly one day. ‘Come and look! He’s the spitting image of Jawad!’

The old crow heard her and circled above the house. The fish in the hauz leapt out of the water for joy, the cedar tree smiled and stood a bit straighter, the birds flew down and perched on its branches, and the wind blew the fresh smell of spring wildflowers down from the mountains. Aqa Jaan put on his hat and coat, picked up his walking stick and went off to the bazaar to buy a box of biscuits.

When was the last time he’d blithely bought a box of biscuits?

It had been the day the grandmothers left for Mecca.

On one of those lovely spring days, Aqa Jaan drove his old Ford out of the garage and, for the first time in his life, washed it himself. He put Fakhri Sadat’s suitcase in the boot and helped her into the front seat, then slid behind the wheel and drove to Jirya.

At one time almost all the women in Jirya, young and old alike, had woven carpets for Aqa Jaan and given him a royal welcome whenever he visited the village. There had also been a time, however, when they refused to give him a grave for his son.

Fortunately, those days were now over, for when he parked his car and he and Fakhri Sadat crossed the village square, the villagers made way for them and bowed respectfully.

Now that the wave of violence had stopped, the war had ended and the dust of the revolution had settled, people were able to take stock. They could see what the years of strife had cost them. Families had been destroyed by political division and death. Prisons were crammed with opponents of the regime. Unemployment had soared and food was scarce.

Aqa Jaan had never told Fakhri what had happened that night in the village, but she had heard the story from her relatives.

‘I still don’t understand how people can change from one day to the next,’ she said, as they walked towards the house that used to belong to her father.

‘They’re simple people. Most of them are illiterate. The shah did nothing to help them, and neither will the ayatollahs. I don’t blame them. Besides, this is where we have our roots. Our dead are buried here. When things go well, we get the credit; when things go badly, we get the blame.’

The Islamic Army had commandeered their ancestral home, so they spent their first night at the house in which Fakhri had grown up. It now belonged to her sister.

The next day they set out for Kazem Khan’s house, strolling side by side through the almond groves. The trees were covered with pale pink blossoms, and the birds twittered merrily, as if they were celebrating the end of the sorrowful era. The old part of the village was the same as ever, but young couples had started building houses on the hills.

Jirya was known for two things: carpets and saffron. Sweet-smelling saffron flourished on these hills. In the old days, when the only way to get to Kazem Khan’s house was by horseback, the hillsides had been covered with yellow saffron plants. Now the lower slopes were dotted with hundreds of simple stone cottages. During the shah’s reign, people had started to build a water reservoir on the highest hill, but the project had long since been abandoned.

‘The almond trees have become old and gnarled,’ Fakhri remarked.

‘So have I,’ Aqa Jaan replied.

Before the onset of winter, the village girls used to go out to the hills and pick the saffron threads, which were as valuable as gold. They sang happily as they worked, and at the end of the day their hands were stained a brownish yellow and their bodies smelled of saffron.

The girls from Jirya were popular with the boys from other villages. Their suitors soon discovered, however, that Jirya girls were reluctant to leave the village.

During the long cold winters, the girls stayed inside and wove carpets. When spring came, they flung open the windows, and then you could hear them giggling and singing.

The windows were open now, but there wasn’t a sound. Singing was no longer allowed.

Aqa Jaan and Fakhri Sadat passed an old walnut tree, a sign that they weren’t far from Kazem Khan’s house, which had been built on an elevation overlooking the saffron hills.

In the distance they saw two men on horseback galloping towards them. When the men were nearly upon them, they reined in the horses, dismounted and led the horses over to Aqa Jaan. There was a strong family resemblance between the two men. They bowed and said salaam to Aqa Jaan, then fell silent.

Aqa Jaan didn’t recognise them. He shot a quizzical glance at Fakhri.

‘It’s the two deaf sons of the couple who used to work for Kazem Khan,’ she said, and she smiled.

Aqa Jaan returned their greeting and, gesturing, asked after their wives and children.

