Missing Soluch

by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi

  Moslem began laughing out loud. The old man was at the bottom of the ditch grabbing at nothing and turning around in circles, swearing at the top of his voice. Moslem would tap the top of his father’s head with the stick, occasionally grazing his beard and neck with it, laughing as he did. Hajj Salem was at the end of his wits, and began pleading, “Don’t torture me, my son! Don’t torture me! God won’t forgive your sins. Don’t torture me. I pray to you. I’ll breathe my last breath in this ditch. Don’t torture me. You’ll become an orphan, Moslem! Ah … now you’ve lost your father, Moslem. You’re fatherless!”

  Hajj Salem sat at the edge of the wall on the edge of the ditch and covered his face with his hands, breaking into loud sobs. Moslem also sat at the top of the ditch and began crying along with his father, hitting his head with his hands. As the walking stick had fallen into the middle of the ditch, Abbas conjured the courage to jump down, handed the stick to the old man, and helped him climb out and shake the dirt off his clothes.

  Hajj Salem said, “God did not forget me. An angel! God sent me a Gabriel! Gabriel! Who are you, boy? Who are you at this hour of this dark night? Who are you? And that foolish son of a bitch, that torturing degenerate, where did he go?”

  “He’s there sir; he’s over there.”

  “I can’t see him! I’ve been stuck with the night blindness, oh no! I’m night blind! Aren’t you the son of Mergan?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I recognize you from your voice. From your voice. May you have a perfect life. God sent you to rescue me, I know it. You … you’re … Gabriel. But that son of a whore, where is he? Moslem!”

  Moslem came forward crying and pleading.

  “Don’t punish me, Papa. Don’t punish me. I beg you on your life, don’t punish me.”

  “I won’t punish you. Stop it. I just don’t want you to embarrass me where we’re going. Just stop it!”

  “Okay … Okay … I’ll stop it. Yes.”

  Abbas took the end of the stick and handed it to Moslem, who then set off in the direction of Zabihollah’s house.

  The sound of a cow’s cry rose from the stables of Zabihollah’s house. Moslem stopped his father at the edge of the wall. Hajj Salem ordered his son, “Knock on the door!”

  Moslem pounded the door with his fist, and a moment later Zahra, Zabihollah’s sister, opened the door.

  “My daughter, I’ve come to see Zabihollah Khan.”

  “He’s not here!”

  “Where is he, child?”

  “At the house of Mirza Hassan, Agha Malak’s son-in-law.”

  Hajj Salem spoke to Moslem, “So get going then! Didn’t you hear?”

  Moslem pulled on the stick to lead Hajj Salem to Mirza Hassan’s house.

  Abbas remained at the door of Zabihollah’s house. Zahra was about to shut the door when Abbas ran up to her.

  “I heard your cow crying!”

  “She’s birthing.”

  “Do you want me to watch over her?”

  “No! She’ll do fine herself.”

  “Do you want me to go and call Zabihollah?”

  The door shut and Abbas was left alone in the alley. He had no choice but to head to Mirza Hassan’s house. So he went.

  They hadn’t let Moslem and Hajj Salem into the house. The father and son were sitting quietly by the wall. Abbas sat beside Hajj Salem. The yard was quiet and two beams of light shining from the kitchen and the sitting room struggled to break through the dark. It was clear that the wife and mother of Mirza Hassan were busy in the kitchen. And Abbas could see that Hajj Salem was grasping Moslem’s hand as he breathed in the air, smelling something.

  The men—whose voices could be heard—were sitting around a hearth in the middle of the sitting room and discussing something. Abbas could easily tell who was speaking from their voices.

  “I know, I know. It’s clearer than day to me that the woman’s gone and hid the copper. Wherever it is, she’s really hid them. I know this witch’s tricks already!”

  “You should be hunting lions, Salar Abdullah! Why drive yourself mad for these bits of copper?”

  “She’s showing me up, Mirza! It’s hard to take. It hurts less to have a loss of thousand tomans in a business deal than to misplace a single toman yourself. If only I had grabbed Soluch’s collar right then on that day and hadn’t shown him mercy … Ah! I’ll be sure never to do another favor for ants like these people.”

  Kadkhoda Norouz spoke up. “Let’s move on, Salar! We need to go the heart of the matter we’re gathered here for. Right to the heart of it. Karbalai, please, tell us what’s on your mind.”

