Missing Soluch

by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi

  The neighbors gathered one by one in the alley and joined the arena. Ali Genav took the role of the mediator. Sanam’s son, Murad, went back to calm Mergan. In the midst of this, Kadkhoda Norouz arrived. With him were Mirza Hassan, Zabihollah, and Karbalai Doshanbeh, who entered from the alleyway. But Zabihollah hadn’t realized that a woman had fought with his cousin. So, before Zabihollah could make a move, Kadkhoda Norouz passed by the side of Salar Abdullah and entered the room. Mergan was standing with the shovel in her hands, her eyes wide open. The boys, Abbas and Abrau, were on either side, leaning against the walls. Hajer was shaking. The Kadkhoda took the shovel from Mergan’s hands and laid a backhanded slap against her face.

  “Troublemaker! Stirring up things?”

  He left the room, tossed the shovel to one side, and handed Salar Abdullah his headscarf. Then he shouted at the crowd, “So what are you all standing here for? Is there something to see here?”

  Salar Abdullah tied the scarf around his head. Agha Malak’s son-in-law grabbed him under the arms, and along with the others—Zabihollah, Karbalai Doshanbeh, and Kadkhoda Norouz—he left.

  Mergan fell to her knees in the doorway of the house. She covered her face with her hands and, with a wail, let go of a cry that had been locked away inside of her heart until that moment.

  2.

  The moist earth was frozen beneath the boys’ feet. The icy soil sent painful jabs through their bare soles, as if they were walking on crushed glass. For all their effort, they had little to show for it. The sun was already climbing into the sky but Abrau and Abbas had gathered less than a bushel of corkwood each. The roots of the plants had frozen in the soil, and the tendrils of the roots were thoroughly entwined in the earth, making it as if the plants were rooted in stone. Pulling out each root required more effort than it otherwise should have, straining and hurting their backs and shoulders. At times, it felt as if a snake had twisted itself around Abrau’s waist. His face was contorted—his eyes squinted, lines emerged in the corners of his eyes, and his eyelashes would press together—expressing his pain in a thousand different signs. But Abrau couldn’t dare to let even a quiet cry escape through his lips. This was because Abbas was heartless, always competing at work. Because of this, he would goad Abrau constantly and incessantly. He did so both for the excuse of driving him on as well as to ensure that Abrau didn’t manage to sneak off with a few of the roots that Abbas had himself collected and set aside.

  While working, Abbas did his best to make Abrau jealous. If Abrau’s bundle of wood was smaller than Abbas’—which it always was—he would sting his brother with sharp and mocking jibes. He would do his best to poison his mood. Not infrequently, this would lead to pushing and shoving between them. Their argument would become a fight, and they’d go at each other. Abrau was the one who was always eventually hurt and would end the contest by crying. On this day, his pain came from the stubbornness of the earth, but also from Salar’s short-handled sickle, which was unfamiliar to his hands. This added to Abrau’s frustration, because if the blade of the sickle passed over a stalk of corkwood once without hooking it, then pulling it out afterward was a hundred times more difficult. This was because a first swing would scrape off the rough-hewn outer skin of the stalk, only exposing the smooth and moist inner core, which was much more difficult to hook with the blade of the instrument. And no self-respecting man would allow himself to just leave the uncut stalks standing there, surrounded by the others that had been cut. This is why the work required a sharp-edged sickle and strong upper arms—neither of which Abrau possessed—so that the stalks could be pulled right out of the heart of the compressed earth. Neither did he have a decent tool to work with, nor hands with strength to speak of. His bones hadn’t set yet. His muscles were loose, like water. Even though in his short life his fingers had grown thick and calloused, Abrau had still not achieved the high and proud station of being considered a young man. He was even short for his age. But in the work itself, he obtained a certain substance and depth. When he focused on the task he was given, he became as one with it. While stooped over a stalk of corkwood, he was like a bee sitting on a flower sucking out the flower’s nectar. He would suckle and suckle. He’d suck out the essence of the work as if it were the essence of a flower. The sickle became like a fingernail, and the stalk of corkwood felt like a thorn caught in his foot. Rather than pulling a stalk out from the earth, he felt as if he were pulling a thorn out of his heel. He moved quickly, strongly. He would not straighten his back, for fear of falling behind his brother. For fear that at the end of the day, his bundle would be smaller and less significant.

