Mergan was no longer a young woman. In her time, she had seen everything. She was nearly forty years old, although her drawn face was stony, cracked, and tired, and this made her seem older than her age. But her dusky hair had only recently begun to show hints of white in a few places. It was as if the serrated edge of her hair had carved wrinkles on the hard and taut skin of her forehead. Fine crow’s-feet emanated from the edges of her eyes. Her cheeks were deep and hollow. As her face aged, her wide white teeth had begun to push aside her thin and jagged lips. On either side of her mouth and chin were two deep lines. The veins on her neck stood out, and at the base of her neck, just where she fastened the safety pin to hold together the corners of her headscarf, a deep recess had set in. Her jaws were prominent, and when she bit down, her teeth were visible beneath the skin. In essence, the flesh on Mergan’s face had melted away, and it was as if nothing lay beneath the skin itself. Taut skin, drawn over rough, persistent bones, with visible inclines and peaks. Despite all this, her eyes were beautiful. Sorrowful and beautiful. Although deeply set, her gaze had a certain brilliance. And although her bones seemed poured into her skin, her stature was not broken. She stood straight and tall.
A pained soul resided inside this worn body. But it was not defeated. This injured soul masked a hidden fight, not a pained lament. This was why Mergan’s eyes had retained their beauty. Hers was a stubborn radiance shining from an abyss of despair. Like a trembling light flickering from a lantern held in the depths of the night. Mergan was strong-boned. Not like her brother, who had a skull like a horse. But among the other women, she looked broader of shoulder, even if her bones were somewhat diminished. Destitution and constant hunger had not worn her down as they might have.
Mergan was looking outside. With the snow, the dawn seemed lighter than usual. A pleasant light, with a color that was rarely seen. It was a color that could not be seen just visually. One had to also see it with one’s soul. How does the ailing person sense a panacea? The thirsty, water? This is how Mergan perceived the color of the snow. If you were to look at her face carefully, you would see the reflection of the dawn snow within it, and with it a transformation, a new perspective. You could sense that she imagined something was about to change. Imagine that the snow that had settled on the ground was instead a bed of colorful grass seedlings just sprouted from the dirt. Imagine the movement of those seeds beneath the earth that had imprisoned them for the cold, dry, and unhappy winter; imagine this earth was transforming; imagine the sun that will shine after the snow; imagine the plough share, the land just ploughed, the farmers; imagine the fields with their wide arms extended once again; imagine the braying of the cattle, the calls of the shepherds; imagine the smoke rising from people’s bread ovens; imagine the people’s furrowed brows vanquished by charging waves of laughter.
In imagining all this, Mergan had been renewed with new sensations. The kind of sensations that adolescent girls overflow with, the same ones that Mergan herself had while crossing the wasteland of puberty, drunken and confused, some twenty years ago. Those days when she felt she could wrap all the men in the world into a single embrace, when Mergan had spring fever. She felt it in her laughter, her jokes, her dancing and drumming, her idleness, her breadmaking, and her ginning, with her gleaning with the men at harvest. It was in her cotton spinning, and when she spent long winter nights spindling with the other girls, gatherings that culminated in waves of laughter and giggling. It was in the songs and poetry recitals; the whispers about what the men, the young men, were saying; in breasts heaving and hearts filled with joy; the flow of blood in the veins and the occasional taste of love; a love that was hidden, not yet emerging. It was in just being. In being at work, in the home, in bed, in the fields. Being in love. A tie in a stalk. In having children, in becoming pregnant. In breast-feeding. Singing a cradlesong. In swaddling the child. Washing the child in lukewarm water, under the mild midday sun. In the sensation of desire. He’s ticklish! Laughter. Laughter. Water. Sun. Laughing. The pure laughter of the child. The flowering of the bud. A feeling in between laughter and crying. In loving everything. The man’s firm shoulders. The sweet scent of underarm sweat. Soluch’s shirt, a mix of sweat and dust. The boy playing in the water of the water pot. Kisses. Kisses on the head and feet of the boy, whose teeth have not come out yet, but who is ticklish. How he laughs, the little bud! He flowers. Ah …
The fields are brimming with wheat. The fields are golden, raining gold. The summer sunlight. The sounds of people calling. The gossip of the gleaners: girls, women, children. Bringing water jugs to the shelter of the haystacks, sleeping on the banks of the brook, a shade made from a saddle from the landowner’s horse. Bread and tea and dates. Young men. The men. A silk handkerchief. The young men tie a silk handkerchief around their necks, with hair styled high with no hat. Sweat pours down under the handkerchief, passing the space between the shoulders to be caught on the tight belt, then spreads to each side. Wheat chaff the color of sugar, adhering to the sweat of a body, on a shirt. Shirts drenched with sweat. The mix of sweat and dust, and shirts in between. Sweat and dust, dust and sweat. The upper arms, the shoulders in motion. The forearm and hands in action. The scythes and sickles shine in the sun. The threshers gather handfuls to make bushels, and bushels to make stacks. The women and girls follow the threshers, gathering the stalks that have fallen aside while the wheat stalks grow into armfuls, and then bushels, and when they are placed onto a bushel bearer to be taken to where the stacks are gathered.
