Missing Soluch

by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi

  “Mama, do you think the wheat Abbas brought was all of the grain he earned?”

  Mergan, who was still licking her fingers, said, “You’re such a pessimist, boy! Of course it was all he earned. You think that woman would be able to pay him more than that?”

  Abrau didn’t say anything further. Mergan said, “Lay down a bit and take a nap. The hearth is so nice and warm!”

  Abrau stuttered, “I don’t believe it! Even if Abbas were to say that yogurt’s white, I wouldn’t believe it!”

  Mergan didn’t reply. She made herself busy undoing the knots in Hajer’s hair. Abrau slid farther beneath the blanket and stretched his feet. The warmth of the hearth banished the fatigue and cold, and despite Abrau’s restlessness, his body slowly surrendered to pleasure. His eyelids grew heavy and sleep beckoned. For this moment, the world was nothing but a comforting crib.

  Abrau’s gentle snoring brought peace of mind to Mergan. She unconsciously stared at her son’s face. His eyelids and eyelashes had closed, and his face was calm. The canker sore at the corner of his mouth had nearly healed. His short hair was clinging to his forehead and framed his wide face. His expression was pure and calm like the surface of water. Mergan’s heart wanted to go and sneak a kiss on her son’s cheek. But something like an invisible barrier prohibited her. She was ashamed to show her affection for him; that was her nature. She simply couldn’t be open with her kindness; she didn’t know how. Perhaps, as with showing your love to a beloved, it simply needed the right opportunity to occur. Sometimes, if Mergan felt affectionate, a hostile weight erected a barrier, blocking her from acting on it. So expressing her affection had become the most alien impulse to her. In its place, she acted with roughness and hostility. She used her claws and teeth and anger. This became a habit, her way of reacting harshly to everything. She had been dispossessed—one could say plundered—of the ability to express kindness. And so only in her most calm moments could Mergan feel it once again, with tenderness. Then, it was as if a calm sea had handed her a pearl—the pearl of kindness.

  Mergan was now at ease; her face was calm. Along with her daughter, she slid under the blanket, leaning on one elbow and playing with Hajer’s hair with her free hand. Hajer was lying relaxed and satisfied next to her mother, as if nothing bad had ever happened and would never happen. Her mother was beside her—what could ever disturb her? Mergan sang a lullaby in her ear, with a gentle voice. Soft and gentle, pleasant to both the ear and the heart.

  “The times change. We have both day and night. There’s both lightness and dark. Heights and depths, times of plenty and need. Winter’s nearly over; it’s ending. Spring will soon arrive. And the air will be warmer. People will be generous, and we will work. Scarcity will be gone. We’ll set out to the fields and prairies. God’s fields will be all green. Milk and yogurt will be plentiful. Even if we don’t have any sheep. Others may have more, or less. We’ll have a bit of buttermilk to wet our bread. Your brothers will grow up. Day by day, growing, working. You’ll grow older, taller. Become beautiful, become a woman. Your breasts and body will fill in. You’ll become your own girl, when you breathe the air of spring. What don’t you have that other girls have? You’ll be good for the rest of your life. Thank God you’re healthy and strong. You’re not deaf or dumb or blind. If you find yourself just skin and bones, it’ll only be because of winter. But in the winter everyone suffers, and in the spring a bit of water flows beneath your skin. But there’s no hurry. There’s two years till you’re fourteen. In this time, I’ll feed you the bread from my own mouth. I won’t let hunger whiten your eyes. I won’t let you be hurt. I’ll endure hard times, but will raise you day to day. I won’t let you go hungry. I’ll protect you, raise you. And eventually someone will come to ask for your hand, and take you to his house, and spend his days with you. Not today, tomorrow. And let them dream of the day. My daughter’s like a bouquet of flowers. Her father’s traveling for work, like so many others do. A man is built to travel, all men do. All men suffer danger.”

