As their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Moslemeh slid her pot across the smooth and worn floor of the stable and directed Mergan. “Grab its neck and bring it here!”
Mergan brought the cow over and turned the animal so that the pot was positioned beneath its swollen teats. Moslemeh brought a decrepit stool forward from the edge of the stall. Her shoulder leaning against the cow’s belly, she sat on the stool and began playing with the engorged tips of the cow’s teats. She smacked her lips and began milking.
“Don’t be stingy, now. Don’t be stingy. Ah, that’s it. Ah … Ah … Ah … Give us a little, stingy! Give us, my dear. Give us some. Ah … Praise God … Give a bit … Give some … Give a bit more.”
The cow was dry. Teats that size should be pouring milk like a spring shower, and each nipple should be streaming milk like a fountain into the pot. But the cow’s milk wouldn’t come out. Its large head was still tilted and its glassy eyes were looking toward the other end of the stable, at the eyes of its henna-colored calf held behind two pieces of railing. The delicate and beautiful ginger-hued calf was stretching itself over the railing toward its mother and braying softly, a call its mother responded to with her own half moan. Moslemeh was slowly losing her patience.
“Nothing. You could kill yourself just to get a cup of milk out of her. Let the calf out, so it can come over here and eat me up!”
Mergan opened the latch on the gate, and the calf brought its head over to the underbelly of the cow, nuzzling at the full teats of the mother. Moslemeh wasted no time putting her fingers to work at milking.
The cow’s milk was now flowing, and the pot was slowly filling. Moslemeh, who had propped her head against the belly of the cow and was hard at work with her nimble fingers, shouted, “Get it, the bastard! It’s like it’s lapping milk from the spout of a watering can! Grab it! What’s wrong with you!”
Mergan placed the head of the calf beneath one arm and struggled to detach the calf from its mother’s teats, but the calf wouldn’t let go. Helpless and ashamed, Mergan said, “It’s stronger than me—somehow it’s grabbed a nipple and …”
“You can’t handle it? Haven’t you been raised on bread? Grab that muzzle from that nail and put it on the calf. It’s there. In the corner. Next to the lantern.”
Mergan took the muzzle from the nail and brought it over. Moslemeh stopped milking the cow and together they wrested the head of the calf from under the cow, and Moslemeh tied the muzzle on the calf’s snout.
“Now let it go!”
Mergan let go of the animal’s neck, and the calf headed back to its mother’s underbelly. Moslemeh returned to the old stool and went back to milking. Now Mergan had nothing to do. She sat on the edge of the stall watching the calf as it rubbed its nose against its mother’s teats in vain, while the cow licked the calf’s tail. The work was going smoothly now. Now that Moslemeh was no longer distracted by the calf, she asked, “So, what’s brought you here at the break of dawn?”
Mergan, jolted as if she’d been awoken from sleep, said, “He’s gone. My children’s father is gone.”
Moslemeh said, “Gone? So what if he has! He won’t find anywhere better; he’ll come back himself. Where’s he going to go to?”
Mergan didn’t say anything else. Speaking was pointless. Moslemeh didn’t continue the conversation either. She was busy with milking and used various techniques for drawing the milk out from the cow’s teats. When the pan was one finger’s measure before overfilling, she rose, tired and satisfied, and pushed aside the old stool. She carefully raised the pan, and as she left by the stable’s door she said, “Take the muzzle off the calf.”
Mergan took the muzzle off and returned it to its place on the nail and left through the doorway. Moslemeh had set the milk on the ground and was waiting for her outside. Mergan picked up the pan and carefully and gracefully placed it on her head. She adjusted the pot on her head and evenly walked to a door leading to a room beneath the stairs. The room was a pantry, where Moslemeh made yogurt from milk. Mergan had worked for Moslemeh many times before and was familiar with this room and all of the nooks and crannies of the house. As she reached the doorway, she lowered the pot from her head, set it in a space in the wall, and straightened her back. Moslemeh placed a cover over the pot and left. She said, “By the time you take a water jug and fill it from the water cistern, the Kadkhoda will be up. It’s over in the corner of the veranda over there. I’m always worried that the jugs will crack, so I cover them with rags.”
Mergan took a jug and left the house.