Mergan was among the threshers. She was sitting on the edge of the fields watching Soluch harvesting. Soluch had made a name for himself as a harvester. He was neither tall nor strong, nor particularly audacious, but he worked honestly and vigorously. Compact and capable, Soluch crouched on his heels and pivoted, clearing the land of the long and leaning stalks of wheat. An efficient harvester, Soluch enjoyed making an extra effort to clear a wider berth of wheat than was usual. The landowner of the field approved of this, even though he knew that Soluch was clearing the extra stalks for Mergan to gather. This was a kind of ritual. It was a secret agreement between the harvester, the landowner, and the woman gleaner. If a young man who was working as a harvester liked a woman, it was his right to employ his scythe in such a way as to leave more of the dry, soft stalks on the ground behind him. The pouch tied around the woman’s waist had to be filled. As a sign of his love, Mergan had to return from the fields with her arms full of wheat. And so she did. So what of the gossip, the innuendoes? Let them say what they want! Mergan paid no mind. The talk only showed what was in their hearts. And so what if some hearts were not on Mergan’s side?! There are always people who will use gossip to express their own frustrations. They don’t realize that rather than seeming clever they seem twofaced. They lack the courage to be sincere. And what would be said at the end? That Mergan of the camel herder’s family and Soluch of the mud-plasterer’s desire one another? Let them gossip! What harm could come of it? What sin? Let everyone in the village climb on their roofs and sweeten their mouths by telling each other the news. Who could stop them from being engaged? No one. Mergan only had one brother. Her father was dead, and her mother was housebound. What would Aman say? He himself was under the spell of Gisou. Yes, Molla Aman! He was even more deeply ensnared by his own love. He was infatuated with her. He would walk aimlessly, composing verses of poetry for her. He had one foot in the stars. The fable of Molla Aman and Gisou gained renown with everyone. What’s a brother like this say to Mergan? After all, Mergan was drunk with Soluch, with only him. What could Molla Aman, who was infatuated with Gisou, say about this? And even if he did?! If he resorted to threats and kicks and beatings? What could he do? Mergan couldn’t be killed by kicking and whipping; only being apart from Soluch could kill her, being apart from the mud-plaster’s son.
Where are you, Mergan?
She came to. The cold overwhelmed her. How far she had gone from the present! Where was she? Memories … remembrance. She turned. Her children
were still asleep. The embers had burned to cold ashes in the hearth. The children had gathered themselves into a ball beneath the dozens of blankets that covered them. Mergan went and took a handful of corkwood to the stove and lit a flame beneath the kettle. Hajer turned her head. She had to get up earlier than the boys. Abbas and Abrau would rise shortly after her. Eventually they all were awake.
“What a snow!”