  Karbalai Doshanbeh didn’t respond. In his place, it was Mirza Hassan, who was heard saying, “Don’t you know how Karbalai works by now, Kadkhoda? He takes a word, chews it in his mouth a hundred times before he spits it out. And by then he’s swallowed half of it, after all!”

  Salar Abdullah said, “My father has no interest for this kind of thing.” He then continued, “I’m saying this in front of you all. He doesn’t approve of this.”

  Mirza Hassan said, “Are you saying he doesn’t want to contribute his money into this plan, even though he’s not doing anything with it?”

  Salar Abdullah replied, “That’s right. It’s not clear to him what the end of this is. Right from the beginning, after he sold those camels, he didn’t buy a bit of land or any water. We all know this, don’t we?”

  Mirza Hassan asked, “How about you, Salar?”

  In the silence that followed, Abbas crept to the edge of the sitting room’s door. Salar Abdullah finally replied, “Me? I’m just a farmer. And that’s all I do.”

  “So how much can you put into the pot?”

  “I’ll sell off forty of my sheep. Whatever I get from that, I’ll put into this.”

  “How about you, Zabihollah?”

  Zabihollah chewed on his lips and said, “I’ll see what I have around. Maybe I can put in something like twenty. Twenty thousand toman. Honestly, I had set aside half of it for my wedding and had planned to use the other half for a few deals, but I’ll use it for whatever’s best. So I’m in.”

  Now Abbas could see half of Mirza Hassan’s pockmarked face and part of his slim black mustache in the light shining from a wax lamp. Mirza Hassan ashed the tip of his cigarette onto a tray by the hearth and said, “Kadkhoda … I’d guess … we can count on you for forty or so?”

  Kadkhoda Norouz sipped at his cup of tea, placed a hard candy in his mouth, and said, “Maybe not that much. But … I have some ideas.”

  “It’s just that at some point we have to determine how much each of us can offer. Because we need the money to go forward and get the loan from the Ministry of Agriculture.”

  Before addressing Mirza Hassan’s comment, Kadkhoda Norouz asked, “Have you thought of the land yet? They have to send surveyors to look over the land. They have to determine if the soil is appropriate and if it will be suitable for pistachio farming or not. In this area, pistachios are an absolutely new crop. The government’s not just going to throw its money away, you know?”

  Mirza Hassan paused a second, then said, “It’s just as you say. The surveyors will have to see if the land is right for this. The reason we’re here is that in actuality our plots are all next to each other. And so our land may have a problem.”

  “Yes, I know. The problem is that we all still want to plant our usual crops and to harvest them from our own plots. We don’t want to give up on planting wheat, barley, cotton, cumin, honeydew, and watermelon and use our precious land for pistachio planting, only to slap ourselves in the face in seven years and find ourselves sitting at the roots of some unripe pistachio saplings! Beyond this, pistachio plants need soft soil. You can’t farm pistachios in dry, hard land!”

  Mirza Hassan replied, “This is my view as well, Kadkhoda. That’s why now I’m thinking about using God’s Land”

  “God’s Land?”

  Karbalai Doshanbeh smiled at Mirza Hassan as he spoke.


  Mirza Hassan said, “You’re laughing, Karbalai? Yes, God’s Land. At the edge of our land and Zabihollah’s. And one side of your son’s lands extends up to it. We can easily stretch out into God’s Land.”

  Karbalai Doshanbeh said, “God’s Land is all that the poor people have to work with.”

  Mirza Hassan replied, “People work on it, but they don’t own it!”

  “So who owns it?”

  “God does! That’s why His name is on it!”

  “Fine. And now some simple souls are working on it and they raise a few watermelons from it.”

  “What’s a few watermelons worth to them? We’ll pay them for the land!”

  “What if they don’t take the money?”

  “We’ll take it and register it. The more documentation we have, the more money we’ll be able to get from the government for it. I’ve even laid the groundwork to do this.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “And why not, Karbalai? It seems you only have bad to say about all of this; you’re jinxing us!”

  “We’ll see!”

  Karbalai Doshanbeh rose from the hearth and went to put his shoes on.

  Mirza Hassan said sarcastically, “Oh, now are you upset with us, Karbalai Doshanbeh?”

  Karbalai, busy tying up his shoes, said, “No, no … Goodbye … Goodbye …”

  Karbalai Doshanbeh was about to leave the room when Mirza Hassan delayed him by saying, “Karbalai, come on, and for once put your unused money to some good, why don’t you!”

