one the scarlet demon pounced up at her. A neighbour three streets down knew how to read English, but she had a feeling she should ask a stranger. She slumped her body next to the scattered papers and passports beside her as she considered what she should do. Somayeh walked into the room to find her mother splayed on the floor like a bear on its back.
‘I’m fine, I’m fine, just had a dizzy turn, nothing serious,’ Fatemeh panted. Now she was clambering up to get her chador. She ran out of the door and headed straight towards the bazaar, to a
daroltarjomeh
translation office. She thrust Haj Agha’s passport into the hands of a young man sitting at a computer.
‘Son, read this for me. And I want the dates.’
The young man paused.
‘KINGDOM OF THAILAND. Type of Visa:
Tourist
.’ He read out some dates, converting them from Gregorian to Persian.
They exactly matched Haj Agha’s pilgrimage trips. But he had not been in Karbala or Mecca. Or Damascus. Or Mashhad. He had been in Thailand. Wherever that was. She racked her brain to remember history lessons at school, berating herself for never paying attention. As far as she could remember, Hossein’s crusade had not ventured to Thailand. Were there Muslims in Thailand? She was not sure. Even if there was a remote Shia shrine in this strange land, one thing was clear: Haj Agha had been telling lies. She tried to pay the translator, but he would not accept her money. She hurried out into the masses swirling around the bazaar, cutting across the backstreets to Vali Asr. This was an emergency. She needed to speak to Mullah Ahmad. For more sensitive matters, Fatemeh would see him in person. She was still not sure exactly what kind of deceit she was dealing with, but it was clear this was not a subject for a four-minute reading on the telephone. She called Mullah Ahmad’s mobile and told him she was on her way.
She took the bus the length of Vali Asr. This was her favourite journey in the city, and usually she would enjoy watching the shops and restaurants pass by. But today she was too distracted to notice anything; she prayed under her breath as her mind ran through hundreds of possibilities. She got off at the very end of Vali Asr, where it opens its mouth and spews cars and taxis and buses and people into Tajrish Square. Mullah Ahmad lived in a large apartment on the second floor of a shabby building just off the square. His home was a shrine to mismatching styles and colours: reproduction French Versailles furniture stuffed next to seventies leather sofas; modern Ikea shelves and mass-produced tapestries hung on greying walls. There were the usual Iranian touches: crystal, gilding, marble and chandeliers of varying sizes and sparkle that hung in every room, including the small kitchen; Persian carpets everywhere, hanging on the walls and draped over armchairs.
Mullah Ahmad’s wife opened the door in a white flowered chador, under which she was wearing dark blue slacks and a loose knitted sleeveless cardigan over a shirt.
‘He told me it was an emergency, I’ll get you in next,’ she whispered in Fatemeh’s ear as she ushered her into the living room, past Mullah Ahmad’s teenage son who was wearing Levi’s and texting on his iPhone.
Fatemeh was not the only one with a crisis on her hands. A middle-aged socialite with a facelift and a Hermès scarf was snivelling into a tissue. A teenage girl from Shahrak-e Gharb with Chanel sunglasses propped on her head stared sullenly through the net curtains. A wrinkled woman in a black chador was wringing her hands and praying.
When Mullah Ahmad got excited, he had a tendency to shout. As Mullah Ahmad’s wife served his waiting clients with tea and assorted Cadbury’s Dairy Milk chocolates from a silvery tray, her husband’s voice boomed out of his office.
‘Why aren’t you married? At thirty-nine that is an absolute disaster! Your parents have given you a terrible name and this has obviously affected your whole
‘I’m fine, I’m fine, just had a dizzy turn, nothing serious,’ Fatemeh panted. Now she was clambering up to get her chador. She ran out of the door and headed straight towards the bazaar, to a
daroltarjomeh
translation office. She thrust Haj Agha’s passport into the hands of a young man sitting at a computer.
‘Son, read this for me. And I want the dates.’
The young man paused.
‘KINGDOM OF THAILAND. Type of Visa:
Tourist
.’ He read out some dates, converting them from Gregorian to Persian.
They exactly matched Haj Agha’s pilgrimage trips. But he had not been in Karbala or Mecca. Or Damascus. Or Mashhad. He had been in Thailand. Wherever that was. She racked her brain to remember history lessons at school, berating herself for never paying attention. As far as she could remember, Hossein’s crusade had not ventured to Thailand. Were there Muslims in Thailand? She was not sure. Even if there was a remote Shia shrine in this strange land, one thing was clear: Haj Agha had been telling lies. She tried to pay the translator, but he would not accept her money. She hurried out into the masses swirling around the bazaar, cutting across the backstreets to Vali Asr. This was an emergency. She needed to speak to Mullah Ahmad. For more sensitive matters, Fatemeh would see him in person. She was still not sure exactly what kind of deceit she was dealing with, but it was clear this was not a subject for a four-minute reading on the telephone. She called Mullah Ahmad’s mobile and told him she was on her way.
She took the bus the length of Vali Asr. This was her favourite journey in the city, and usually she would enjoy watching the shops and restaurants pass by. But today she was too distracted to notice anything; she prayed under her breath as her mind ran through hundreds of possibilities. She got off at the very end of Vali Asr, where it opens its mouth and spews cars and taxis and buses and people into Tajrish Square. Mullah Ahmad lived in a large apartment on the second floor of a shabby building just off the square. His home was a shrine to mismatching styles and colours: reproduction French Versailles furniture stuffed next to seventies leather sofas; modern Ikea shelves and mass-produced tapestries hung on greying walls. There were the usual Iranian touches: crystal, gilding, marble and chandeliers of varying sizes and sparkle that hung in every room, including the small kitchen; Persian carpets everywhere, hanging on the walls and draped over armchairs.
Mullah Ahmad’s wife opened the door in a white flowered chador, under which she was wearing dark blue slacks and a loose knitted sleeveless cardigan over a shirt.
‘He told me it was an emergency, I’ll get you in next,’ she whispered in Fatemeh’s ear as she ushered her into the living room, past Mullah Ahmad’s teenage son who was wearing Levi’s and texting on his iPhone.
Fatemeh was not the only one with a crisis on her hands. A middle-aged socialite with a facelift and a Hermès scarf was snivelling into a tissue. A teenage girl from Shahrak-e Gharb with Chanel sunglasses propped on her head stared sullenly through the net curtains. A wrinkled woman in a black chador was wringing her hands and praying.
When Mullah Ahmad got excited, he had a tendency to shout. As Mullah Ahmad’s wife served his waiting clients with tea and assorted Cadbury’s Dairy Milk chocolates from a silvery tray, her husband’s voice boomed out of his office.
‘Why aren’t you married? At thirty-nine that is an absolute disaster! Your parents have given you a terrible name and this has obviously affected your whole
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