Missing Soluch

by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi

  Abrau wailed, “You’d eaten the larger part already!”

  “Oh, so now you’re complaining, too! I shouldn’t have … Well, anyway, you seem better, no?”

  “A little.”

  Abbas’ shirt was soaked in the belly from Abrau’s sweat. He let go of his brother’s body and dragged himself out from under the blankets, saying, “Don’t let air get to you. You’re soaked with sweat.”

  Fever. A moment later, Abrau’s body was in an oven. He was burning in his sweat. Sticky, slick sweat. He was in a bad way, and bit by bit felt more and more as if he was suffocating. As if he was trapped beneath a mountain’s weight.

  “Take these old rags off me. I’m suffocating”

  Abbas would not agree. “You’re having the sweats. The last thing you want now is air blowing on you.”

  “Then lighten what’s on me. I can’t breathe!”

  “No. Hold out a bit.”

  Abrau began swearing before his brother. “I swear to God, to the Imam, on the life of anyone you love, I feel I’m going to die under all this. Please do something!”

  Abbas stopped his restiveness, and he slid the last piece of bread into his shirt, swallowed the morsel he was chewing, and said, “Fine, very well, now that you’re swearing all over the place, I’ll take one of these off of you.”

  He removed a sackcloth.

  Abrau continued pleading. “Another, just take another. I beg you on Papa’s life!”

  Abbas hesitated a moment.

  “That reminds me; why has he not been around for the last few nights? What do you think, Abrau? Is he really, really gone, or is Mama just acting in front of that bastard, Salar Abdullah?”

  Abrau kept pleading, “God, it’s like I’m in an oven! Take another off me.”

  Abbas replied, “But where is she? I mean Mama. Don’t say she’s also taken off in a different direction.”

  Abrau screamed, “Abbas … Abbas … Have mercy, I can’t breathe! Take the mattress off me!”

  Abbas dragged the mattress that he had laid on Abrau off and placed the last piece of bread in his mouth. “Better? That’s the mattress.”

  Abrau said no more. It was as if he was losing consciousness. He laid one side of his face on the ground, brought together his heavy eyelids, and emitted a plaintive cry, “My bundle … bring my bundle over here … leave it here by me.”

  He was sleeptalking—Abbas had heard that feverish people sometimes hallucinate. So there was nothing to worry about. He wanted to go and take a look at the bundle of wood Abrau had gathered. He went outside and set the wood straight. The bundle seemed heavy to him. He became curious. He sat next to the bundle; it made him worried. He set his back against the bundle. He drew the rope over his shoulder and pulled it. The loop on the rope tightened against his chest. He tied the end of the rope back to the bundle. It was now set tightly against his back. He gathered strength and pulled. The bundle would not rise from the ground. The load was heavy, but Abbas couldn’t accept this. He convinced himself it was due to the wetness of the wood. Again he pulled with all his might. The bundle rose, but before falling into place on his back, it fell back on the ground.

  How did that half-pint kid carry this?

  He decided that it was because Abrau’s legs were shorter than his, and so could fit beneath the bundle more gracefully, and only had a short distance to be lifted before fitting on Abrau’s back. Despite all of this, it was too much to accept that he couldn’t lift a bundle that Abrau had carried. He summoned the last of his will and strength, and with two pulls, lifted himself with the bundle on his back. The weight made his knees tremble, and his legs could not steady him. He involuntarily made a half-circle in place, but before becoming dizzy, he managed to stop. He stood straight in his place. A sensation deriving from arrogance made the weight easier to bear. If it had been otherwise, if he’d not been able to lift the bundle of wood, he would have been ashamed of himself. He wanted to set the bundle back down on the ground. But something prevented him. He shifted the bundle on his back, set out to the alley, and was lost in the night.

  Abbas sensed the sound of Mergan’s way of walking. Then he could make out the outline of her body. Abbas’ sister, Hajer, was walking beside their mother. Abbas leaned the bundle against a wall and remained stooped over under the weight of the load.

  “Where the hell have you two been?”

  Mergan, who was swallowing a sensation of rage, instantly said, “At your daddy’s grave!”

