Karbalai Doshanbeh rose from the ground. Mergan’s children were covered in a heavy silence, and he didn’t want to stay any longer. He could see that they hadn’t forgotten that it was his son who had gone to their house to demand payment of his own debts, and that he had later chased Abbas and Abrau from the cottonwood field. The impression of the old man’s words on their faces had also caused him to feel uneasy. Their eyes had not lit up with hope, in the way he’d expected them to. He shook the dust from his pants front and grabbed the collar of his sheep, threw its feedbag over one shoulder, and took his grass cutter in hand, and said, “There’s no worry on my part. I’ll come by your house sometime!”
Mergan’s children silently watched Karbalai Doshanbeh leaving, walking slowly and heavily as he went. He walked with wide strides. Everyone in the village knew he was bad-tempered.
Abbas rose and gathered the loose grass into his satchel. “How about we go to God’s Land?”
Abrau said, “You want us to carry these bags on our backs all the way there and back?”
“So what should we do? We can’t leave them here.”
Abrau looked at Hajer. “Will you take them?”
“Why shouldn’t she? Why would she want to come along to God’s Land?”
“So she’ll take them … You take these bags of grass and we’ll go to check the water on the land. If we can, we’ll plant some farazu.”
“When we’re ready to seed the field, we’ll also bring you to spread the watermelon seeds! Now go and bring these bags of greens to mother to cook, and we’ll be back at sundown.”
They piled the greens into Hajer’s satchel. Abrau leaned a knee onto the pile of greens and, with Abbas’ help, took up tying the edges of the satchel. Then they placed the bundle onto Hajer’s head. She stumbled a little, but held her ground, steadying her steps as she carried the load. Abbas and Abrau, relieved to know the greens were being carried home on their sister’s head, threw their own bags and satchels onto their backs, picked up their grass cutter and scythe, and headed out toward God’s Land.
* * *
God’s Land was where the sands gathered together; it was a sloping, sandy piece of earth. Smooth and soft as the belly of a mare. A fallow, windy place. Uncared for, abandoned. Perhaps this was why they called it God’s Land. Soluch’s plot was bordered by those of Morad, of Ghodrat’s father, and that of Ali Genav. To the left of God’s Land, the fallow lands continued on, while to its right a stream cut into the earth. Its upper limits bordered on the Kolghar valley, below which, as far as the eye could see, was land, land, and more land. This was God’s Land. But working such a barren land was not work for an impatient person. It was hard work. Until now, the land had only been good for growing watermelons. But lately, whispering voices had begun to speak of pistachio cultivation, despite the fact that Zaminej’s people had no background in the planting or harvesting of pistachios. But watermelons, yes, that was something they did well.
By the time the watermelon plants bore their fruits, a dusty wind would have covered them over. So one had to be patient so as to extricate the plants, leaf by leaf, from beneath the sands. And few were the people who were willing to do this hard work. Most would just sew their seeds at the beginning of spring and would leave the plants in God’s care. They’d either grow or die, and most would die under the withering wind. The plant would either be buried in the sand or would dry out. One in a hundred would survive out of sheer luck. When it was time to harvest them, a few plants would perhaps have held on, despite the winds, and bore fruits. Then it was time to wet your mouth a bit. Ripe or unripe, they’d pick the melons and leave, just happy with what they had. However, Soluch was one of the few who would go and watch over each plant carefully with a shovel in one hand.
Until the plants bore melons, Soluch was constantly and tirelessly to be found on the path between Zaminej and God’s Land. After preparing the land, he would tend the plants. This was all that was needed for the melon plants of God’s Land: just some earth. Otherwise, you could build a windbreak. A windbreak with earth and straw. This land neither needed a clod crusher nor to have its cracks filled so as to prevent the sun from stealing the moisture from the spaces. There was no need for irrigation either. But it required a great deal of work nonetheless. One needed to constantly check between the plants, and if nothing else, to weed the scrub grass with the tip of one’s shovel. This is what Soluch did. During the summer harvest, the children were his hostages. They would follow behind Mergan, treating the plants like their babies, raising them until they bore fruit, eyes full of pleasure from each and every melon.
It was a short ways to God’s Land. The distance of a few arrow shots. On the way, the boys played leapfrog, a game that lent itself to running, jumping. One would lean over and the other would leap over his back, and then run four or five steps before leaning over so the first could leap over him. It was exciting tying up the feet of the players with the skill and agility involved, sending them into peals of laughter that made the distance seem shorter.
Playing a trick, Abbas leaned over but then suddenly leapt ahead, throwing himself on his belly like a lizard. Abrau came racing behind him expecting to leapfrog over his back, but he couldn’t slow his footsteps once Abbas slipped out from under him. Stumbling, he fell and tumbled and rolled, with a bitter laugh and a wounded look in his eyes. Abbas doubled over himself with laughter, holding his sides with his hands. Abrau brushed the dust from his head and face and began walking away. Abbas chased him and caught up, saying, “Are you upset?”
