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Why don’t you go to Jirya for a few days? Take the grandmothers with you and relax for a week. It’ll do them good to be back in Jirya too – they haven’t been there for a while. You’re torturing yourself with those self-imposed rules of yours. Nobody bathes as often as you do. And you’re also isolated. At the rate you’re going, you won’t live very long. Go to Jirya. Who knows, soon you might have a strong son-in-law to lean on,’ Aqa Jaan said. Smiling at the thought, he left the library.
    The next day Aqa Jaan phoned Ahmad in Qom.
    ‘Do you know a man named Mohammad Khalkhal?’
    ‘Where did you meet him ?’
    ‘He wants to marry your sister.’
    ‘You’re joking!’ he exclaimed.
    ‘No, I’m not. What kind of a man is he?’
    ‘I’ve never met him, but he’s made quite a name for himself here. He’s very eloquent and has an opinion on everything under the sun. He’s not like any of the other imams. As to whatever else he might be up to, I don’t know.’
    ‘Do you think he’d be a suitable husband for your sister?’
    ‘It’s difficult to say. As far as I can tell, he’s tough as nails. The only imam my sister has ever known has been her father. She thinks all clerics are like him.’
    ‘Your sister’s happiness is my primary concern,’ said Aqa Jaan.
    ‘He’s a decent man, very intelligent, but I have no way of knowing whether he’d make her a good husband . . .’
    ‘Thanks, Ahmad, I think I’ve heard enough.’
    Aqa Jaan’s next step was to phone the residence of Ayatollah Almakki and make an appointment. Early on Thursday morning his chauffeur picked him up and drove him to the station.
    Wearing an overcoat and a hat, Aqa Jaan got out of the car and went into the monumental railway station. As soon as the manager saw him, he put out his cigar and hurried over to him. ‘Good morning,’ he said politely. ‘May your journey be blessed!’
    ‘ Inshallah ,’ Aqa Jaan replied.
    The long brown train that Aqa Jaan was about to board had arrived half an hour earlier from the south. From its starting point in the Persian Gulf, the train would continue on towards the east, stopping at dozens of stations on the way, until it finally reached the border with Afghanistan. Aqa Jaan had a three-hour train ride ahead of him.
    The station was filled with hundreds of passengers and people waiting to pick up the travellers. There were men in hats, women in long coats and a surprising number of women not wearing chadors.
    Outwardly, the country had been transformed. Aqa Jaan was struck by the change every time he travelled. The people from the south were freer and more relaxed than the people from Senejan. In the train you saw all kinds of women: women with bare heads (and even a few with bare arms), women who wore hats, women who carried handbags, women who laughed and women who smoked. Aqa Jaan knew that the shah had been responsible for these changes, but the shah was a mere puppet of the Americans. The religion of this country was being undermined by America, and there wasn’t a thing anyone could do about it.
    The manager invited Aqa Jaan into his office, offered him some freshly brewed tea and, when it was time for his train to leave, escorted him personally to the VIP compartment.
    Three hours later the gleaming dome of Fatima’s tomb came into view.
    The train lumbered into Qom. Arriving at the station was like entering another world. The women were swathed in black chadors, the men had beards and there were imams everywhere you looked.
    Aqa Jaan got out. The loudspeakers on the roofs of every mosque were blaring out the Koran recitations of the muezzins. There wasn’t a single portrait of the shah in sight. Instead there were banners inscribed with Koranic texts. The shah would never dream of setting foot in Qom, and no American diplomat would even dare to pass through it.
    Qom was the Vatican of the Shiites – the holiest city in the country, the place where Fatima, the daughter