By Sadegh Hedayat
Haji Murad jumped nimbly from the shop’s platform, shook the dust off his pleated frock coat, and tightened his silver belt. He stroked his henna-dyed beard and called for his apprentice, Hasan. Together, they shuttered the shop. Haji pulled four qerans from his deep pocket and handed them to Hasan, who thanked him and vanished into the bustling evening crowd, whistling as he strode away. Draping a yellow cloak over his shoulders, Haji cast a glance around and began to saunter down the street. With every step, his new shoes made a distinct creaking sound.
Along the way, fellow shopkeepers greeted him with deference: “Peace be upon you, Haji,” or “How are you, Haji?” He never tired of the title “Haji,” though he knew well he had never set foot in Mecca. The title was an inheritance from an uncle in Hamadan; when the uncle died, Haji inherited both the shop and the prefix that came with it.
Haji had been married for two years, but his domestic life was a battlefield. He could endure anything except the stinging taunts of his wife. To intimidate her, he had made a habit of beating her—a cycle followed by regret, kisses, and temporary reconciliation. What soured his temper most was their lack of a child. Though friends advised him to take a second wife, he knew that would only double his misery. Besides, his wife was young and beautiful, and they were accustomed to one another. Despite this, the habit of violence remained, and their quarrel the night before had been particularly bitter.
As he walked, spitting watermelon seeds onto the pavement, his wife’s insults echoed in his mind: “You, a Haji? You fake Haji! Why are your mother and sister begging in Karbala then? I should have married the money-changer, not a useless man like you!” He bit his lip in fury; if she were there, he felt he could tear her apart.
Near the lane leading to his house, he suddenly spotted a woman passing him. She ignored him completely. By the white border of her veil (Chador), he was certain: it was his wife. Why was she out without permission? Rage flared.
“Shahrbanu!” he shouted.
The woman quickened her pace as if frightened. Haji’s blood boiled. Not only was she out, but she was ignoring his call! He caught up to her, screaming, “Where have you been at this hour? Wait until I show you!”
The woman stopped and yelled back, “Are you mad? What business is it of yours, you ruffian? Help! This drunkard is harassing a woman! Do you think there is no law in this city? Officer! Police!”
A crowd gathered instantly. Haji’s face turned crimson, the veins in his neck bulging. To save his reputation before the peering eyes of the market-folk, he stepped forward and delivered a stinging slap across her veiled face. “Don’t bother changing your voice,” he hissed. “I recognized you from the start. Tomorrow, I am divorcing you! You shameless woman, trying to ruin my honor!”
The woman turned to the crowd: “Will you just stand there? This nobody is laid hands on a respectable woman! If my husband, the money-changer, were here, he’d show you all!”
As the police arrived and they were led toward the station, Haji began to sweat. He noticed her shoes and stockings—they were different from his wife’s. The realization hit him like a physical blow: she was the wife of the money-changer, a woman he knew of. He had made a catastrophic mistake.
At the station, the officer asked, “Who are you?” “I am Haji Murad, a merchant,” he replied, his voice trembling. “I… I thought she was my wife. They have the same white-bordered veil.”
The officer was unimpressed. Despite Haji’s pleas about his reputation, he was fined heavily. Worse, he was sentenced to fifty lashes. Before the very public that had once honored him with the title “Haji,” he was whipped. He did not flinch, but when it was over, he wiped the sweat from his brow, slung his yellow cloak over his shoulder, and walked home in silence. He stepped carefully, trying to muffle the creaking of his shoes, so the sound would not draw a single gaze.
Two days later, Haji Murad divorced his wife.