The men signed back that their wives were doing well and that the children had grown. ‘The horses are for you,’ one of the men gestured. ‘To use while you’re staying here.’

Aqa Jaan smiled at Fakhri. ‘They’re offering you a horse,’ he said. ‘Do you think you’re up to it?’

‘Absolutely not!’ Fakhri said, and she laughed. ‘You might still be able to ride, but I can’t. I’m not as young as I used to be. I wouldn’t dare get on a horse these days!’

‘Their wives have invited you for a visit,’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘Good, I accept with pleasure,’ Fakhri signed. ‘Tell them I’ll come.’

The men handed over the reins and started back home on foot.

Kazem Khan’s house glittered like a jewel among the gnarled trees, as was only proper for the house of the village poet. Kazem Khan had been buried at the bottom of the garden, beneath the almond trees. His grave was now blanketed with blossoms.

When Kazem Khan was still alive, the birds used to sit outside the window of his opium room and sing until he opened the window and let out the smoke. After he’d finished his pipe, he’d say, ‘Go home now, birds, and sleep well!’ And off they’d fly.

Kazem Kahn’s former servants had readied the house for Aqa Jaan and Fakhri. They ate outside, talking about Kazem Khan and laughing at how he used to win the hearts of the mountain women by writing them poems.

That evening the former servant delivered a message to Fakhri Sadat. ‘Some of the women would like to come by and say hello,’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’

‘Which women?’ Fakhri asked, surprised.

‘The ones who used to weave carpets for you.’

The women of the village had always looked up to Fakhri, admiring her beauty and pleasing manners. She was still well liked.

‘What time would they like to come?’

‘Now, if it’s convenient.’

Aqa Jaan retreated to Kazem Khan’s library.

The old women were the first to enter the house. They kissed Fakhri Sadat and seated themselves on the floor. Then more women came in, this time in groups. They too kissed Fakhri and sat down. Fakhri was astonished. She knew most of the women by sight, since they had all worked for them at one time or another, but then a group of seven women came in and embraced her. These were the girls who had once woven sample carpets for her.

‘What a lovely surprise!’ Fakhri exclaimed. ‘Your visit brings the light back into my heart. I wasn’t expecting this. I thought you’d all forgotten me.’

One of the old women stood up to speak. ‘Fakhri,’ she began, ‘you’ve suffered a lot of pain. We know that. You lost your son, and we denied him a burial place. We’ll have to live with that for the rest of our lives. Tonight we’ve come to ask you to stop mourning. We’ve brought you a dress. We beg you to put away your mourning clothes and wear this dress instead. We should have done this a long time ago.’

The woman handed her a brightly coloured floral-print dress. Fakhri looked down at her black mourning clothes with tears in her eyes. She was speechless. She wept silently, her hand covering her mouth.

Just as she was about to go upstairs and show her new dress to Aqa Jaan, she saw a group of men coming up the steps. They were the village elders, all of whom had at one time worked for Aqa Jaan.

One of them knocked on the library door and asked if they could come in.

‘Please do,’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘You’re more than welcome!’

They trooped into the library and sat down on the creaking chairs by the window. After a long pause, one of the men spoke up: ‘Aqa Jaan, almost every family in the village lost a son during the war. Our children are all buried in the cemetery. We refused your son a grave, and that troubles us greatly. Please forgive us!’

‘God is all-knowing and all-forgiving,’ Aqa Jaan said soothingly. ‘I’ve never blamed you. Your visit has eased my pain. I’ve always believed in human goodness. Thank you all for coming here today.’

The old man took out a white shirt. ‘The time for mourning has come to an end,’ he said. ‘Please accept this gift and put your black shirt away.’

That night in bed, Fakhri lay her head on Aqa Jaan’s chest. ‘What a lovely evening,’ she said. ‘I’m so happy! Now I can come and visit our village again!’

They looked out of the window at the star-filled sky.