The alleys were still deserted, as if people hadn’t even begun to think about leaving their houses. A cold wind licked at her, winding its way around her body through the holes in her dress. Her dry fingers were sticking to the handle of the water jug. She held it fast against her shoulder, so the wind would not catch at it and lift it. The wind and its coldness brought tears to her eyes. But she was still not thinking about herself, as her eyes involuntarily darted back and forth in case Soluch, or some sign of him—whatever it could be—would appear. But the alley, the doorways, and the ruined houses along the way were all so lonely that Mergan’s hopes were not to be raised. Despite this, she went along peeking into this ruin or glancing over that wall. When she reached the cistern, she walked around the domed structure, looking at all the corners and crevices. But it was clear that Soluch was not to be found there either. She then descended the stairs to the water, filled the jug, and began to return back to Kadkhoda Norouz’s house, walking with her back to the wind. As it was blowing in the direction she was walking, she walked a little more easily, putting less effort into it. Yet she still struggled to keep the jug even on her shoulders. The wind blew in gusts, as if aiming to dislodge the jug from its place. The most difficult span was the open square that separated the cistern from the alley where the Kadkhoda’s house was. As soon as she made it across and reached the alley, she sought cover against the wall, dropping the jug from her shoulders. She propped the belly of the jug against her thighs and for the first time registered the pain that was coursing through her fingers. She held her hands under her arms and squeezed her elbows, then brought her hands out and rubbed them against each other. But her dry and frozen fingers would not be warmed so easily. But it was enough that she could still open and close her fist. So she grasped the handle of the jug, threw it back on her shoulder, and set out again across the cold ground.
On the way, she saw Hajj Salem and his son, Moslem, as they walked toward her. Hajj Salem had still preserved his mind and sanity enough to expect a greeting from anyone of a lesser standing than him. Mergan, her head bowed, offered a salutation, and Hajj Salem responded with a grunt from the depths of his throat. Meanwhile, Moslem fixed his wide white eyes on Mergan and said to his father, “Water. Water! Papa, I want water!”
Mergan did not falter. She had no patience to tarry with the father and son. She turned a corner and moved away, while Hajj Salem’s old voice echoed around the wall, saying, “Manners! Learn your manners, boy! You haven’t even eaten your morning bread, so how are you thirsty? Whatever you happen to see, you want, foolish boy! Even if it was on the shoulder of a stranger, you’d still want it? Manners!”
Moslem responded, “So, I’m hungry. Bread, bread! I want some. I’m hungry!”
Hajj Salem said, “Manners! You beast, learn some manners!”
They moved out of Mergan’s range of hearing. She arrived at the house and placed the jug on the porch. The Kadkhoda had just washed his hands and was walking up the steps. Mergan adjusted the jug’s position, then turned and said hello. The Kadkhoda raised the edge of his cloak, mumbled a greeting to her, and stepped into the room. Then he said, “Come on in. Let me hear what your business is, Mergan.”
Mergan followed the Kadkhoda inside, standing by the door. Kadkhoda Norouz dried his wooly hands on the edge of the curtain, then went over to the hearth and sat down, covering his legs with a blanket. He called out to one of his sons, who was still sleepi
ng beside the hearth, “Wake up and get yourself out of the way! Come sit and warm your hands, Mergan. Come, you’re shaking.”
Mergan approached and sat by the feet of his son. She placed her own feet beside the hearth and warmed her face with the blanket. Her back was bent over, and her spinal column was clearly visible through her shirt. Just bones—you could count each vertebra. She couldn’t stop the shaking in her shoulders and her back. The soothing and pleasant warmth of the hearth spread through her body and began to calm her. Now her shaking came only in spells. The Kadkhoda’s middle son came in bearing the tea samovar.
Mergan knew her role. She rose and took the tray from the wall, placing it beside the hearth. She chose a cup and saucer, washed them, and brought them over. She knew that Moslemeh rarely ate breakfast or supper with her husband and children. She would prepare bread and stew and then sit in another room to eat her bread and tea alone. Didn’t they say she was mad? Moslemeh handed yogurt and bread to Mergan to set out by the tray for the Kadkhoda. Then Moslemeh saw Safiullah, her oldest son, setting a saddle on their white donkey in the yard. She said, “Where are you going to? You can’t plow frozen land now—at least let the sun rise!”
The Kadkhoda’s sons usually didn’t bother responding to their mother. Safiullah tied the saddle while Mergan took the bread and yogurt into the room and set it before the Kadkhoda. He placed one foot on his sleeping son’s hand and leaned on it. The boy, Nasrullah, half-asleep, screamed out, and father said, “Get up and get going; go wash your hands and your mug!”