  She was about to pass by her son when she slowed her step and asked, “Are you coming or going?”

  Abbas raised the bundle back off wall. He set out with his back to his mother, saying, “I’m heading to the bread seller.”

  Mergan ground her teeth and continued on.

  Mergan and Hajer were lost in the house, and Abbas in the darkness.

  Abrau continued his moaning. “My bundle. My bundle. My wood. Bring it here. Right here. Next to me. They’re taking them.”

  Mergan was drawn to her son. She paid no mind to what he was saying. Abrau’s moaning made clear that he was unwell. Fever. Mergan lightened what was piled above him. Abrau’s eyelashes and eyebrows were awash in sweat. She dried his forehead and his eyelids with the edge of her scarf and sat beside him and ran her fingers through his hair. His hair was dripping wet.

  Hajer was left there standing. She was still considered too insignificant to be able to have a role in such matters, much more than to become saddened by her brother’s plight. Hajer stood, waiting for an order or instruction, for someone to want something, to demand something. She’d not yet found enough of her own place to be able to go, of her own volition, to take a jug to get water. She was able to carry the jug on her shoulders. But she only did so when her mother asked her to. The little girl, the baby of the house. All this made Hajer seem insignificant. Her small face continually shifted between doubt and anticipation. Between weakness and irresolution. In this face, there was not yet a sign of her as herself—it was like a pool of water. Sometimes it sparkled, as if the sun was shining on it. Other times it was dark, as if a sandstorm was brewing. Sometimes it was frozen over, as if winter had set in. Sometimes it was gray, as if clouds were accumulating. If on this night she seemed dark and sullen, it was because the house was dark and sullen. Hajer reflected her surroundings.

  “Girl, go put the kettle on.”

  Following her mother’s instructions, Hajer went to light the stove.

  Disturbed and upset by her son’s moaning, steadfast and unbending in the face of what had been happening, anger coursing through her, Mergan was in turmoil, yet struggling to control herself. She had to do something. The only release was to take a step forward. She took a lantern from the cupboard and went to the pantry, rummaging in the corners of the house that only a mother would know of. She returned with two or three dried herbs, which she crumbled up into the kettle to boil and to give to Abrau. She replaced the lantern and unconsciously walked around herself in a circle, returning to kneel beside Abrau.

  For Mergan, illness was nothing new, nothing that could be cleansed from life and forgotten. She had grown up with it, and she believed she would grow old with it as well, stepping into her grave hand-in-hand with it. She had already seen untold numbers of young and old who at one time or another had entered death’s embrace. She had also seen many who had returned from the edge of the grave and had once again rejoined the living, who walked step-by-step with the march of the days. Mergan’s memories, seen and heard—her mind was filled with these memories. But who can calmly set aside her motherly instincts when her own child is burning with a fever, even a simple fever?

  Mergan appeared calm, but was in turmoil inside. Abrau’s sleeptalking hallucinations elicited such waves of sorrow in her that pain rose from her heart like smoke, burning the lining of her nostrils. The extent of what she must do in this situation was simply to give him boiled herbs, which she was already in the process of doing. What else? She consoled herself by the f
act that he was sweating, which was a good sign. Now she only needed to keep watch over him so that the cold would not do him in. She had to keep watch so that after improving he wouldn’t relapse. But this was all she could do.

  “Has it started boiling?”

  Hajer didn’t say no. She said, “Almost.”

  Mergan, speaking to herself as well as Hajer, said, “When was the oven lit today?”

  Hajer had spent all day with her mother, so the question wasn’t one she could answer. But by giving voice to this, Mergan was seeking a degree of healing. Just to say this warmed her heart. Somehow, it was meant to convince both her and the children that she was looking to the issue of heating that night. With a few words, she was showing her children that her duty every night—to find a bit of kindling from other ovens—was still on her mind. Somehow she would bring a little hope to Abrau’s hallucinations, Hajer’s worried eyes, and her own troubled heart.

