take immediate action. For this crime is very serious.’
‘My husband’s been sleeping with whores.’ She whispered the words as she hung her head. A conversation with Mullah Ahmad was all it had taken for her life to vanish in front of her eyes. Why had God allowed this to happen to her? Few of the women in her circle talked of infidelity; it was a taboo subject that was only discussed as gossip about other people. Nobody ever admitted it happened to them. She felt stupid for having trusted that Haj Agha had been faithful to her. For having believed he was a Godly person. For having believed his spirituality had driven him to his countless pilgrimages. And most of all she felt stupid for having thrown such lavish parties in his honour, not for having paid his respects to God and the prophets but for having been a sex tourist. Mullah Ahmad could not bring himself to look at her; the pain of others affected him, even if he did not often see it.
‘My dear, just as those who are addicted to opium cannot help themselves, your husband is in the same position. He needs your help. Do not forget that Allah is forgiving,’ he quoted from the Koran; ‘Do not despair of God’s mercy; He will forgive you all your sins…For Allah will change evil into good. Allah is most forgiving and merciful.’
Fatemeh did not feel forgiving. She could not help but think of Batool Khanoum and her divorce. Although her
mehrieh
was worth nothing now, and she had no idea how she would be able to survive on her own.
‘Haji, does the Koran say I should stay with this man, what do you see?’
Mullah Ahmad usually refused to divine for divorce, but as this was an emergency case and Fatemeh was a loyal customer, he made an exception. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer under his breath as he flicked open the holy book. He read out an Arabic verse then translated its meaning for Fatemeh.
‘Whatever happens, you must stay with him. You must teach him truth.’
Fatemeh’s heart sank. They said the final
salavaat
prayer together:
May God bless the Prophet Mohammad and his family.
She got up to face her husband.
Haj Agha was watching television when she got home. She threw his passports at him.
‘You mother-fucking sister-pimping bastard cunt!’
Haj Agha blinked. He had never heard her utter words like that in his life. He blinked again, opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out, so he shut it. Fatemeh screamed as she had never screamed before. Soon enough Haj Agha found his own voice too. He went through the usual cycle of emotions dispensed by the guilty. Anger, denial and counter-accusations. Fatemeh demanded a divorce. She told him she would tell the judge he had been unfaithful, she would use Mullah Ahmad and his passports as evidence. And he could rest assured that the whole neighbourhood would know he had never set foot in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia in his life. That was when Haj Agha changed tack. He started sobbing and begging for forgiveness. Porn was to blame. It was not his fault. Agha Mehdi had given him a DVD and he had got addicted from the first hit. He respected his wife so much he could not bear to ask her to do some of the things he had seen in the films, that is why he had spared her the humiliation and gone to Thailand, where all the women are whores.
After five weeks Fatemeh forgave him, mostly because she had to. She did not tell a soul as both their reputations would have been ruined. The episode had its upside. Haj Agha now darted around her like a manservant. Somayeh had even noticed how uxorious her father had become and she had wondered, hopefully, if old age wore men down into good husbands.
When Somayeh had told her mother everything, Fatemeh knew then that she was not going to allow the same fate to befall her daughter.
‘You must get a divorce,’ were the first words that came out of her mouth.
‘The shame of it! What will everyone think? Our
aberoo
will be gone, and I’ll be all alone, no
‘My husband’s been sleeping with whores.’ She whispered the words as she hung her head. A conversation with Mullah Ahmad was all it had taken for her life to vanish in front of her eyes. Why had God allowed this to happen to her? Few of the women in her circle talked of infidelity; it was a taboo subject that was only discussed as gossip about other people. Nobody ever admitted it happened to them. She felt stupid for having trusted that Haj Agha had been faithful to her. For having believed he was a Godly person. For having believed his spirituality had driven him to his countless pilgrimages. And most of all she felt stupid for having thrown such lavish parties in his honour, not for having paid his respects to God and the prophets but for having been a sex tourist. Mullah Ahmad could not bring himself to look at her; the pain of others affected him, even if he did not often see it.
‘My dear, just as those who are addicted to opium cannot help themselves, your husband is in the same position. He needs your help. Do not forget that Allah is forgiving,’ he quoted from the Koran; ‘Do not despair of God’s mercy; He will forgive you all your sins…For Allah will change evil into good. Allah is most forgiving and merciful.’
Fatemeh did not feel forgiving. She could not help but think of Batool Khanoum and her divorce. Although her
mehrieh
was worth nothing now, and she had no idea how she would be able to survive on her own.
‘Haji, does the Koran say I should stay with this man, what do you see?’
Mullah Ahmad usually refused to divine for divorce, but as this was an emergency case and Fatemeh was a loyal customer, he made an exception. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer under his breath as he flicked open the holy book. He read out an Arabic verse then translated its meaning for Fatemeh.
‘Whatever happens, you must stay with him. You must teach him truth.’
Fatemeh’s heart sank. They said the final
salavaat
prayer together:
May God bless the Prophet Mohammad and his family.
She got up to face her husband.
Haj Agha was watching television when she got home. She threw his passports at him.
‘You mother-fucking sister-pimping bastard cunt!’
Haj Agha blinked. He had never heard her utter words like that in his life. He blinked again, opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out, so he shut it. Fatemeh screamed as she had never screamed before. Soon enough Haj Agha found his own voice too. He went through the usual cycle of emotions dispensed by the guilty. Anger, denial and counter-accusations. Fatemeh demanded a divorce. She told him she would tell the judge he had been unfaithful, she would use Mullah Ahmad and his passports as evidence. And he could rest assured that the whole neighbourhood would know he had never set foot in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia in his life. That was when Haj Agha changed tack. He started sobbing and begging for forgiveness. Porn was to blame. It was not his fault. Agha Mehdi had given him a DVD and he had got addicted from the first hit. He respected his wife so much he could not bear to ask her to do some of the things he had seen in the films, that is why he had spared her the humiliation and gone to Thailand, where all the women are whores.
After five weeks Fatemeh forgave him, mostly because she had to. She did not tell a soul as both their reputations would have been ruined. The episode had its upside. Haj Agha now darted around her like a manservant. Somayeh had even noticed how uxorious her father had become and she had wondered, hopefully, if old age wore men down into good husbands.
When Somayeh had told her mother everything, Fatemeh knew then that she was not going to allow the same fate to befall her daughter.
‘You must get a divorce,’ were the first words that came out of her mouth.
‘The shame of it! What will everyone think? Our
aberoo
will be gone, and I’ll be all alone, no
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