Nasrullah held his hand, got up from under the blanket, and left the room, dizzy and staggering. Kadkhoda Norouz reached for the bread and took a piece. Mergan dropped her head. She didn’t want to look at the bread or the Kadkhoda’s hairy hands. She swallowed, but didn’t want to pay mind to her stomach. She was afraid of looking at the bread; she didn’t want to be drawn to it. She busied herself with the samovar, pouring tea for Kadkhoda Norouz, washing the cups, pouring hot water, and then diluting the tea.
“Pour a cup for yourself; let it warm your bones. You must be freezing.”
“I’ve had my bread and tea. Thank you.”
Kadkhoda Norouz knew Mergan was lying. Mergan also knew; she knew that he knew she was lying. Despite this, the Kadkhoda didn’t insist. Mergan was waiting for the Kadkhoda to begin by saying something. Something that might untie the knot around her heart. Even if just to loosen it a little. Despite this, just as she was waiting for him to say something, she began to lose hope in this path. She felt a hopelessness that was descending upon her like night and enveloping her. This spurred questions in Mergan’s mind. Why had she come at all? What did she expect them to do? Why seek useless consultations? A man who spent untold nights beside the bread oven alone and quiet, why would he tell anyone where he was going?! And others weren’t blessed with powers of foresight to be able to tell her something she didn’t know but wanted to know. What for? To gain useless sympathy? Even if heartfelt, what could sympathy change? Who could lift such a burden from her heart simply with empathy and talking? So why had she hurried from the house and headed straight for Kadkhoda Norouz’s home? Why had she not held out a bit longer? Why? Habit! This was simply a habit, to seek out those in a higher standing to discuss her problems with. Also, worrying; this too was a habit.
So she rose and exited the room. As she was about to descend the front stairs, she took a look into Moslemeh’s room and asked if she could do anything else for her. Again, habit! Moslemeh, who was so often wordless, signaled no with a silent motion of her head. As Mergan reached the courtyard, she heard Norouz asking Moslemeh, “So what did that woman want?”
Mergan didn’t wait to hear her the reply. She left quickly and turned up the alley.
Three men—Zabihollah, Mirza Hassan, and Salar Abdullah’s father, Karbalai Doshanbeh—were walking toward the Kadkhoda’s house. Mergan moved to the side, lowered her head, and said hello. Zabihollah replied and continued what he had been saying. “Some things just stick you in the eye like a thorn. No matter what you do, they just stick in your eye like a thorn. Now say what you want, but I say this canal system is on its last legs. I’ve said so to both Salar Abdullah and Kadkhoda Norouz. We need to think of something before we’re left helpless when the water dries up. I’ve put all my hopes in God’s Land.”
When Mergan reached her house, Abbas was awake and was looking for his belt. At just over fifteen, Abbas was already a young man. Large ears, a lank and drawn face, wide dark eyes, and an overall coloring that ranged from light to bruised. When his father was around, he insisted that the boy have his hair cut close to the scalp. But, by struggling and putting his foot down, Abbas had been able to convince Soluch to let him grow a foppish tuft of hair on the front of his head. So it was that now a thick and curly tuft of hair stuck out from under his cloth cap. He was wearing a jacket that was too small for him, wornout at the elbows and shoulders. A rope was tied around his waist; his pants legs were hemmed up. He had removed the heels from his cloth shoes and had tied the shoes up with a bit of string. If he hadn’t done so, the shoes wouldn’t stay on his feet; the shoes were tattered and falling apart.
Mergan pulled the sheet from her daughter, Hajer, and nudged Abrau with her foot, saying, “Don’t you want to get up? You were up at dawn already. And you, my daughter, wake up! You’ve drowned yourselves in sleep!”
Mergan ignored the groans and grumbling of the children. She left and was about to step into the alley when Abbas emerged from behind the stable. Wiping his nose and upper lip with his jacket sleeve, he said to his mother, “Mama, bread!”
Mergan didn’t want to hear this. She left through the space in the wall. But Abbas insisted. He stretched himself over the wall and said, “Didn’t you hear me? Bread! I want to go gather some wood.”
Mergan turned around and said, “There was some bread left in the bread basket!”
“Well I ate it.”
“You ate it? All of it? What about your brother and sister? Are they supposed to eat each other?”
Abbas bellowed, “How much was there anyway? Not even enough to feed a baby goat!”
Mergan replied, “So what do you want me to do? Turn myself into bread? There’s none left! Can’t you see?”
