life. You’re going to have to change it straight away!’
It was Fatemeh’s turn. Mullah Ahmad was sitting in a gleaming black swivel chair, surrounded by shelves lined with books. Cornices in pastel shades topped the walls of his office. A bleached-out picture of Mecca in the seventies and framed black and white photographs of his ancestors looking glum hung above him, next to a huge poster of the black-turbaned Ayatollah Boroujerdi, a dissident cleric who believed in the separation of religion and politics and who was imprisoned in 2006 for speaking out against the Supreme Leader’s absolute power.
Mullah Ahmad was wearing his fine grey robe, his white
amameh
turban and leather slippers. Three chunky silver Islamic rings – one with a large burnt-ochre carnelian, the most important gemstone in Islam, on which was inscribed a verse from the Koran – adorned his long, feminine fingers, giving him a rock-star edge.
‘My goodness Fatemeh Khanoum, you’ve got so fat!’ He prac-tically shrieked when he noticed the extra ten kilograms Fatemeh had been lugging round her midriff.
‘It’s true, I haven’t been taking care of myself Haji as I haven’t been very happy.’
‘A blind person who sees is better than a seeing person who is blind,’ said Mullah Ahmad. Mullah Ahmad was not easy to understand, not least because of his thick Azeri Turkic accent and his propensity to break into Koranic verse. His terrible short-term memory did not help matters.
Fatemeh launched into her findings. The details tumbled out in a torrent of dates, holy sites and sobbing.
‘As long as I live I will never call him Haj Agha again!’ She fished out the evidence from her bag. Mullah Ahmad flicked through Haj Agha’s passports.
‘But why does he go to Thailand? There are no Shia tombs of our beloved imams, God rest their souls, or of any of their relatives in Thailand, are there Haji?’
Mullah Ahmad was lost for words. Which did not happen often. He knew what men did when they went to Thailand. Only last month one of his flock had confessed to him an addiction to Thai prostitutes. He had prescribed a strict regimen of prayers, which included reading the
Ayatul Kursi –
the Throne verse in the Koran, believed to protect against evil – five times at dawn and five times at dusk.
‘How come you are so unsuccessful in life, for this is truly a terrible husband!’ Mullah Ahmad thought that was a good way to ease into telling Fatemeh the truth about what men did in Thailand. He had judged it well. Fatemeh was very pleased with the answer. Not least because it was easy to understand but, more importantly, it was what she had suspected for a long time. She was unsuccessful in life. A loveless marriage, a small apartment in which she would most probably die, a lazy son and a useless son-in-law.
‘Haji I don’t know, I pray, I give alms to the poor, I do all my Muslim duties. Maybe it is my fault. Mrs Katkhodai’s doctor told her that her mental attitude was responsible for her life and that her future was in her own hands.’
‘What heresy! A sword in the hands of a drunken slave is less dangerous than science in the hands of the immoral!’ he said, breaking into a verse of poetry and a quote from the Koran. Fatemeh squinted as she concentrated on decrypting his words.
‘Haji, why has he been going to this country?’
‘Fatemeh Khanoum, are you fulfilling your marital duties to your husband?’
‘He never wants to do it. I tell you, I am fighting lust the whole time, because he shows no interest.’ The mullah shook his head.
‘I will not lie to you Fatemeh. There is only one reason why a man would go on so many trips to Thailand. They go for
zanaa-yeh
vijeh
.’ The mullah was using the euphemism for ‘prostitute’ that the government had recently adopted: ‘special’ women.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Thailand is a country of prostitutes. All the women there are for sale. I have seen this before. You must
It was Fatemeh’s turn. Mullah Ahmad was sitting in a gleaming black swivel chair, surrounded by shelves lined with books. Cornices in pastel shades topped the walls of his office. A bleached-out picture of Mecca in the seventies and framed black and white photographs of his ancestors looking glum hung above him, next to a huge poster of the black-turbaned Ayatollah Boroujerdi, a dissident cleric who believed in the separation of religion and politics and who was imprisoned in 2006 for speaking out against the Supreme Leader’s absolute power.
Mullah Ahmad was wearing his fine grey robe, his white
amameh
turban and leather slippers. Three chunky silver Islamic rings – one with a large burnt-ochre carnelian, the most important gemstone in Islam, on which was inscribed a verse from the Koran – adorned his long, feminine fingers, giving him a rock-star edge.
‘My goodness Fatemeh Khanoum, you’ve got so fat!’ He prac-tically shrieked when he noticed the extra ten kilograms Fatemeh had been lugging round her midriff.
‘It’s true, I haven’t been taking care of myself Haji as I haven’t been very happy.’
‘A blind person who sees is better than a seeing person who is blind,’ said Mullah Ahmad. Mullah Ahmad was not easy to understand, not least because of his thick Azeri Turkic accent and his propensity to break into Koranic verse. His terrible short-term memory did not help matters.
Fatemeh launched into her findings. The details tumbled out in a torrent of dates, holy sites and sobbing.
‘As long as I live I will never call him Haj Agha again!’ She fished out the evidence from her bag. Mullah Ahmad flicked through Haj Agha’s passports.
‘But why does he go to Thailand? There are no Shia tombs of our beloved imams, God rest their souls, or of any of their relatives in Thailand, are there Haji?’
Mullah Ahmad was lost for words. Which did not happen often. He knew what men did when they went to Thailand. Only last month one of his flock had confessed to him an addiction to Thai prostitutes. He had prescribed a strict regimen of prayers, which included reading the
Ayatul Kursi –
the Throne verse in the Koran, believed to protect against evil – five times at dawn and five times at dusk.
‘How come you are so unsuccessful in life, for this is truly a terrible husband!’ Mullah Ahmad thought that was a good way to ease into telling Fatemeh the truth about what men did in Thailand. He had judged it well. Fatemeh was very pleased with the answer. Not least because it was easy to understand but, more importantly, it was what she had suspected for a long time. She was unsuccessful in life. A loveless marriage, a small apartment in which she would most probably die, a lazy son and a useless son-in-law.
‘Haji I don’t know, I pray, I give alms to the poor, I do all my Muslim duties. Maybe it is my fault. Mrs Katkhodai’s doctor told her that her mental attitude was responsible for her life and that her future was in her own hands.’
‘What heresy! A sword in the hands of a drunken slave is less dangerous than science in the hands of the immoral!’ he said, breaking into a verse of poetry and a quote from the Koran. Fatemeh squinted as she concentrated on decrypting his words.
‘Haji, why has he been going to this country?’
‘Fatemeh Khanoum, are you fulfilling your marital duties to your husband?’
‘He never wants to do it. I tell you, I am fighting lust the whole time, because he shows no interest.’ The mullah shook his head.
‘I will not lie to you Fatemeh. There is only one reason why a man would go on so many trips to Thailand. They go for
zanaa-yeh
vijeh
.’ The mullah was using the euphemism for ‘prostitute’ that the government had recently adopted: ‘special’ women.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Thailand is a country of prostitutes. All the women there are for sale. I have seen this before. You must
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