“What’s wrong? How can I help you?”
“That idiot’s sitting in the outhouse, crying his eyes out.”
“What? Who’s crying?”
“Akbar. He can’t pee.”
The two of them went over and stood by the outhouse door.
“You hear that? He’s crying.”
“I’ll be damned, he is. But maybe he’s crying about something else.”
“Of course not. You don’t go to an outhouse to cry about something else.”
“Give me a minute to think about it.”
“There’s nothing to think about, man. It’s clear as a bell. We have to look at Akbar’s thingy. Then we’ll know for sure. We’ve got to nab him as soon as he comes out.”
They hid behind a wall and waited for Akbar.
He came out and Jafar beckoned to him.
Though it was dark, Akbar knew immediately what his friends were up to. His first impulse was to flee, but Jafar was too quick, hurling himself in front of Akbar and grabbing his foot so that he tripped and fell. Shoja rushed over and pinned him to the ground. “Don’t run away, asshole! Come with us.”
They dragged him into the barn.
“Hold him!” Jafar yelled.
He shimmied up a pole and lit an oil lamp.
Then he pulled down Akbar’s trousers and inspected his penis. “Let the bastard go. He’s sick.”
Early the next morning they went to the city in search of a doctor.
Several months later, after Aga Akbar had been cured, Shoja and Jafar had a little talk. Akbar was gradually distancing himself from them and they knew why. As true friends, they felt obliged to inform his uncle. So, one evening, Jafar picked up a lantern and climbed up on Shoja’s back.
They went to Kazem Khan’s house.
“Good evening,” Shoja said. “May we come in?”
“Of course, Sayyid Shoja. You two are always welcome. Have a seat. Can I get you some tea?”
“No, thanks. We don’t want to be here when Akbar gets home. We’ve come here to tell you something. We’re Akbar’s best friends, but some secrets need to be brought out into the open. We’ve come here to say that we’re worried about him.”
“Why?”
“You know that the three of us go out together sometimes. Strange things happen every once in a while, though it usually turns out all right. But this time it’s different. This time Akbar has gone too far.”
“What do you mean, ‘too far’? What’s he done now?”
“I may be blind, but I do have two good ears. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with Jafar’s sight. Maybe I better let Jafar tell you what he’s seen.”
“Tell me, Jafar. What have you seen?”
“How shall I put it? It’s like this: Akbar goes out sometimes … well, almost every night, to sleep with a prostitute. I-I-I think he’s in love with her. That isn’t necessarily bad. She’s … well, she’s young and … very friendly. I get the impression that she’s fond of Akbar.
“But we think he’s gone too far this time. Right, Shoja? Anyway, that’s what we wanted to tell you. There’s nothing wrong with the woman. She’s young and healthy. But we thought you ought to know. Right, Shoja?”
“Right,” Shoja said. “Well, that’s it. Come on, let’s go before Akbar gets home.”
Kazem Khan knew that he had to do something for Akbar and that there wasn’t much time. If he didn’t act soon, no one would want their daughter to marry Akbar.
He had to admit that he’d failed to find the ideal wife for his nephew. So he turned the job over to the old women in the family.
The women rolled up their sleeves and got to work. Before long, however, their enthusiasm dwindled. None of the prospects they came up with fitted into the family. One had a father who was a beggar, another had brothers who were thieves, the third had no breasts, the fourth was so shy she didn’t dare show herself.
No, the women of the family weren’t able to find a wife for Aga Akbar, either.
Only one more door was open to them. The door to the house of Zeinab Khatun, Saffron Mountain’s aging matchmaker. She always had a ready supply of brides.
Zeinab would be sure to find a good one for Akbar, because she was an opium addict. The women in the family merely had to take her a roll of Kazem Khan’s yellow opium and she would arrange the whole thing.
Zeinab lived outside the village, in a house at the foot of the mountain. Her customers were usually single men in search of a wife. “Zeinab Khatun, have you got a girl for me? A virtuous woman who can bear me healthy children?”
“No, I don’t have a girl—or a woman—for you, virtuous or otherwise. I know you—you’re a wife-beater. I still haven’t forgotten the last one. Get out of here, go ask your mother to find you a wife.”
“Why don’t we step inside? I’ve brought you half a roll of yellow opium. Now what do you have to say?”
“Come right in. You need to smile more often and remember to shave. With that stubble of yours and those awful yellow teeth, I’ll never be able to find you a wife.”
Sometimes an elderly mother knocked on her door. “I’m old now, Zeinab Khatun, and I don’t have any grandchildren. Do something for my son. I’ll give you a pretty chador, a real one from Mecca.”
“People promise me all kinds of things, but as soon as their sons have a wife, they disappear. Bring me the chador first. In the meantime, I’ll think it over. It won’t be easy, you know. Few women want to marry a man who drools. But I’ll find someone for your son. If I die tonight, I’d hate to be carried to my grave in my old, worn-out chador. So go and get it. I’ll wait.”
The men of the family were opposed to the plan. But the women stuck a roll of opium into the bag of an elderly aunt, put on their chadors and went to Zeinab’s house.
The men thought it was beneath the family’s dignity to ask the matchmaker for a bride. Of course, they wanted Akbar to have a wife. But what they really wanted for him was a son. An Ishmael who would bear Akbar’s burden.
Since they didn’t want the child’s mother to be a prostitute, they resigned themselves to letting the women use a matchmaker.
Giggling, the women knocked on Zeinab’s door.
“Welcome! Please sit down.”
While they were still in the hall, the elderly aunt awkwardly pressed the opium into Zeinab’s hands. “I don’t know the first thing about this,” she said. “It’s from Kazem Khan.”
She was impatient. “I won’t beat around the bush, Zeinab Khatun. We’re looking for a good girl, a sensible woman, for our Akbar. That’s all there is to it. Do you have one for us or not?”
The women laughed. They got a kick out of the elderly aunt.
“Do I have one?” said the experienced Zeinab Khatun. “I’ll find one for you, even if I have to scour this entire mountain. If I can’t find a bride for Aga Akbar, who can I find one for? Sit down. Let’s drink some tea first.”
She brought in a tray with glasses and a teapot. “Let me think. A good girl, a sensible woman. Yes, I know of one. She’s very pretty, but—”
Auntie cut her off. “No buts! I don’t want half a woman for my nephew. I