“No! But you’re nothing but a spoilsport.”
Abbas picked up laughing again, saying, “Ali Genav’s found me some work. Herding camels for his father’s cousin.”
Abbas replied, “Ali Genav? He keeps hanging around our house. He feels sorry for us ever since our father’s left us … Do you think our father will ever return?”
“Let him go to hell! If he wants to, he can come back. Otherwise, he can stay away. What good was he when he was here, and what have we lost since he’s gone?”
“At least he used to be here.”
“It’s better he’s not here now! All he gave us was dry bread and beatings. Now we just have dry bread. What more could he do for us?”
“But at least he was our father. Just his shadow was a good thing for us.”
“There are kids without fathers everywhere. It’s not as if we’re the first ones. And now we’ve picked ourselves up from the dirt ourselves—we can pay for our own bread. We’re not going to starve.”
“There’s more than bread and being hungry, though. It hurts—just the way people look at us as orphans. Didn’t you notice how Karbalai Doshanbeh treated us, the bastard?”
“It wouldn’t be any different if Soluch were here!”
“In any case, I miss him sometimes.”
“I don’t.”
“He used to take me to God’s Land with him.”
“He would take me to dig wells.”
“In the spring, he’d prepare the soil and I’d plant the seeds.”
“I’d wait at the top by the well wheel, and he’d go down into the well. He’d fill the bucket with dirt and I’d pull it up.”
“Sometimes, just before he left, I’d prepare the clay for a bread oven he was working on. He told me I had good hands for spreading clay.”
Abbas became angry. “Okay, that’s enough reminiscing; if he wants to disappear on the other side of the world, let him!”
God’s Land was covered with dark streaks of gravel that followed along the stretches of snow still unmelted. Abbas leapt up from the side of the stream and ended their conversation. They were on their own land. They left their sacks beside the stream and Abrau picked up the hoe. Abbas pointed to one spot of land and they walked over to it. They both busied themselves digging at the wet earth. The top layer of soil was muddy and stuck to their hands. The next layer was less so, and farther down, the soil only bore the darkened hue of moisture. Abbas ro
lled the cuff of his trousers up to his knees and stepped into the hole he had just dug. The hole was as deep as the top of his knee. The soil was such that it held the moisture, and a watermelon plant could easily spread its roots into it.
Abrau said, “Shall we dig somewhere else?”
“You’re so confused all the time! In this kind of soil you don’t have to dig in different places. It’s not like those places where you have to see how deep the moisture is where the rain collects, and how deep it is elsewhere. This soil is sandy—if you don’t believe me, go dig by the edge of the gravel there. It’s not level ground, so the water won’t gather there itself. But I’ll bet you it’s even more moist than over here, since its soil is softer.”
From the wilderness beyond the gravel, Sanam’s son, Morad, was approaching. He had a bundle of kindling on his back and with each step sank ankle-deep in the wet earth as he went, leaving a path of deep footsteps behind him. As soon as he noticed the brothers, he changed course and began walking toward them.
“Hey there!”
Morad set his bundle of kindling against the steep embankment of the stream.
The brothers headed toward him. Morad loosened the binding that held the bundle on his back, releasing it. “The reeds are all moist, damn them! They’re heavy. I’m exhausted just trying to walk in this soil. I’m knee-deep in the mud. See how I’m covered in sweat!”
It was true. His entire back and the area under each arm was drenched in sweat. He took the edge of his shirt and wiped the sweat from his brow and ears. He sat back, leaning on the bank of the stream, and shut his eyes. Sweat had dripped into his eyes, which were now red and burning. Morad opened an eye and asked, “You were checking the moisture of the soil, no?”
“Yeah … that’s right. What about you? Aren’t you planning to plant this year?”
“Not me. But my brother won’t give up. As for me, I’m not willing to throw myself on the bull’s horns just for a handful of soil.”
Abbas did not pick up on what Morad was referring to, so he asked, “What bull’s horns?”
“They’re registering all of this land. Mirza Hassan’s leading them. Salar Abdullah and Kadkhoda Norouz and Zabihollah are all working together. They’re talking about getting a tractor and a water pump. In addition to God’s Land and Kalqar Valley, they’ve got designs on the fields of Bandsar as well. Salar Abdullah himself was at our house on Friday. But my brother won’t accept their offer, even though my mother’s knees went weak as soon as she heard the sounds of a few coins jingling. Although, if I know my brother, he’ll eventually give in. Salar Abdullah will put an end to his indecision with a couple of red bills.”
“Is Salar Abdullah laying claim to other people’s property? That’s theft, isn’t it?”
Morad replied, “He doesn’t recognize the land as belonging to other people. That’s why it’s called what it is—God’s Land!”
“So what if it’s called that? Right now, it’s in the hands of God’s servants.”