‘The villagers have made amends. The older ones have learned from their experiences, and it’s made them wise. The rich traditions of this place have served as the basis of their wisdom. They know how to heal old wounds.’

‘Some of the women are coming over tomorrow to put a henna rinse in my hair,’ Fakhri said excitedly. ‘It’s supposed to bring good luck.’

‘I’m glad,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘You deserve to be happy.’

And they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Aqa Jaan was awakened the next morning by the chirping of the birds. After his prayer, he put on the white shirt the villagers had given him and strolled around the garden. He felt good. He looked at the blossom-laden trees and felt the strength flowing back to his legs. He stopped by Kazem Khan’s grave, knelt down, picked up a pebble, tapped it against the tombstone and recited one of his uncle’s poems:

Ruzgaar ast keh gah ‘ezzat dehad

Gah khaar daarad

Charkhi baazigar az-in baazichehaa besyaar daarad.

And so life toys with you,

Sometimes loving you,

Sometimes humiliating you.

A delightful breeze was blowing from the mountains. Suddenly Aqa Jaan remembered last night’s dream. He’d dreamed of Hushang Khan.

Hushang Khan was an old friend of his, a nobleman who lived high up in the mountains. Khan was the man who had come to their rescue that night, the man who had driven up in his jeep and taken Jawad’s body away for burial.

He lived in an old fortress in a village that belonged to him, a village far away from all the other villages in the mountains.

Aqa Jaan had not been back to the mountains since the night that Hushang Khan had driven off with Jawad’s body. He knew that patience was called for, that one day the time would come.

Now, as he knelt by his uncle’s grave, he remembered his dream. The strong scent of the blossoms sent memories of Jawad, of his sweet smell, wafting through Aqa Jaan’s soul.

He led one of the horses out of the stable, heaved himself into the saddle and galloped off towards Sawoj-Bolagh.

Hushang Khan was about sixty years old. The son of a powerful nobleman, he was a remarkable individual who had turned his back on his father and refused to have anything to do with the regime of the shah.

Hushang had four wives, each of whom had borne him five children. He had turned his domain into a kind of closed colony, which was almost entirely self-sufficient. He owned a jeep and a few tractors, and raised cows, horses and sheep. There was a small winery in the cellar of his house, where he produced wine for his own consumption.

He had no contact with the outside world, except for friends who came to see him from time to time. His circle of friends included writers, poets and musicians from such places as Isfahan, Yazd, Shiraz and Kashan. To them his door was always open. They hiked through the mountains with him, smoked his opium, drank his home-made wine and enjoyed the fruit from his garden.

There was no road to his village. Somehow he managed to get his battered jeep over the rocks and up the steep inclines, but no one else even tried. His guests usually took a bus to Jirya and hired mules to take them the rest of the way.

Hushang Khan had once been a student in Paris and had lived there for a long time. One day, however, he’d simply packed his bags and returned to the mountains.

He always wore knee-high boots, a French beret and cologne from Paris. Every morning he climbed to the top of the mountain to see the sunrise. He kept his radio tuned to a French station, so he could listen to the news and the music.

Even though he had four wives, he lived in the fortress by himself, surrounded by his belongings.

The mountains around Sawoj-Bolagh were enveloped in mystery. There was a crater in the highest mountain, and an ancient volcano still belched out smoke. The fortress, which had been built on the slope of one of the mountains, overlooked an arid valley.

On the way to the fortress there were three mysterious caves, each of which housed a remnant of Persian history. In the deepest recesses of the first cave was a simple stone statue of King Shapur, an early Sassanid king. Carved in the wall of the second was a lion battling the king of the Achaemenids, who was seated on a bull. The third cave contained a chiselled relief depicting King Darius — the greatest king of all.

Green flags emblazoned with Koran verses fluttered outside the entrance to the caves, to welcome the pilgrims who made their way up the mountainside on mules to see the carvings.

Eagles soared high above the caves, keeping an eye on all that went on. The pilgrims liked to think of them as the guardians of the caves.