  Hajer brought the kettle and cups and then returned to the side of the oven, sitting at the edge of the wall. Mergan filled a cup with the boiled herbs and told Abrau to sit up straight. Abrau struggled to lift himself, using his arms like pillars, sitting up like a cat. Mergan had heard that heavy nausea brings on a fever. She had also heard that these herbs, when boiled, relieve nausea. So she let the boiled herbs cool a little, then poured some in Abrau’s mouth. She did just what she knew to do. No less, no more. With her heart and soul, and hopes for his better health, she poured a mix of boiled herbs, with violets and cassia herbs, into her son’s mouth, when her arm brushed against his injured ear, causing him to cry out in pain. Mergan had only just noticed that someone had bitten his ear.

  “Who? What son of a bitch? Who? Well? Now I see why my son has a fever! Tell me. Who was it? What bastard? Tell me. Whoever it was, I don’t care. I’ll make him pay. Tell me. I’ll beat him with a stick. The sons of bitches have found an orphan to attack? Hasn’t God done enough to this poor child, that now you also do this to him, you heartless bastards?”

  Mergan was no longer asking her son who had given him the beating. She wasn’t speaking to him at all. She was speaking to everything. To the air. To the walls and the doors. For ears that could hear and those that couldn’t. She placed Abrau back in the blankets and rose. She tied her robe to her waist and was walking in circles around the room, around herself. Hajer remained frozen in her corner against the wall, and Abrau had set his dizzy and confused head back down. Mergan would walk, then stop, stop and then begin walking, all the while speaking to herself. She spoke out loud. To herself. To the house. To the night. To what is and is not. What she was speaking of wasn’t simple speech. It was more like poetic recitation. She would speak, and then go silent. She would be silent, and then suddenly it would boil over, her voice rising and calling out.

  “Which one should I take care of? Which one should I cover with my wing? In which one’s mouth shall I put a few seeds? Whoever can comes and pecks at one of them. Whoever can comes and pecks at the head of one of them. So just come all at once and take us all! Come and toss us all in a pot of boiling water! Come, come on!”

  “I hope no one’s head is uncovered. We’re coming in!”

  The heavy sound of Kadkhoda Norouz’ footsteps, accompanied by a short cough, brought Mergan back to herself. The shoulders of two men filled the entryway of the room. Kadkhoda Norouz had a cloak thrown over his shoulders, and Salar Abdullah was wearing a long tunic. Both had head scarves tied around their heads. Kadkhoda’s scarf was tied with greater care, and the tail end of Salar Abdullah’s scarf trailed down onto his chest.

  The men brought the cold into the house with them. Until this moment, the cold had been forgotten. It was only Hajer who had suffered the cold and had stuck herself to the stove. Mergan and Abrau were each burning with their own fevers; Abrau of illness, Mergan of rage. On seeing the men, Mergan went silent and retreated to sit in a corner. Not that she wasn’t expecting their visit; she was. She had even prepared for it. All the same, their arrival was a shock. Seeing the men, she was frozen in her place.

  The men sat, Salar at the doorway, and the Kadkhoda by the stove. Hajer slid away from the Kadkhoda, who sat beside the stove in such a way as to position his crotch close to the faltering heat of the fire. Because of this, in order to look at Mergan so as to speak directly to her, he had to twist his large head on his shoulders, straining to face her.

  “Go bring those four bits of copper work!”

  Mergan stayed just as she had been, with her back to the wall, hugging her knees silently.

  The Kadkhoda repeated, “Get up. Get up and go bring those four pieces of copper work!”

  Mergan still did not respond. Did not move. Salar was eyeing her. Her parched cheeks and drawn profile were discernible in the flickering light of the tallow-burner. A stubborn silence had her frozen in her place as if she were not alive, like the outline of a woman cut from stone. But Salar was agitated. His spleen held more than a few things that he wanted to bestow on Mergan and her boys. But since Kadkhoda Norouz had come to mediate, it would not have been to his advantage to let loose at this time. The Kadkhoda turned his head again and shouted at Mergan, “Have you gone deaf? I told you get up and get those four bits of copper work! Do I have to become rude with you?”

  Mergan, staring ahead at the floor, said, “You go get them yourself. You know where they are.”