  Karbalai Doshanbeh stepped outside the room and then said, “I didn’t get this money from water, so why should I try to irrigate God’s Land with it?”

  Abbas hid himself in the shadows. Karbalai Doshanbeh came down from the porch steps and Hajj Salem rose before him. Looking at the father and son, Karbalai Doshanbeh said, “What’s going on here? A funeral?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, and set off. Moslem began following him, but Hajj Salem pulled him back. “Take it easy, fool! Don’t you recognize him? He’d take the life from the angel of death himself!”

  Abbas crept to the edge of the door. Mirza Hassan was lighting a new cigarette. Karbalai Doshanbeh had humiliated him. He had to recover by saying something.

  “He’s a coward!”

  Zabihollah said, “From the start, I didn’t have high hopes for my uncle. If he doesn’t have his money near himself, he can’t even sleep at night. He’s a person who for twenty years has eyed the alms hungry beggars collect, just to figure out how he can get a cut of it. How could we imagine that he’d come here and put his precious money into something like this?”

  Salar Abdullah said, “Any older person, my cousin, and not just him, eventually loses his nerve and ambition. It’s not just about him.”

  Kadkhoda Norouz said, “Good. So let’s go the heart of the matter. Mirza Hassan Khan, you think you can register God’s Land somehow? You say you’ve already started the process?”

  Mirza Hassan replied, “Don’t worry, I’ll register it!”

  “In your own name?”

  “No. In all our names. I’ve already made the request. In Zaminej, we only need a water pump and a tractor. That’s all! Once we’re all in agreement, I’ll set out for Gorgan City. There, I can find a used tractor in good shape. I know people there.”

  Salar Abdullah said, “So Mirza Khan, how much will you be able to put in yourself?”

  Mirza Hassan replied, “My mother, Bibi, and I can put in fifty. If necessary, more.”

  His mother’s voice sounded from the kitchen. “Mirza Khan, dinner’s ready.”

  He rose and said, “Bibi, bring the embers from the kitchen and put them on the hearth here.”

  Zabihollah and Salar Abdullah rose and made to put on their shoes.

  “What about dinner? Aren’t you staying?”

  Zabihollah said, “I need to leave. My cow is about to give birth. I think she’s overdue.”

  “What about you, Salar?”

  “I’m going to go to work on convincing Karbalai Doshanbeh. After all, what’s he doing sleeping on all that money and not using it?”

  Mirza Hassan said, “Don’t push him too hard. He’s already said no. Anyone who’s going to be a partner on this needs to be committed.”

  “Let’s see what happens.”

  Salar and Zabihollah left the house, and Abbas drew himself back. Kadkhoda Norouz shouted after them, joking, “Don’t let the old man go and convince you instead, Salar!”

  “Don’t be worried, Kadkhoda!”

  Hajj Salem and Moslem rose before the men. Hajj Salem invoked a prayer. “May God bring good to you. May God will you good and happiness.”

  Mirza Hassan came out to accompany Zabihollah and Salar to the outer gate. Moslem pulled away from his father’s grip to follow the men. But Hajj Salem grabbed him and growled, “Beast! Can’t you smell the rice? We’re due for a portion!”

  At the gate, Mirza Hassan looked into the alley and said, “See you on Friday night, when we’ll all discuss how things stand.”

  Zabihollah said, “My money’s ready.”

  “I’ll go and see what I can get for my sheep.”

  Mirza Hassan said, “In any case, Friday night, we’ll meet here again!”

  “Friday night.”

  Mirza Hassan returned and climbed the steps of the porch. His mother, Bibi, brought out some bread and a bowl of rice for Hajj Salem and his son, saying, “Take this outside and go eat it. Go on then! I want to shut the door.”

  “Yes … Yes, Bibi.”

  Bibi returned to the kitchen and Abbas crept to the gate and slid out.

  Zabihollah and Salar Abdullah were still in the alley. Zabihollah was saying, “This Mirza Khan really talks up a game, doesn’t he? He makes it seem he has one hand in this world and another in the other, what with his fancy hair! But we need to watch out that there’s not something going on under the table!”

  “Well, but we’re not negotiating the deal with him. We’re negotiating with the government. We’ll use our land titles as a collateral to borrow money and pay it off month to month. Over here, we need to deal with a few poor farmers who use God’s Land. We’ll toss a few scraps to them to satisfy them.”