At the top of the mountain was a huge bell that Hushang Khan’s visitors could ring to let him know they were coming. Aqa Jaan rang the bell and waved his hat in the direction of the village. ‘Kha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-n!’ he called, and his voice echoed through the valley beneath the fortress.

The children playing outside the fortress heard his cry. ‘What’s your na-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-me?’ they called back.

‘Aq-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a J-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-n!’

They raced inside to tell Hushang Khan that a guest was about to arrive.

Meanwhile, Aqa Jaan, leading his horse by the reins, climbed a bit higher.

Before long Hushang came galloping towards him, waving his beret. When he got closer, he leapt out of the saddle and embraced Aqa Jaan.

‘Welcome, my friend! What a pleasant surprise! My house is yours!’

They started off towards the fortress on foot.

‘Tell me, friend, what brings you here?’

‘Believe it or not — a dream,’ Aqa Jaan told him.

‘What kind of dream?’

‘Just a dream I had last night. Fakhri and I have been staying in Jirya.’

‘Why didn’t you bring her along?’

‘Because I wasn’t planning to visit you. I only decided to ride up here this morning, when I remembered my dream.’

‘What was it about?’

‘I’ve forgotten, except for one part: I was standing by the bell and watching you ride down into the valley. I rang the bell, but you didn’t hear it, so I rang it again, even louder. You still didn’t look up. Then, with a lump in my throat, I kept ringing that bell until everyone in the mountains could hear it, except you. I don’t remember what happened next.’

‘I know what happened next. Follow me and I’ll show you,’ Khan said, and he sprang onto his horse and rode off towards the valley.

The valley was as dry as a bone. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but dirt and dark-brown rocks, without a single sign of life. Khan deftly made his way down the hillside. When they reached the bottom, they dismounted and Khan strode off towards the valley floor.

‘The soil in this valley is so parched that even if you got the Persian Gulf to flow through it, you wouldn’t quench its thirst,’ Khan said. ‘Still, the soil is incredibly fertile. I have a dream: one day I’m going to transform this valley into the Garden of Eden. I’d like to show you something. Do you think you’re ready to see it?’

‘To see what?’

‘Something that’s bound to be painful, but also wonderful!’ He clambered over a few boulders, and Aqa Jaan followed along behind him.

‘Nature has performed a miracle,’ he continued. ‘Here the soil is arid, but behind the fortress, it’s soft and moist. Shall I tell you a secret? As strange as it may seem, there’s a huge water reservoir beneath the fortress.’

‘A water reservoir?’

‘Yes, a water reservoir! I don’t know how it was created or where the water comes from. Maybe from the snow-capped mountains to the north. It’s the secret of my domain. No one knows about it. I only discovered it myself about three years ago, when a French friend of mine came for a visit. He’s a geologist. He was curious to see where the water in the well came from, so he lowered himself into it on a rope. When he came back up, he said, “There’s gold beneath your fortress.” “Gold?” I said. “Water!” he explained. “There’s an aquifer running beneath this soil, and that’s as good as gold.”’

‘I haven’t told anyone,’ Khan said. ‘I’m afraid that if the ayatollahs get wind of it, they’ll confiscate my fortress and throw me out. I plan on keeping it a secret for as long as I live. Still, I’ve been conducting a little experiment, with the help of one of your relatives.’

‘Oh, who?’

‘I’ll tell you later. Anyway, I went out and bought a powerful water pump and a long hose. You can judge the results for yourself. Close your eyes, and I’ll take you there. Brace yourself, and follow me!’

Aqa Jaan closed his eyes, hesitantly took hold of Khan’s arm and allowed himself to be led behind a cliff.

‘You can open them now,’ Khan said.

Aqa Jaan opened his eyes, and was stunned by what he saw. Stretched out before him was a vast garden. It was filled with fragrant flowers in every colour of the rainbow, dotted here and there with blossoming trees.