  The fierce and nimble wind had left the boy’s hands raw; his fingers were as dry as a goat’s hoof. His nose was running and tears were streaming out of the corners of his eyes. His big ears felt frozen. The icy metal handle of the sickle burned in the palms of his hands. Still, he went from stalk to stalk, stooped over like a baby gazelle, following from one root to another.

  Needing to warm his hands with his breath, Abrau paused from his work for a moment. He straightened his back, raised his hands to his mouth, exhaled a “ha” into his hands and rubbed them together angrily, as if the fault were his hands’ for freezing. He once again took the sickle in his palm, but before he stooped his body over the stalks, his eyes passed over the fields before him. Others like him, both younger and older, were scattered across them and were gathering corkwood here and there. A short way up and over, only about a shout’s distance away, four or five children had started a fire. Abrau watched them gather around the fire as they lifted their hands or feet to the flames to warm them. A single word passed through his lips.

  “Fire!”

  Abbas turned his head without straightening his body, fixing his large eyes on him. Under his brother’s glare, Abrau came to himself again. Abbas said, “Sooner or later the sun will come out from behind the clouds; keep working!”

  He went right back to the task of pulling up the stalks. Abrau saw there was no point in him saying anything, so he bent over and went back to work, struggling with stalks and with himself. Abrau knew that his brother was aware of how he was doing. But there was an unspoken agreement between the brothers not to speak during work, as if they had both come to know from experience that what needed to be done would eventually be done. It could happen with crying and complaining, or it could happen quietly and stoically. And yet, the unspoken agreement between the two brothers would inevitably fall apart, because the pressure from their pain and hunger would seek a way to be let out. And neither of them could control this. When a calf is branded, it brays, stomps, scratches, and rubs its head on the ground. All that the boys could do was hold out for as long as they could. And when they lost the battle against their pain and hunger, a single gesture or sound would signal their defeat. And this signal indicated their loss of self-control.

  Abbas planted the handle of his sickle inside his belt and turned to gather and arrange the loose stalks he had just pulled from the ground. He went to work picking up the stalks, one by one, two by two.

  “Why are you taking my stalks?”

  “Which stalks of yours?”

  “Those with the thick roots—I sweat like a pig to get those out of the ground.”

  “Look at your scrawny self. How can you claim you pulled out stalks with roots this thick from soil this heavy?”

  “You’re blind if you think I can’t! Toss them over here. Those are my tracks anyway. Can’t you see my footprints over there? Hand them over to me!”

  The thick and knotted root of the corkwood remained in Abbas’ hand. Abrau nimbly grabbed his brother’s wrist and Abbas tried in every way possible to free himself, in vain. He had no choice but to resort to insults and abuse. Exasperated, he said, “You’re such a liar, Abrau. I should smash you with this very stalk!”

  Abrau knew Abbas’ nature and disposition. He couldn’t let the situation end in a fight, because he knew better than the back of his own hand how badly he would be be
aten by Abbas. So instead he said, “Do you swear that you pulled up this stalk?”

  “You, why don’t you swear?”

  “Okay, I swear!”

  “No sir! No need. I swear first—what do you want me to swear on?”

  As he quickly tucked the thick and knotted stalk under one arm, Abbas said, “I swear on the Qibleh of Mecca that I pulled up this stalk.”

  “Which Qibleh? You’re pointing at Hajj Habib’s pool and saying, ‘To the Qibleh of Mecca.’ Mecca’s in that direction, toward that hill!”

  Abbas turned toward the hill and said, “To the Qibleh. Is that enough?”

  Abrau said, “ ‘To the Qibleh’ what?”

  “I swear on the Qibleh of Mecca that I pulled up this stalk!”

  “May the liar get his due!”

  “May you get yours, then!”

  Abrau said, “Fine. From now on we’ll draw a line. You stay on one side, and I stay on the other.”

  Abbas had busied himself with piling up his new stalks and said, “You know, you should just go to the next field over. All of this is God’s Land in any case.”