Abbas ran to the door. Abrau followed, standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother, and both stared out at the snow that had gathered on the wall around their house, and farther away at what had accumulated on the roofs of Zaminej. They stood transfixed. From a distance, crows were approaching: caw, caw. The brothers wanted to stay home today. The thought made them euphoric. On a day like this, no one would leave Zaminej. An idea entered Abbas’ mind suddenly—gambling! He could arrange a game today. The other children would be idle, gathering at the shop to buy sweets. Sweets with nuts. Then the older ones of them, those with money in their pockets, would quietly sneak to the storeroom to gamble. Recently, Agha Sadegh had brought a pack of playing cards from town. The older ones would play with the cards and the youngsters would play bajal pieces. Since the time he’d brought the playing cards, Agha Sadegh didn’t like them to play with the bajal pieces in his storeroom. The racket it caused interfered with his business. And he didn’t just let anyone into the storeroom.
“What are you doing here, my dear child? You’re still too young!” he would say.
So now the younger children had nowhere to go. It had snowed, and it wasn’t any good trying to play bajal games in some ruins. Someone had to come up with a dry, warm, and empty place. A stable. And what stable better than the empty one by Soluch’s house? Abbas thought that maybe he could snare three or four of these two-bit players and arrange a game or two. And maybe even Ali Genav would join as well.
This thought drew Abbas toward the pantry. He found a tin box containing his bajal pieces under some bric-a-brac and returned to the door of the pantry gleaming. He poured the pieces from the box and gathered two sets of them, one set of three, and another of four. The set of three would be used for the game with three pieces, and the four would be used for the game they called wolf. He wrapped each set inside a handkerchief and hid them under the waistband of his trousers, and then went back into the room.
Abrau was standing before the stove. Mergan was pouring herbs in the kettle while Hajer busied herself with the task of folding up the blankets before coming to her mother’s side. Abbas positioned himself beside Abrau and held his hands over the flames that were choking in a cloud of smoke. The burning wet wood poured smoke and brought tears to their eyes. Because of this, although mother and children had gathered around the stove to warm themselves, they were forced to bid a retreat with eyes tightly shut and noses sniffling. The house was filling with smoke. Abrau fell to his knees, placed his hands on the ground, and began blowing inside the stove. He blew with all his strength, but it wasn’t enough to bring a flame to the wet kindling. Self-loathing and hunger filled him; he felt abject and wretched. He kept trying, but he was unable bring the flame to life. He felt broken. His mouth protruded so that his teeth looked bigger and his lips seemed larger than usual. His trumpet-shaped lips began to darken, and his eyes flickered inside their sockets. Eventually, he lost his breath and fell back. Now Abbas leaned before the stove and directed his breath powerfully toward the source of the smoke in the wet kindling. Now the smoke blew upward, and a tiny flicker of a flame licked at the wood inside the belly of the stove. Mergan told Hajer to bring the cups, and she gathered two clay goblets from the cupboard, placing them before her mother. Mergan then told the girl to bring the oleander seeds. Hajer knew where the oleander was and brought back a small bag. Mergan divided the seeds, apportioning each person two. Then she filled the cups with hot herbal tea from the kettle. Abbas took one cup for himself—the fact that Abbas would take the first sip or bite of each meal had become an accepted fact within the family, regardless of whether they each approved of this or not. He saw it as his right, since he always reached for the food or drink before the others.
Mergan rose and went to the pantry while Abbas and Abrau drank their concoctions. When Mergan returned, Abrau was still looking out the door at the snow.
“I wish we could eat sugar-ice today!”
Mergan brought out a snow shovel and Soluch’s old dirt shovel and placed them by the door, saying, “If you’re men, you’ll go get sugar-ice for us. I’ll get the bread. Here’s a snow shovel, and here’s a shovel. If you clear snow from four roofs, you can buy ten seer of molasses for us.”
Abbas said, “Today we don’t have to go to the fields, but instead we have to shovel snow?”
“I’m saying, go for yourselves. You don’t have to go. Get some fresh air.”
“For one day, we can take a break from gathering wood stalks and you want us to get fresh air?”
Abrau said, “What if I get sick again?”
“You won’t get sick. You’re not a little chickadee, now! You can take my chador and wrap it around your shoulders.”