‘I don’t believe it!’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘The volcano warms the soil, and it’s rich in minerals. The cliff shelters the garden from the wind and the cold. This is just the beginning of my dream for this valley. You had a dream last night, but you can’t remember exactly what it was about. Well, I’ll tell you what it was about. Look over there. Beneath that tree, up by those rocks, is your son’s grave. It doesn’t have a tombstone yet, but it’s covered with flowers and fallen petals.’

Aqa Jaan clutched Khan’s arm to steady himself.

‘Ordinary birds don’t dare to come in here,’ Khan went on. ‘This is the domain of the eagles. They fly above the valley and keep watch over it.’

Aqa Jaan’s eyes were swimming with tears. He stared at the apricot-coloured flowers growing on top of the grave, in such thick clusters that they seemed determined to conceal it. Tears rolled down Aqa Jaan’s cheeks. He knelt by the grave and kissed the ground:

Alef Lam Mim Ra.

He governs the world.

He is the one who spread the soil

And lifted up the mountains

And made the rivers flow.

He raised up the heavens

Without any pillars that you can see.

He made the sun and moon do his bidding,

Each one moving in its course

For an appointed time.

He governs the world.

He causes the night to envelop the day

And the day to envelop the night.

He made fruit of every kind in pairs,

Two and two.

And on the earth are plots of land,

Adjoining one another, and gardens of vines,

And fields sown with corn, and palm trees,

Growing out of a single root or a cluster,

All watered by one stream.

He governs the world.

Such things are signs for those who understand.

Alef Lam Mim Ra.

‘Thank you, Khan,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘Thank you, my friend. My heart is filled with happiness.’

‘I know something else that will make you happy,’ Hushang Khan replied.

‘Nothing can make me happier than this.’

‘Don’t be too sure. As I told you a few minutes ago, I had help. Help from a man with the strength of an elephant. Without his tireless efforts, this garden would not exist. Would you like to see him? Come with me. He’s driving a tractor on the other side of the fortress. We’re ploughing a new field, sowing it with sunflowers. That French friend of mine brought me some seeds from France. Our native sunflowers don’t grow very tall here in the mountains, but these French ones shoot up into the sky. Soon this field will be covered with thousands of suns, and every one of them will produce fat, juicy seeds. Last year we had a test plot, so this year we expect to press our own sunflower oil from those seeds.

‘The man you’re about to see is a genius! He works day and night, ploughing, sowing, repairing equipment, giving me advice. He’s the best worker I’ve ever had!’

Leading the horses by the reins, the two men walked slowly to the other side of the hill. When they reached a clump of trees, Khan tied the reins to a branch. ‘Let’s surprise him,’ he said. ‘Walk softly.’

They crept through the trees to where the man was working.

‘Don’t move,’ Khan whispered.

Aqa Jaan looked at the man on the tractor. His face was hidden by a hat. When the tractor came to a tree, the man stopped, got out and strode over to the tree, where he’d left his lunch. There was something familiar about the way he carried himself, the way he walked.

Khan smiled.

The man grabbed a loaf of bread, sat down on the ground, leaned back against the tree and looked up at the sky, his face bathed in sunlight.

‘Ahmad!’ Aqa Jaan exclaimed. ‘It’s Ahmad!’ He took a few steps forward and studied the man more closely. No, he wasn’t mistaken. It was Ahmad: the son of the house, the imam of their mosque!

‘Go to him! Embrace him!’ Khan urged him.

Two eagles glided overhead and started circling above the field.

Aqa Jaan stepped into the open. Suddenly Ahmad saw Aqa Jaan walking towards him. He leapt to his feet and stared at him, speechless.

Aqa Jaan reached out and folded Ahmad into his arms. ‘You’ve become a farmer! And a modern one at that! You drive a tractor, you smell of diesel oil and you have the hands of a mechanic.’ Aqa Jaan beamed with joy. ‘You’ve gained experience and can now see life from a different perspective. Thank you, Allah, for this blessed moment!’