  “Why should I go? You go yourself!”

  “I should go? You think I take orders from a pip-squeak like you?”

  “And I should take orders from you?”

  “Yeah, from who else?”

  “I take orders from myself. I want to gather corkwood stalks right here in this field. What’s it to anyone? Do you own this land?”

  “Don’t get caught up with just answering everything with another question! I’ll beat you till you’re sorry!”

  Abrau said no more. He put his sickle to work on the stalks in front of his feet and grumbled beneath his breath. Abbas turned and said, “Now you’re swearing and calling me names? I’ll hit you so hard your teeth will fill your mouth!”

  Abrau mockingly said, “So, you did great work this morning, to eat all the bread yourself!”

  “I ate the bread? Of course I did. I didn’t eat anything that was yours!”

  “Oh, so whose did you eat? We’re not good enough to eat as well? You think you’re the only one with teeth to chew bread? This isn’t the first time either. It’s always the same thing. Eating everything yourself. The last time you took the dates out of the chest and ate them yourself. And those dates were for alms!”

  “Of course I’ll eat them. You’d rather I brought them and gave them to you to eat?”

  “At least just eat your own portion.”

  “Oh, you’d not said that before!”

  “So now I’m saying it.”

  Abbas placed the handful of stalks next to the bundle and, crouching on his hands, suddenly flared up. “Lower your voice to me, Abrau. You’ll regret it otherwise!”

  “Fine!”

  Abbas bellowed with anger, “And stop grumbling under your breath. I’ll bury you right here!”

  “Yeah, fine. I’ll just go dumb then. Is that what you want?”

  “I wish you would!”

  The heavy shadow of Salar Abdullah filled the space between the two boys. Abbas and Abrau had not noticed him approaching at all. Both were dumbstruck before the man. Abrau raised his foot and took a step closer to Abbas. Abbas also moved a step toward Abrau. Now, only a walking-stick’s distance apart, the brothers stood in an even line. Salar Abdullah faced them. He bore no sign of anger, but a rough sort of dryness filled the expanse of his face. This field was worked by Salar Abdullah, but the custom was anyone could gather corkwood stalks from any of the village’s land. This is good for the soil, since ploughs cannot dig up the stalks from the root unless the plough was run by a tractor. And it does no good to the new crop for a farmer to leave the stalk roots in the soil. So not only is the work of gathering the stalks not a detriment to the land, it actually benefits the landowner. So what could Salar Abdullah complain about?

  “Gather your things, you sons of bitches! Pick up your bundles and rags and get off this land!”

  Abrau looked at Abbas. Abbas was silent; his lips trembled softly.

  Salar continued, “And hand over the sickle you borrowed from my house this morning. I need it for something.”

  Abrau again looked at Abbas, who reached over and took Salar Abdullah’s sickle from Abrau’s hand and tucked it into his belt. Then he turned away from the man and went toward the pile of stalks he’d picked.

  Salar Abdullah glared at Abrau. “Didn’t I tell you to bring the sickle and give it to me? Are you deaf?”

  “He has it!”

  Salar looked at Abbas and said, “Hey … you, idiot! Bring the sickle and give it to me.”

  Abbas, who had just finished piling the stalks onto his bundle, said, “I didn’t borrow a sickle from you.”

  “Didn’t you just take it from Abrau?”

  “I borrowed it from Abrau, not from you. Call an apple an apple. Get it back from him!”

  “It’s tucked in your belt and you want me to get it from him?”

  “That’s not my problem!”

  “So you want me to straighten you out with a few swift kicks, eh?”

  “Let’s see if you can!”

  “You think I’m worried about you? Your mama’s not here to throw her skirt over her head and raise a ruckus! You bastard son of a bitch, I’m telling you to hand over that sickle right now! Are you deaf?”

  Abbas had already tied up his bundle of stalks. Ignoring Salar Abdullah, he raised his half-full bundle to his back and said to Abrau, “Don’t you want to take all those stalks you spent so much time and effort digging up? Well, get on with it!”

  Abrau quickly devoted himself to gathering up his loose stalks. Salar Abdullah strode toward Abbas, saying, “I’m talking to you, idiot! Hand over the sickle! It’s mine!”