Abbas said, “What about shoes? You can’t wade into waist-deep snow with tattered shoes! My feet will go black from the cold!”
“So your shoes are good enough for getting up to tomfoolery in the snow, but not for work? Anyway, I’ll wrap your feet up myself, and by the time you get back, I’ll have built up a nice, big fire. The house will be as warm as an oven. What else do you want?”
Abbas said, “Everyone clears their own roof—who would pay to have us shovel their roof for them?”
“Plenty of people! Like the widow of Agha Malek. Who does she have to clear her roof?”
“Her gardener! She has a gardener—Karbalai Habib.”
“You expect Karbalai Habib to be able to shovel snow on a day like this? If you held his nose for a second he’d fall down dead, the poor thing!”
“So if I clear Agha Malek’s house, where will Abrau work?”
“Bibi Abdel’s roof. Abdel’s not around. He’s gone to town to buy a motorized miller. Abrau can clear that roof, and he’ll make a little from that.”
They could come up with no other excuses. Abbas said, “How about our own house? Are we just going to wait until there’s so much snow it collapses?”
Mergan said, “I’m here. I’ll clear our roof myself.”
“With what shovel?”
“Don’t worry about that! Go tend to your own work!”
That was that. Abbas rose and took the snow shovel. Not surprisingly, Abrau was left with the old dirt shovel. This was Abbas’ way, to take the best implement for himself. Despite this, Abrau complained, “Who’s ever seen someone clearing snow with a regular shovel?”
Abbas ignored him. He had already claimed the snow shovel and was now wrapping his feet in rags. Abrau looked up at Mergan, who said, “Any house with a roof should have a snow shovel you can use. Stop complaining; get up and get yourself wrapped up!”
Abrau was not lazy; he was tired. All of a sudden he was tired. His heart wasn’t in the task. His eyes showed his worries about the work ahead; he was even frightened. The cold and the misery of hunger had watered down his enthusiasm, replacing it with disappointment. Uncertain, deep down, he didn’t want to set foot outside the house in this snow! A kind of terror set in and fixed him to the floor of the house. Mergan tossed her night chador next to Abrau and said, “Take that and wrap it around you. Especially around your waist. And take some old rags and wrap up your feet. Don’t nod off there like an opium addict! Let’s go!”
Forlorn, Abrau shook off his paralysis and rose. He had no other choice. He folded his mother’s night chador. Mergan told Hajer, “Take the other end and help him, girl! Why are you just standing there like a stalk of grass?”
Hajer went to help tie the chador around her brother’s waist. Abbas pulled on his canvas shoes, wrapped a piece of cloth around his ears, and took the snow shovel before leaving. Abrau was left with his m
other and sister to help him prepare for going out into the snowy alleys. Mergan wrapped the chador around Abrau’s shoulders and his sides.
Abrau said, “The cloth satchel—cover my back with the satchel, Hajer!”
Hajer looked at her mother, who said, “Get it. Let’s use the satchel to cover his back and shoulders. It’s as if we were sending the warrior Ali Akbar to the arena!”
Abrau said, “What about my feet? You want me to go out in the snow with bare feet?”
“We’ll wrap up your feet. And stop needling me with your complaints!”
Abrau pulled the satchel over his back and tied it across his chest. Now Mergan was tying the ends of Abrau’s pant legs shut with a piece of rag. Then it was time for the feet themselves. Abrau sat at the edge of the wall, leaning against it with his legs outstretched. Mergan took one of his feet onto her knee and Hajer took the other, and both busied themselves with wrapping cloth and rags around them. They tied the last knot around the back of his feet, and then Mergan tossed his canvas shoes over to him. She said, “Okay, now get yourself up off the ground. It’s not as if you’re a pregnant woman.”
Abrau put his shoes on while still seated. He still had doubts about this all. Because of this, his hands took their time putting on the shoes. Mergan decided not to bother herself with him any longer. She went to the stove and called Hajer to her and both busied themselves with drinking their tea. Finally, Abrau rose—he had used up all of his delaying excuses now—and he took the shovel and walked out the door.
Missing Soluch Page 10