The House of the Mosque by Kader Abdolah Page A

were going around with tea for the umpteenth time. The hookahs had been passed from hand to hand. The mayor, who had left for a few hours, had come back. The men from the bazaar had gone out after dinner, strolled along the river and assured Aqa Jaan that in his place they would have done the same thing.
    Shahbal had been sent up to the roof as a lookout.When he finally saw the jeep, he signalled to Aqa Jaan.
    A few minutes later the jeep drew up to the door.
    Khalkhal got out, walked straight over to the registry clerk and slapped his birth certificate down on the table.
    Someone shouted, ‘ Salawat bar Mohammad! Blessings on the Prophet Muhammad!’
    ‘ Salawat bar Mohammad! ’ everyone shouted in response.
    Aqa Jaan smiled. The men from the bazaar came back from their walk. The singer sang loudly:
    By the night when it conceals the light!
    By the day when it appears!
    By the sun and its morning glow!
    By the moon that follows in its wake!
    By the day when it shows its glory!
    By the sky and He who made it!
    By the earth and He who spread it!
    By the soul and He who shaped it!

Mahiha
    K halkhal had taken his bride to Qom. No one knew where the couple lived. The family hadn’t expected him to keep it a secret, but they decided not to make an issue of it.
    ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Aqa Jaan. ‘The door of our house is always open to them.’
    Although Khalkhal had completed his imam training, he still didn’t have a permanent position in a mosque. Once you had your own mosque, you could support yourself. Until then you had to make do with a modest allowance from your ayatollah.
    Aqa Jaan had offered to finance him, but Khalkhal had refused. Still, by calling on his vast network, Aqa Jaan always managed to find a mosque where Khalkhal could fill in as a substitute imam.
    Sadiq came home from time to time, but Khalkhal had forbidden her to give her address to her family. Occasionally she complained to her mother about her new living arrangements. The house was small, the atmosphere was oppressive and she hadn’t managed to make any contact with the neighbours. ‘Everything is so different in Qom,’ she told her mother. ‘People shut themselves up in their own homes with their own families, and the doors and curtains are always closed.’
    ‘It’s all part of adjusting to a new life, especially when you’ve moved to another city, not to mention a religious bastion like Qom. Khalkhal is young. He’s just finished his training and doesn’t have a permanent position yet.’
    ‘I know, but Khalkhal is different from any of the men I’ve ever known. He’s not like my father, he’s not like Aqa Jaan, and he’s not like Uncle Nosrat. I don’t know how to get close to him. It’s hard to have a real conversation. There are long, awkward silences when he’s at home, and that scares me. He doesn’t talk to me and I don’t know what to say to him.’
    ‘You shouldn’t compare our life in this house to that in yours. This house is old. It’s taken centuries for it to develop a rhythm of its own. But your house is that of a young imam with no history. You have to work at creating a home, at making it warm and hospitable, at seeking contact with your neighbours and showing your husband that you love him and are interested in him.’
    ‘It’s easier said than done, Mother. I can give him my love, but the question is whether he wants it.’
    ‘Why wouldn’t he?’
    ‘I don’t know!’
    Sadiq was showered with love when she came home. They bought her shoes and clothes and gave her money and sent her back to Qom with her bags full.
    When Khalkhal went off to another city to fill in as imam, he sent Sadiq home to her parents, and when he was finished, he came to collect her. Sometimes they left on the same day, and sometimes they stayed a week, in which case they slept in the Dome Room.
    The Dome Room had a balcony, a kind of filigreed wooden porch, where you could sit and marvel at the shadows cast by the