My Father's Notebook Read Free

forefathers had lived before him bordered on Russia, known in those days as the Soviet Union. The southern part of the range belonged to Iran; the northern part, with its permanent layer of snow, to Russia.
    No one knew, however, what that Russian soldier, or the Russian army, had been looking for in the mountains.
    All that was left of the murder was a story that lived on in Aga Akbar’s memory.
    When they were home by themselves, Akbar told the story to Ishmael, who was assigned the role of the nobleman on horseback. Akbar was the Russian soldier, wearing an army coat and a cap with a bold red insignia.
    Ishmael, his wooden rifle slung over his shoulder, mounted a pillow. Aga Akbar put on his coat and cap and hid behind the cupboard, which served as a makeshift boulder.
    Ishmael rode his horse—not too fast, not too slow, but sedately, as a nobleman should—past the cupboard. A head peeked out. The horseman went on riding for another few yards, then the soldier suddenly leapt out with a knife in his hand, took two or three giant steps and planted his knife in the horseman, who fell off his horse and died.
    No doubt this story was largely a fantasy, but the death of Aga Akbar’s mother was very real.
    “How old were you when Hajar died?” Ishmael signed.
    Aga Akbar had no concept of time.
    “She died when a group of unknown black birds perched in our almond tree,” he signed back.
    “Unknown?”
    “I’d never seen them before.”
    “How old were you when the black birds perched in the tree?” Ishmael signed.
    “My hands were cold, the tree had no leaves and Hajar no longer spoke to me.”
    “No, I mean how old? How old were you when your mother died?”
    “Me, Akbar. My head came up to Hajar’s chest.”
      
    He had been about nine, Kazem Khan explained later. Hajar had been feeling ill, so she had gone to bed. Akbar had slipped in under the blankets and held his mother in his arms.
    “Your mother died in your arms?” Ishmael signed.
    “Yes, but how did you know?”
    “Uncle Kazem Khan told me.”
    “I crawled under the blankets. When she was sick, she used to talk to me and hold my hand. But this time she stopped talking, and her hand no longer moved. I was scared, really scared, so I stayed under the blankets, not daring to come out. Then a hand reached under the blankets, grabbed me and tried to pull me out. I held on to Hajar’s body, but Kazem Khan finally dragged me away. I cried.”
    The next day the oldest woman in the family wrapped Hajar in a white shroud. Then several men came with a coffin and carried her to the cemetery.
      
    After the funeral Kazem Khan took little Akbar with him.
    “I wanted him to understand what death was,” he later told his nephew Ishmael. “So I rode over the mountains with him, in search of something that would show him that dying was part of life.
    “I looked around in the snow, hoping to find a dead bird or a dead fox or maybe even a dead wolf. But on that cold winter day the birds flew more energetically than ever and the wolves bounded across the rocks. I stopped, sat him down on a boulder and pointed at the plants buried be neath the snow. ‘Look! Those plants are dead, too.’ But that wasn’t a good example. I saw an old mountain goat who could barely leap from one rock to another. ‘You see that goat?He’s going to die soon.’ No, that wasn’t a good example either.
    “I was hoping that a bird would stop flying in mid-air and suddenly drop dead at our feet. But no birds dropped dead that day.
    “I put Akbar back on the horse and we rode on.
    “After a while, I saw the nobleman’s palace in the distance. It had been empty since his death. I rode over to it.”
    “Why?”
    “I had no idea. I just thought, Let’s have a look. I led the horse around to the back. Aga Akbar didn’t know what I was trying to do. ‘Stand on the horse’s back,’ I gestured to him, ‘and climb up onto the stone wall!’”
    “‘Why?’ he signed.
    “He