The House of the Mosque by Kader Abdolah

Muezzin?’ people asked when they ran into him. And he always told them the right time. Children especially enjoyed asking him for the time when they saw him out walking. ‘Do you know what time it is, Mr Muezzin?’ the boys and girls would ask, and then burst into giggles when he told them the exact time.
    He considered it his duty to share this divine gift with others.
    Muezzin was the official muezzin of the mosque, but he spent most of his time in the cellar making pottery. It wasn’t his job; it wasn’t his hobby – it was his life. If it weren’t for his clay, he didn’t know what he’d do with himself.
    From time to time Shahbal would deliver his father’s wares to a shopkeeper in the bazaar who sold them on consignment. Muezzin was the only traditional potter for miles around, which may be why his vases, pots and dishes sold so well.
    He had made the huge flowerpots in the mosque’s courtyard as well as a giant vase in the square outside the bazaar, which was filled with red geraniums in the spring.
    Pottery-making kept him from being bored. And yet there was something else that made his life even more meaningful: a transistor radio.
    He kept it hidden in his pocket, since radios were forbidden in this house. They were thought to be unclean. A true believer would never touch a radio, which was looked upon as a propaganda tool of the shah. A radio didn’t belong in the house of the mosque, but Muezzin had kept it tucked in his pocket for so long that it felt like a part of him.
    Nosrat had given it to him.
    Nosrat was an unusual man. Nobody knew what he did in Tehran. Some said that he worked in a cinema, to his family’s great shame, while others claimed that he earned his living as a photographer. Nosrat was well liked. He always had some news to report and was forever coming home with novelties. He surprised them all with his strange lifestyle, showing the residents of the house a side of life they had never seen.
    Once, during one of his spring visits, he saw Muezzin going down to the river before the sun was up and wondered what he was doing. He followed him, staying well back so Muezzin couldn’t hear his footsteps.
    Muezzin crossed the bridge and hurried through the wheatfields and vineyards on the other side. It was still dark, though dawn was not far off. He kept walking until he reached the almond grove, where the boughs were sagging under the weight of the blossoms.
    After a while Nosrat lost sight of him. He stole through the almond grove as quietly as he could, but didn’t see Muezzin anywhere. He stopped by one of the trees. All was still. Then a glimmer of light pierced the darkness and thousands of birds began to sing. A moment of great beauty.
    Suddenly he saw Muezzin, standing motionless amid hundreds of almond trees, his head cocked to one side as he listened to the birds.
    The air was filled with the scent of the blossoms and the birds were welcoming the morning with their song. Muezzin, still clutching his walking stick, stood transfixed, like a man of stone, in the middle of the almond grove.
    When the first golden rays of light struck the almond trees, the birds stopped twittering and flew off in a rush of wings towards the mountains.
    After the birds had gone, Muezzin returned home.
    That evening Nosrat went to his room. ‘Have you got a moment, Muezzin?’
    ‘Come in. I’ve always got a moment for you.’
    ‘I’d like to show you something. Or rather let you listen to something.’
    He took a radio out of a bag and plugged it in. A small green light went on. Nosrat turned the knob, searching for a station. Suddenly the room was filled with music. Nosrat closed the door and said, ‘Listen to this.’
    Muezzin listened. You could see him straining his ears, trying to discover where the sound was coming from. When it came to an end, he took a deep breath and asked, ‘What was that?’
    ‘A symphony! What you heard this morning by the almond trees was a symphony, too – a