23
Hosseini suddenly woke from his dream.
Beside him in their bed, his wife was weeping. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost two in the morning.
Every year, for eighteen years, he had endured the same ritual. Every year he dreamed about that special day with his boys and savored the memories. Every year he awoke in the middle of the night to comfort the wife of his youth and hold her in his arms. And every year he resented her for it.
“They were good boys,” she sobbed. “They didn’t deserve to die.”
“Yes, they were good boys,” he replied softly. “That’s why they deserved the honor of death.”
“You had no right to send them.”
“I had every right. Indeed, I had a responsibility. I had no choice.”
“You did.”
“I did not, and neither did you.”
“How can you say that every year?”
“How can you?” he demanded, his patience wearing thin. “Do you want to burn in the fires of hell?”
She shook her head as the tears continued to pour down her cheeks.
“Then stop being so foolish,” he said, holding her more tightly. “They were not ours to keep. They were Allah’s. He gave them to us. We gave them back.”
At that she pulled away and jumped out of bed, screaming hysterically. “Gave them back? Gave them back? You sent them into the minefields, Hamid! They were children! Bahadur. Firuz. Qubad. They were my children, not just yours. You sent them to walk across minefields! You sent them to blow themselves into a thousand pieces. For what? To clear the path for our tanks and our soldiers to kill Iraqis. That is not the job of a child. Shame on you! Shame!”
Hosseini leaped out of bed. His heart was racing. His face was red. He stormed over to his wife and slapped her to the ground.
“You wicked woman!” he roared. “I am proud of my sons. They are martyrs. They are shaheeds. I honor their memory. But you disgrace them. You disgrace them by this weeping. To mourn them is to disbelieve. You are an infidel!”
Hosseini began beating her mercilessly, but she would not relent.
“Infidel?” she screamed as his blows rained down upon her. “I am an infidel? You sent little Qubad to Iraq to step on a land mine! Curse you, Hamid. He was ten. All I have left of him is a piece of that plastic key and a tuft of his hair. And what do I have of Bahadur? or Firuz? If this is Islam, I don’t want any part of it. You and the Ayatollah bought a half-million keys. You are sick, all of you. This is your religion, not mine. I hate you. I hate all of you who practice this evil!”
Hosseini’s eyes went wide. Stunned momentarily by his wife’s words, he suddenly stopped beating her. He just stared at her, trying to comprehend the turn of events. She had never supported him in this decision. Not from day one. Every year, she wept. Every year, he comforted her. But it had been eighteen years. It was enough. Now she had gone too far.
As she sobbed on the floor, her face bloodied and bruised, Hosseini walked over to his dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled out the nickel-plated revolver his father had given him on his thirteenth birthday. He knew it was loaded. It was always loaded. He cocked the hammer and turned toward his wife. Hearing the hammer, his wife turned her head and looked into his eyes. She was quivering. He didn’t care. She was no longer a Muslim. She was no longer his wife. He raised the pistol, aimed it at her face, and pulled the trigger.
The sound echoed through their modest home, and soon several bodyguards rushed in, guns drawn, ready to protect their master with their lives. They were stunned to see the Supreme Leader’s wife on the floor in a pool of her own blood. Hosseini had no need to explain himself. Certainly not to his own guards. He simply instructed them to clean up the mess and bury the body. Then he set the pistol back in his dresser drawer, washed his hands and face, walked down the hall to one of their guest rooms, and lay down on the bed, where he fell fast asleep.
Never had he slept so peacefully, and as he slept, he dreamed of the day when the Twelfth Imam would finally come and reunite him with his sons.