  Mergan was lying, and she was well aware of her lies. But why? How was it that she began telling these lies about Soluch? She didn’t know. Why had she been lying and saying there was word from their father? Perhaps she wanted her children to sense that he was supporting them, no matter how near or far he was. Because of this, she would think of new lies to weave before the children, and these lies spread to the ears of others all around.

  “He’s sent me money. From Tehran!”

  “I’ve heard he’s bought a cart, knock on wood!”

  “He wants to come and take us as well. But who wants to go? He’s deluded himself to think I’ll be running after him—ha!”

  After these lies, she would make a meatless stew, sprinkle some dry bran onto it, and let the smoke from the fire billow out into the alley.

  “You know, my dear, why should I let my children go hungry? Now that their father’s sent money to me, I’m going to buy two seer of meat and store it for them. After all, a believer is supposed to eat meat at least every forty days or he’ll be considered an unbeliever! No, thank God I am generous with my children.”

  But of everyone, at least Shamsollah the butcher knew that Mergan hadn’t bought meat from him for a very long time.

  Let him know. This lie did no harm to him, or to anyone else. But at any price and in any case, Mergan didn’t want her husband to be considered lost. At least for now … come what may.

  Hajer had fallen asleep. The house was filled with the sounds of sleep. Only Mergan was still awake and was looking at the door. She was quiet, and in the gaps of her children’s snoring, her silence seemed even more pronounced. She was looking outside. In the yard, snow had been piled up next to the short wall around the house. It seemed the weather was growing lighter. It seemed the clouds were lifting. The sun might even shine, soon. The snow becomes beautiful in the sunshine. And so Mergan’s expression also shone, staring at the snow, in anticipation of the sunshine. She wanted to go and find out how Mother Genav was doing. But she didn’t know why she was slow to do so. She felt lazy. The hearth was warm, the house was calm, and her daydreams were enchanting her. But as soon as she thought of Mother Genav’s health, and the path to Ali Genav’s house, she felt uneasy. Something was nipping at her calm state. She couldn’t hold out. She rose from under the blanket, put on her shoes, put her chador over her head, and was about to leave the house when Ali Genav’s broad shoulders filled the doorway. Ali Genav was knitting winter wear, as he always did as he went about his business. Wool socks, hats, scarves. He stood silently by the door and glanced at Mergan.

  “I was about to go to your house. How is your mother?”

  Ali Genav moved his thick and dark lips slowly, speaking with a sonorous and deep voice.

  “It doesn’t look good. I don’t think she’ll make it. I want to send someone to Dah-Bidi to get a bonesetter.”

  “You want someone for Raghiyeh?”

  “Yeah, for Raghiyeh. My mother’s a lost cause. Raghiyeh, that foolish woman, finally ruined my life! She pestered me so much that I sent the poor old woman to live in that ruin, and in the end you see what’s happened. And I just lost my mind this morning … I beat her and destroyed her. I think she’s got three or four broken bones. Now they’re saying I need to send someone to find a bonesetter. Raghiyeh’s mother’s cousin was about to set out to go, but his mother stopped him. She says she doesn’t want her son leaving the village on a day like this. She wants someone to go with him. I thought of sending one of your sons with him—I’ll pay a good wage for it.”

  Mergan said, “Abbas isn’t home, and Abrau is asleep. You know yourself …”

  Ali Genav said, “They can go with my donkey. They’ll ride it there both together, and on the way back, they can have the man from Dah-Bidi ride on it. I’ll give them sticks and bats in case they run across some beast on the way.”

  Mergan half-heartedly turned and looked at Abrau.

  “I don’t know! Which one do you wan
t to go?”

  Ali Genav said, “Abbas is more experienced, but Abrau is more reliable. But whichever wants to go, it makes no difference to me. Whoever brings the man will get five toman from me. I need to watch the two women, otherwise I’d go myself. The weather’s becoming sunny. Coming and going can’t take more than three, four hours. If they set out now, they’ll be back before the next prayer. And these days, five toman isn’t a little bit of money, you know!”