Ahmad was still too stunned by Aqa Jaan’s sudden appearance to speak. His hands trembled as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

‘Everything will be all right, my son,’ Aqa Jaan said. ‘This will all end one day, I swear. Then the mosque will be restored to us and you will go back to your library.’

‘He doesn’t want to be an imam any more,’ Khan said, smiling. ‘Let the ayatollahs have his turban and his robe! Come, he has work to do. You and I are going to have lunch. You both need to recover from the shock.’

Aqa Jaan, flabbergasted but overjoyed, walked back to the fortress with Khan. ‘You’re a true friend, Khan. You’ve done so much for me that I hardly know how to thank you.’

‘You don’t have to thank me, though there is one small thing you can do.’

‘I’ll be glad to. Just say the word.’

‘We’ll talk about it later. We have plenty of time.’

They reached the fortress, and the children greeted Aqa Jaan with whoops and cries. ‘I swear you’ve had a dozen more children since the last time I saw you,’ Aqa Jaan said.

‘I don’t know about that,’ Khan laughed. ‘You’d have to ask their mothers.’

Khan led Aqa Jaan into an elegant sitting room, where the candles in the tulip-shaped sockets of a crystal chandelier were burning brightly and the light was bouncing off an antique mirror. The room was pleasantly warm, and the antique Persian carpets on the floor added even more comfort and colour. The furniture dated back to the Renaissance, and had lost none of its splendour. A massive bookcase was lined with French and Persian books.

‘I hope you’re planning to stay for at least a week,’ Khan said.

‘I wish I could, but I can’t. I’ve left Fakhri all by herself in Jirya. She’s arranged to meet a couple of women today, and she doesn’t know I’m here. I just told the servant that I’d be back late.’

‘I understand, but you can’t leave now. I’ll send someone to fetch her.’

‘I don’t think she’s ready to deal with this yet. She’s only just starting to feel better. I never told her that you took Jawad’s body that night. She still finds it hard to talk about his death.’

‘That’s perfectly all right,’ Khan said. ‘I’ll send someone to tell her that you’re going to spend the night here. She can sleep at her sister’s, can’t she? You shouldn’t let women get used to sleeping in your arms! Let her sleep by herself for one night; it will do her good.’

Just then two servants came in with lunch on a round silver tray.

Later that afternoon, Aqa Jaan went back to the field. He and Ahmad walked through the mountains, talking about everything that had happened in the intervening years.

Afterwards, Khan took Aqa Jaan to see his wives, who welcomed them with tea and home-made biscuits. They stayed to eat dinner with the oldest wife.

When they’d finished eating, they went back to the fortress, where Khan showed him into the drawing room. The candles had already been lit.

‘You’re my guest of honour,’ Khan said. ‘Sit down, I’ll be back in a moment.’

Aqa Jaan suddenly felt a wave of melancholy wash over him. The stressful day had taken its toll. He stared blankly at the floor and waited for the return of his host, who came back a few minutes later carrying a bottle coated with a fine layer of dust. He set the bottle on the table, reached into the cupboard and took out two gold-rimmed goblets.

‘You and I have several reasons to celebrate tonight. I can see from your face that it’s been a sad, but wonderful, day.’

Aqa Jaan, who had never drunk a drop of alcohol in his life, shook his head. ‘I don’t drink,’ he said.

‘You’re making a mistake. A few hours ago you wanted to thank me, but you didn’t know how. It’s very simple: join me in a drink. Let that be your expression of gratitude. Listen, my friend, this is the oldest bottle of wine in my cellar. I’ve brought it up to share with you. My father laid it in the cellar thirty years ago. I’ve been waiting all these years for an evening that I knew would come, for just the right person, for a friend. No, don’t interrupt me. I know it’s against your principles, but I’d like the two of us to drink a toast to your son, who is buried here, and to Ahmad, who is happy and healthy and driving a tractor. Tonight is a special night. I won’t let you ruin it with religion. I’m going to pour you a glass of wine. Don’t say a word. I’ll raise my glass, you’ll raise yours, and then we’ll drink.’