  “All I’m saying is that I hope he won’t take our few coins and waste it on his scheme!”

  Zahra, Zabihollah’s sister, came running from the end of the alley, a lantern in one hand. With a trembling voice she angrily said, “Where the hell have you been? The cow’s about to die … and you … you …”

  “What? It’s dying?”

  “The calf won’t birth. The poor animal’s on her last legs!”

  “What do you mean it won’t birth?”

  “It’s a breech birth. It’s stuck!”

  “What?”

  “Feet first, it’s stuck!”

  Zabihollah took the lantern from his sister and set out running. Zahra followed him. Abbas stepped out beside Salar Abdullah and said, “I had come to give him the same news, Salar!”

  Salar turned and looked at Abbas.

  “You have some nerve to even speak to me, you! God damn the devil’s black heart, and curse you!”

  Abbas didn’t back away—instead, following Salar, he went along to Zabihollah’s stable. Entering the stable, the air was warm. The cow was sprawled on one side, its eyes fixed and staring into space. Zabihollah said to Salar, “What should we do, cousin?”

  Salar Abdullah removed his overcoat, rolled up his sleeves, and said, “Nothing. We have to pull it out. Girl, go and prepare a pot of hot water! And you, bring the lantern over here!”

  Abbas followed Zahra out of the stable, and the cow’s cries began to slowly intensify.

  By the time they had prepared the hot water, Salar Abdullah had extricated the stillborn calf and tossed it to one side. They brought the warm water and Salar busied himself with washing his hands. Zabihollah was kneeling over the dead calf’s body, clasping his forehead in his hands. Zahra leaned on the wa
ll. Abbas drew himself to the corner of the stable, hiding in the dark. The cow was still on the ground, panting.

  Salar Abdullah rose, grabbed the stillborn calf’s legs, and dragged it out of the stable to the alley. The sound of a pack of stray dogs could be heard. Salar Abdullah returned and grabbed his cousin under the arms, lifting him.

  “Up! Thank God the cow’s still okay!”

  Zabihollah rose and said, “This is a bad omen, cousin. It bodes badly for what we’re getting into.”

  Salar said, “Don’t speak ill, man! These things happen all the time. Now let’s go.”

  “No. No! I have to stay with the cow. I’ll stay out here tonight.”

  Abbas stepped forward. “If you’d like, I’ll stay here as well. Right here, in the manger.”

  “No need. I’ll stay here myself.”

  Zabihollah sat at the edge of the manger, and Salar Abdullah sat beside him. Zahra left to get a blanket for her brother. There was no need for Abbas here. He walked slowly and left the stable.

  The alley was still dark and cold. Hajj Salem and Moslem were struggling in the middle of the alleyway. Moslem was pulling his father with the walking stick, while Hajj Salem from time to time would say, “Beast! Beast!”

  And Moslem would reply from time to time, “D … d … d …!”

  Abbas set out following Hajj Salem and Moslem.

  BOOK 2

  1.

  The winter was passing. A slow and static winter. Like a mule stuck in mud, it toiled and pushed on. But it had become backbreaking. Cold! Cold was all there was. A dry, forsaken cold. And then the snow! That night, it snowed. A heavy snow. It was, as they say, one waist of snow. But if it wasn’t actually waist-high, it was more than knee-deep. The baked-mud domes and cupolas on the roofs of the village were smothered beneath the weight. Silent. Exhausted. Like camels weighed down with their loads. It still was snowing. But not heavily. At dawn’s break, the blow softened, and it fell more lightly. By then, it was as light as pigeon feathers. It spiraled and settled. For Mergan, the snow only brought affliction. But for the fields, and for most people in Zaminej, for those who had at least a bit of land and a cow at the trough, the snow was as precious as gold. A few flakes of snow were equal to a thousand grains of wheat. Or a watermelon. Or a handful of cumin seeds. Or forty cotton pods. Not only for the folk of Zaminej, but also for all the people of the plains, snow meant bread. It was bread that was snowing, and how pleasingly did it snow. It made the sharp coldness bearable, and the dwindling winter provisions seemed less worrying. These worries became ephemeral. Dreams of spring and verdure lifted the spirits. Mergan knew this, as she had endured such times before. When tables are full, there would always be a little extra for her and her children to eat, but when they are empty, what but dust may come to fill them? The precarious nature of life had taught her this much. Thus, even if Mergan was hungry—which she was—she wasn’t hopeless.