  Mergan didn’t want to wake Abrau, but she couldn’t ignore the five toman offer by Ali Genav. That money would feed her children with bread for several days. Where could a job like this be found these days? It was just luck. Something like this comes up once a year or so. So Mergan couldn’t let Ali Genav pass this task on to someone else. But which one should go? Mergan’s heart leaned toward Abbas. Abbas was stronger, bigger-boned. In addition to being smaller, Abrau had been affected by the vicissitudes of winter. Mergan was uncertain whether to allow Abrau to go out of the village on a day like this, in the middle of the snow. She was afraid he’d not be able to take care of himself. Abbas wasn’t around, though. And if he were, she would expect him not to give the household all of his pay. So Mergan remained torn.

  “You won’t pay more than five tomans, Ali?”

  It was Abrau, who had raised his bony head and chest from beneath the blanket. As he looked at him, Ali Genav stepped into the house.

  “So you’re awake?”

  Abrau pulled himself out from beneath the blankets and said, “Your voice woke me. Do I have to go alone?”

  “No! Gholi Jahromi will come with you, and I’ll give you my donkey to ride on.”

  Abrau said, “If you lend me your boots and your leggings, and your winter cloak, I’ll go.”

  Ali Genav said, “My boots are too big for you!”

  “What do you care? I’ll wrap my feet first.”

  “So get up and come to my house, then. I’ll put a piece of bread for you in a bundle. Come to my house and have a tea before going.”

  Ali Genav then stepped out the door and left. Abrau rose and told his mother, “I’m going to keep five qeran from the pay.”

  Mergan said nothing. Abrau put on his shoes. Ali Genav’s voice could be heard from behind the wall.

  “But Abrau is already putting on shoes and getting ready to go.”

  Abbas responded, “What shoes? With those torn and ripped-up foot covers, you think he’s going to make it far in the snow?”

  Ali Genav said, “He’s going to borrow my boots and leggings. I’ll give him a cloak to pull over his head as well.”

  Abbas said, “In that case, I’d go myself!”

  “I would have liked for you to go, but I already spoke to Abrau. If you go and make some arrangement with him, you can go in his place. What are you doing gathering all of these kids?”

  Ali Genav was pointing to one of the Kadkhoda’s sons, the only son of Salar Abdullah, and two others of the older boys of Zaminej, who were standing with Abbas.

  “They can go home! They don’t have to play! I’ll go and bring back that doctor even if he’s in the Black Hills! But how does that pip-squeak brother of mine think he’s going to convince that old opium addict to leave his hearth in this snow to come all the way here?”

  Abrau had by now come out to the alley and was standing by his mother. He said, “You’ll see when I bring him here! Let’s go, Ali, sir!”

  Abrau set off, but Ali Genav remained behind. He had sensed a game in the offing. He looked at the kids and said, “Are you playing bajal or cards?”

  Abbas looked at the boys and said, “Who here has cards? Would you lend us yours?”

  Ali Genav turned to follow Abrau, saying, “Perhaps I’ll bring them with me.”

  This was the final confirmation that he would send Abrau to go bring the bonesetter. If he were to send Abbas, the gambling circle would not be held, and that wasn’t what Ali Genav wanted. Abbas led the other boys toward the house and shouted after Ali Genav, “So you’re coming?”

  Ali Genav said, “Ah … maybe!”

  Abbas led the boys toward the house, but Mergan said, “No, not in the house. You can do what you want to in the stable.”