He uncorked the bottle and sniffed the wine. ‘Allah, Allah, of course you shouldn’t be forced to drink something you don’t want to, but I’d be delighted if you would drink this wine with me.’

Aqa Jaan was silent. First Khan poured a small amount in his own glass. He picked it up and swirled it around. ‘This wine smells as sweet as the paradisiacal rivers of wine mentioned in the Koran.’

Aqa Jaan stared at him in silence.

‘Don’t look at me like that!’ Khan said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with what I just said. You’re not the only one who’s read the Koran. I’ve read it too — in my own way. The Koran says a lot of things about Paradise. It promises us handmaidens — beautiful women with lips tasting of milk and honey who will pour out divine libations. Here, raise your glass in a toast. One day this wine will be offered to you in Paradise!’

Aqa Jaan didn’t reach for his glass.

‘I’m a sinner from way back, but you aren’t,’ Khan said. ‘I wouldn’t ask you to do anything sinful. This wine was made out of grapes from my own vineyard. At harvest time the most beautiful girls in the mountains come here to pick the grapes and pour the wine into the old clay jars in the cellar.’

Khan took a sip and savoured it. ‘It’s unbelievable,’ he said. ‘In this wine you can taste the particles that make up the volcano, the particles that make up the universe. You can even smell the hands of the girls who picked the grapes. Take a sip, Aqa Jaan!’

When Aqa Jaan didn’t lift his glass, Khan decided not to press him any further. He went outside.

Bats were swooping across his property, wheeling above the tractor parked on the hillside. He saw Ahmad walking towards the stable, with something slung over his shoulder. He sipped his wine and listened to the sounds of the night. His children were still playing outside. He heard his daughters chasing each other through the darkness. Years ago he had lived in Paris. It had been a time of great upheaval, with demonstrators marching through the streets, existentialism in its heyday and Simone de Beauvoir captivating tout le Paris with her books. He’d been happy, he’d fallen in and out of love a dozen times and his French friends had welcomed him as if he were a Persian prince. He could have lived in Paris for ever. But after a while the tide turned. He wasn’t happy any more: he longed for home, for the hills of his youth and the women of the mountains. Paris was beautiful, but its beauty was not for him. He stored up his memories of Paris and went back to his fortress, this time for ever.

Carrying his wine goblet, Khan walked down his village’s only street. After a moment he turned and saw Aqa Jaan standing by the window. Was he sipping the wine? Khan wanted to go in and find out, but something held him back.

The poignancy of his last years in Paris unexpectedly stole over him. He didn’t want to be alone with his sorrow, so he went to the house of his youngest wife, in whose arms he always found peace. He knocked, and she opened the door. ‘Why do you look so sad?’

‘My friend’s sorrow has rubbed off on me,’ he said.

She asked no more, but took him into her bed and let him lay his head in her lap.

The next morning the aged servant led Aqa Jaan to the royal bath chamber. He stepped into the bath and felt the hot tiles beneath his feet — a moment of joy after an unusually long night. The water came up to his chin. He slid down beneath the surface for a moment, then came back up and chanted:

The first to come will be the first to arrive

In the Gardens of Bliss.

They shall recline on sofas studded with jewels.

Passing among them will be maidens

With big expressive eyes,

Like pearls in their shells,

Who will go from one to another

With chalices and goblets of wine,

Which cause neither headache nor intoxication.

They shall have whatever fruits they desire,

And the flesh of fowls.

He plunged back under the water, so that it gushed over the sides of the bath. He opened his mouth wide and stayed underwater for a long time, as if to cleanse himself of sin. This time when he came up, he was gasping for air. He shouted, as hard as he could, ‘In the gardens of bliss!’

He got dressed, put on his hat and motioned for the servant to bring him his horse. Then he sprang into the saddle and galloped off.