“Well, go borrow some from the neighbors. Go get some from Ali Genav. Can’t you walk?”
Mergan’s lips and eyelids began shaking from rage. She came closer, controlled the anger in her voice, and spoke directly at Abbas. “I can walk. But I can’t beg. Do you hear me?”
She began to walk away. Abbas shouted after her, “So I’ll sell my corkwood myself. I’ll take it to the market and sell it!”
Mergan, as she left, shouted, “Wake up your brother, Abrau. Take him with you. Drag him out from under his blanket!”
Abbas shouted after his mother, “I won’t give a single penny of what I get from selling the wood to anyone else. I’ll buy bread and eat it all myself!”
Mergan didn’t listen to him. She stood straight in the wind and made her way toward the outskirts of Zaminej.
No one had left their homes yet. Only Hajj Salem and Moslem were out and about. The two were leaning against a wall and were waiting for the sunshine to emerge. Moslem had his hands between his legs, and every now and then would raise and lower one or the other of his large bare feet. He was muttering to himself, “Ah … ah … the sun’s late! The sun’s late … It’s not coming out! Not coming. Ah? Papa? Isn’t the sun coming out?”
Hajj Salem replied, “Take it easy, you. Don’t blaspheme! God will be angry. Take it easy!”
Mergan walked past the father and his disheveled son and set out on the road. Outside Zaminej, the path that crossed the foothills of Boluk met with another road and extended to the city. Mergan walked away from the village. The sun was lost in the dry and lifeless cloud cover, clouds that could offer no hope to any villager. The only use of these clouds was to cover the sun. Their quality was only the intensity they gave to the cold,
the edge they lent to the wind, making everything around feel forlorn. Beneath the clouds’ cold belly, the sand hills and salty wasteland were laid out; the surface of the land was seemingly sealed by a layer of ice. The face of the land was frozen into a scowl, as if an enemy of everyone. A grim-faced father, a dead child. Why could it not be reborn, remade? Why not a cloudburst, at least!
The road was scratched into the body of the wasteland, set in place like a shed snakeskin in the dry cold. The expanse was empty; all that remained from last year’s bushes were solitary tumbleweeds. Little clusters here and there that served to illustrate the wind’s blowing. Wind and wasteland, wasteland and wind. The road, wind, and wasteland. Loneliness and despair. Mergan’s bare feet and toes were lamenting the cold. Something more profound than pain coursed through her feet.
Mergan reached the edge of the salt river. The river flowed in seven streams, and each stream flowed softly and quietly like an ancient serpent. The water was low, almost nonexistent. The surface of the water was covered by ice. The ice was so thick, one could stand on it without breaking it. But to what end? On the other side of the river, there was nothing moving to distract her from her thoughts of Soluch. Nothing and nothing more. As if the land were evacuated of life. Nothing grazed, or even slithered. So where could Soluch have gone? And where was Mergan to go? Why had she come here? Why? What for? And even if she did see Soluch …
See him? See him! There he was. He was coming! Was it Soluch? He had appeared out of the ruins of the old mill and was coming! He had wrapped his cloak around himself and he was coming! It was him! Was it him? Or a dream? No! It was daytime. Clear as day. It was him. A small man’s frame, with a satchel.
She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. No! It was him. The sunken eyes, the drawn face, his heavy brow, his locked lips. The darkness of his face, and his threadbare cap. He’d come! He was coming closer. His bare feet bore his cloak-wrapped body closer and closer. He came softly. Like a shadow. His eyes were fixed on the dry ground before his feet as he came closer. He reached Mergan. Quietly. Wordlessly. As if she were not standing there, as if Mergan were not right there in front of him, as if she were no one to him. Nothing and more nothing. A shadow! He passed by Mergan’s dry eyes and walked toward the river. He rolled up his trousers. Silently and without a word, in the same manner as he had come. The shadow placed one foot on the ice. He walked lightly. As if he were floating. He moved, not step by step, but as if floating. The slow-moving shadow grew more distant. His cloak was blowing in the wind. He was growing distant, moving farther and farther away. Across the river, across the ice. A bed of ice now separated Mergan and Soluch, just a bed of ice. If only he would turn his head and look … but no. A shadow has no head. It kept going. A weary flight, made in the shortest distance. The last flicker of the floating shadow played upon the ground. It was far away. Far. Farther. Lightly, shapelessly, and without a form. Farther. A small shadow. A dot. It was about to disappear. It was gone. A wisp. Nothing.
Missing Soluch Page 2