  To enter the stable meant they had to clear the snow in front of the door first. Abbas ran into the house, grabbed a shovel, and ran back to clear a path. Salar Abdullah’s son, Jalil, and the Kadkhoda’s son, Hamdullah, just stood there, shifting their weight from foot to foot and chewing on their lips. It was clear they were uneasy, uneasy because they didn’t want to be seen there. But they didn’t want their opponents, Abbas, Ghodrat, and Morad, to sense their anxiety. It would be humiliating if it were known how afraid they were of their fathers. Abbas had told them that no one was home, but so far they’d run into three people. Although they weren’t strangers, it was very odd that they were there. On the other hand, Morad and Ghodrat had no worries. Ghodrat had learned how to play from his own father, Mohammad Gharib. He was a serious gambler himself and had no problems with his son also gambling; it was only if he lost that he would have to worry. If he came home empty-handed, Mohammad Gharib would pick up whatever was close to hand and run after him, chasing him even to the outskirts of the village. Eventually, with his sweat pouring from his head beneath his felt cap, onto his dry eyelashes and his thin beard, between his forced wheezing he would begin to lay out a set of curses that made Ghodrat responsible for all that was bad.

  “… You reek of foot-sweat! Who told you to take my dear money and toss it down a well! So you had bad luck gambling? You tossed snake eyes? What good are you? When you set foot in the world, was it me who made your mother stop breathing? You’ve made me old before my time! My life is black because of you! You want to gamble but you keep playing the fool!”

  On such occasions, which were not infrequent, it mattered little to Mohammad Gharib that his son Ghodrat was following behind him close enough to hear his curses, or that others might hear them as well. For him, in those moments, all that mattered was to say what he needed to say to lighten the weight on his heart, as if not saying them would lead to his heart exploding. Although this would lead to a shaking across his body that would only be quelled with his smoking three more seeds of opium than his usual ration. All this naturally meant that Ghodrat would rarely admit his gambling losses to his father.

  Morad was a different case. He was his own boss. His mother and his older brother ran an opium den, and only Morad didn’t help in running it. He was free to tell his mother and brother what he thought, without fear. His strength, his disposition were of a sort that led his older brother to conclude that it was not in his own interest to try to let things lead to fighting between them. Morad worked, and he paid for his own bread, thus he held his head high and—if he so chose—could gamble without having to answer to anyone for it.

  “Give me that shovel! It’s as if you’ve never eaten bread, you weakling!”

  Morad grabbed the shovel from Abbas’ hand and pointed at him, laughing.

  “Look at him! Look, the sweat on his forehead would make you think he just dug up a mountain!”

  Then he bent his body over the shovel and didn’t straighten himself until all the snow was cleared and piled up in one spot by the wall. Then he took the shovel in one hand and pushed the door to the stable open with his shoulder. The stable was small, just big enough for ten or twelve sheep and a couple of lambs. Despite this, no one could remember Soluch ever owning any animals, save the one donkey of his that had died the previous year.

  The boys ran into the stable. First among them, the sons of Salar Abdullah and the Kadkhoda, who sat on the edge of the trough in a dark corner. Morad, Ghodrat, and Abbas knelt and began to work at clearing a spot of the dirt and rubbish that carpeted the floor of the stable. The lighter dust rose in the air and floated in circles visible in a shaft of light that penetrated the space from a crack in the door. They stopped once a space was clear and an even surface was ready. Salar Abdullah’s son shut the door and
Abbas enthusiastically began taking out the bajal pieces from his pocket, tossing them into the playing surface.

  “Come on! Gather around!”

  Salar Abdullah’s son, Jalil, sat back on the edge of the trough and was squinting with his left eye at the bajal pieces on the floor. He was hesitating and acting cautiously. But Hamdullah, who, with his big head and bulging eyes, bore a passing resemblance to his crazy Uncle Moslem, thought it would indicate weakness to act hesitantly before the others. So instead, he came forward more quickly than anyone else sitting at the edge of the prepared space and began tossing the bajal pieces casually into the air. The pieces would fall onto the soft soil of the stable, and Hamdullah made as if he was prepared to be the dealer of the game. He collected the pieces and said, “Okay?!”