  The Kadkhoda replied, “If you don’t go get them yourself, that’s what we’ll have to do. I’ve not come here just to sit and look at you!”

  Mergan replied, “May God repay you for your kindness!”

  The Kadkhoda smarted from the sting of the remark, and said, “A deal is a deal. Brotherhood has its own place—one brings wheat, and leaves with apricots. Salar, you go yourself. Get up and go get the copper pieces from their place and bring them here. Get up—while I’m here, it isn’t against the law.”

  Salar Abdullah was ready and he rose to enter the pantry. The others in the room—Mergan, the Kadkhoda, Hajer, and Abrau—each remained silent in their own way. The clanging sounds of copper could be heard on the other side of the curtain. Salar Abdullah drew the curtain back, placing the copper pieces outside one by one. Finally, he exited the pantry, a goblet in one hand, and said to Kadkhoda Norouz, “The copper’s less than half of what it was, Kadkhoda! Come and see for yourself!”

  The Kadkhoda rose, went to the doorway of the pantry, and fell into thought while looking at the copper work set out there.

  “Ten seers, half a man … Fifteen seers. Estimate this one piece at seven seer; all together it comes to … ten, thirty, fifteen, and seven—my guess is this is, all together, about one man and two seer. So we’re short four man and two more seer. So …?”

  Before anything further could be said, Salar Abdullah removed the tallow-burner from the shelf, went back into the pantry and looked in all the nooks and crannies, came out and replaced the tallow-burner to its place, and said, “Nothing. They’re not here. They’ve melted into thin air!”

  Mergan remained silent, looking at a spot in front of her feet. But she could sense the sharp glare of Salar and the Kadkhoda on her. She was ready for a fight. She’d made all of the calculations. Perhaps that was why she was so firmly frozen in her place. Like a dragon protecting treasure. She had no choice. The earth itself was the only thing giving her support. She had no desire to rise, to stand. She didn’t want to have her knees begin shaking from the Kadkhoda’s and Salar’s accusations and quarreling. She wanted to hold her own. That was why she was firmly fixed to her seat on the earth.

  Salar said, “Thief! She’s taken a hand to the copper. I’d seen them myself! A pot, a bathing pitcher, a tray, the vase, and a set of pieces coming to thirty seer. It wasn’t just these four worthless bits of copper. She’s taken a hand to my property!”

  Your property?

  It would have been natural for Mergan to say this, but she didn’t. She only thought it. The Kadkhoda approached her with wide strides and stood beside
her and asked, “So what’s happened to the rest? Where did you put them?”

  Mergan’s mouth remained firmly shut. The Kadkhoda repeated, “I’m with you! Where did you put them?”

  Kadkhoda Norouz’s voice was shaking. Mergan couldn’t remain silent any longer, so she said, “Just where they were before!”

  Salar cut her off, saying, “They’re not! All there is are these four worthless bits of copper work! Where are the valuable pieces?”

  Mergan replied, “They’ve gone to hell—where are they? What do I know where they are? He himself, his own cursed self, he’d come and take one piece every night to melt down. So what do I know? He’d come and go to the nearby villages—maybe he’s left them with a friend of his. God burn his cursed soul for absconding holy Zaynab’s rights!”

  Salar began shouting out of control, “It’s a lie! A lie! She’s lying while swearing on the purity of Zaynab! It was your own dishonorable self who absconded with the coppers!”

  Mergan stared at Salar a moment and said, “Me? May my hands dry up if I’ve even touched these copper pieces. May my children wither and waste before me if my soul had any idea of what happened to them. Soluch, that son of a bitch himself, was the one who’s made off with my bathing pitcher, my vase and tray, and the rest of them, and has sold them!”

  “You’re lying, you and your seven backs, you witch! That man wouldn’t touch the property of others. Soluch wasn’t the kind of man to steal something from his own property!”

  “His own property! How could he have gave gotten it? Oh, maybe he inherited it from his father, a mud-plasterer! Do you remember when his old man died what he left for him? A plastering spade. That was all. His property, his property! It’s as if you think I was the wife of the son of a nobleman and I didn’t even know it!”