  Abbas started walking away with his back to Salar Abdullah, saying, “Get it from him. What’s it to me? I didn’t borrow it from you!”

  He spoke quietly, and walked quickly.

  The man set out after him, saying, “Don’t make me angrier than I already am today, you bastard’s child! Hand over the sickle and go back to whatever hell you’re from!”

  Abbas picked up his pace and threw a quick look over his shoulder. Salar Abdullah’s strides grew longer. Abbas sped up, just waiting for the right moment to begin running. Salar Abdullah bent over and picked up a stone. Abbas began running. Salar Abdullah began to run after him and threw the stone in his direction. The stone hit Abbas in the buttocks, but despite the pain he showed no reaction. He ran. Faster and faster. Abbas was light on his feet, while Salar Abdullah lumbered. Abbas outran him for a distance. Salar Abdullah stopped and let out a stream of insults. Abbas also stopped. They were now far from each other. Each insult that Salar Abdullah shouted landed squarely on Abbas’ heart, so Abbas let his own tongue loose, eventually adding invectives involving the man’s wife and children as well. Hearing his wife being named, and by a nobody who wasn’t mature enough to have had a woman, made the insults a hundred times more denigrating for Salar Abdullah. Even in a passing joke it would be impossible for a young, inexperienced man to assume the right to speak of women to a man with a wife. And of course, that was quite apart from the other kinds of insults about his ancestors and so on.

  Salar Abdullah began running again. Only a beating could even the score now. But Abbas was still faster on his feet, and quicker. He ran farther away, with fear giving him an extra incentive to run even faster than before. Running from one field to another, leaping from one ditch to another. Hopeless, Salar Abdullah stopped once again. He stood for a moment and suddenly turned around. Abrau was just placing the last stalk onto his bundle. Salar Abdullah began undoing the buckle of his belt as he strode quickly toward him. He had to undo all of the humiliation he’d seen that day. Abrau did his best to tie up the bundle before Salar Abdullah reached him, but he was too late. Just as he had lifted the bundle to his back and was beginning to escape, Salar Abdullah reached him and threw him to the ground.

  “And you’re from the s
ame stuff as that other son-of-a-whore!”

  Abrau’s cries and pleading had no effect. Salar Abdullah, lost in the long folds of his cloak, circled around him like a hawk, landing blows from the left and right. His belt was thick and heavy, and Abrau’s small and emaciated body was only covered by his pants, a shirt, and a loose jacket. Salar had lost his mind, and he clearly had forgotten that Abrau was not even fifteen years old. He bruised the boy with an endless rain of blows from his belt, kicks, and punches. When he finally stopped, as he was buckling his belt back up, he said, “Now get up. Get up and take the good news to your mama, so she knows whom she’s dealing with! And tell that rat brother of yours to keep his eyes open until we settle accounts. I’ll see him again unless he leaves this village for good. So get out of here!”

  Abrau, whose old shirt and pants had been torn in different places under Salar’s blows, picked up his bundle. Sobbing with a sound like a calf’s braying, he left, limping unevenly.

  Exhausted, his face and hands smeared with dirt, Abrau reached the refuge of the old fort. Abbas had gone behind the ruins to rest. The sound of uneven steps, and Abrau’s last vestiges of sobbing and sniffling, drew Abbas out from behind the ruins. Ignoring his brother, Abrau continued on his way back to the house. He only wanted to find some corner to crawl into and to burrow his head inside an old quilt. He’d taken a beating unjustly, and he was angry with Abbas. He didn’t want to see his ugly face. It always ended this way. When it came to pay the price for something, Abbas was first to run away. He’d set the fire, and then disappear. Despite all of this, Abbas could be even more impudent than his brother had realized. He stode alongside Abrau and began asking him, “Is he gone? Where’s Salar Abdullah? Which way did he go? Hey are you deaf? I’m with you, stupid!”

  Abrau was stopped by Abbas’ rough, furious hands. He stood still. Spittle gathered at the edges of Abbas’ mouth as he stared at his brother, saying, “Where the hell did he go? Didn’t you notice?”