“Salar claims that he’ll make the land productive.”
“Ha! Make it productive! So what are we doing, then? Ruining it?”
“What do I know?”
“So what is everyone else doing about this? What about Ghodrat’s father, the others?”
“They’re going to buy them all off one by one. They’re giving them promises and presents.”
Abbas’ eye shone. “You mean they’re handing out cash?”
“Maybe, I’m not sure.”
Abbas was silent. It was clear he was trying to determine what the most profitable approach to the issue was. Morad leaned back on his bundle. Abrau raised his head and said, “What about you, Morad? What are you thinking of doing?”
“I’m leaving. I’ve never really cared about this place. So I want to go somewhere where I know that when I work from morning to night, I’ll be paid that night for my work. I went to Gonbad last year. The year before, to Varamin. This year, if I have to, I’ll go as far as Ahvaz even. Wherever my heart is happy. What about you? Are you sticking around?”
“We don’t know!”
Morad shifted the bundle and began to tie the rope around his chest again. “I hear that Ali Genav’s doing a favor for you.”
It was clear what he was implying from the tone of his voice. Abbas said, “You mean shepherding his cousin’s camels? That’s not been settled yet.”
“I suspect you’ll settle it soon. It’s not a permanent job; after a short while, they’ll be sent for sale and you’ll tie them all in a line and off they go!”
Abbas said, “Maybe he wants to graze them over the spring as well?”
“What an idea! I guess some people are so naïve they should never leave their homes, my brother! I really love these new foreign tractors though. Sardar Abdullah will have no choice but to get rid of his camels. It’s not because he wants to. And you think you can make a living with people like this around, running things as they do …? So, are you guys staying here?”
“No. We’ll come too.”
Morad straightened his back beneath the kindling. The brothers took their bags and tools and headed out, walking alongside Morad.
“Many of the others are leaving too. Ghodrat’s coming with me. We’ll go work for six months and then spend the winter relaxing by the hearth. We’ll take it easy. If we were to stay here, we’d never even be able to save up ten tomans. But what I’m surprised by is why you’re not coming?”
Abbas replied, “We have our own problems, brother!”
“And no one else does?”
Abrau asked, “Morad, have you been in a car until now?”
“How could I not have been? How do you think I’ve been to all these places? It’s no big deal!”
Abrau remained silent. Abbas said, “If it’s really heavy, set down that bundle and I can help you take it.”
Morad said, “What’s difficult isn’t the weight of this bundle; it’s that in this place there’s no value for the work you do. This kindling is one thing, because at least my mother will be able to heat up bread in the oven with it. But other work is useless. Outside, I can work for sixteen hours a day if I know I’ll be paid my due. You need to have a purpose for your work. By the way … I hear you’re going to be marrying off Hajer?”
Abbas and Abrau said nothing. They had no answer to Morad’s question. Morad didn’t push the matter any further.
When they reached the ramshackle homes of Zaminej, Morad said, “If you were to just wait a little while longer, you’d probably find a husband for Hajer who doesn’t have another wife! Goodbye.”
“Goodbye!”
Morad altered his course toward a path beside a fallow field toward his home, while the brothers continued along the high ridge along a ditch. Before they were very far from each other, Morad made a turn beneath his load and said in a half-audible voice, “In any case … if you wanted to leave … it’s better if we all went together.”
Abbas took the hoe in his hand and waved it. “Okay … We’ll let you know.”
Then they headed away down the slope of the ditch.
By the time the brothers reached Zaminej, the evening air brought a soothing cool with it. It was for a good reason that for the first month of spring, many of those who could afford to would not leave their places beside the hearth. Abrau held his sack tight against his back, raised his shoulders a little, and said to Abbas, “What do you say we should do? As the weather gets warmer, Ali Genav’s bath will become less busy. I don’t expect I’ll really have a reason to keep working there over the summer. Even now I think he’s keeping me there just out of politeness. He’s in a bind; his wife’s still unwell. But just as soon as he sorts things out, he’ll get rid of me. And it’s not as if I’m really earning much there. So if you want my opinion, I think we should join the others, going wherever they go. Something might come of it, no?”
Abbas said, “There’s plenty of time now. If things don’t go well, if we don’t join this group, we w
ill just go with the next one. It’s not as if the roads will be closed!”
Abrau began to try to convince his brother with another line of reasoning, but in vain. They approached Salar Abdullah’s son, who was leaning against a wall. He eyed the two brothers as they came, walked over, and blocked Abbas’ path. “So what’s happened to my money?”
“What money?”
“The money you took from me in your stables and swallowed. Why is it everytime you see me you head in the opposite direction? You think you’re dealing with a bunch of blind fools?”
“So, you yourself say I swallowed it, and I did. So go where I’ve left it now and take it back! When you swallow something, where does it end up?”
Abbas said this and moved on. Abrau followed behind him. Salar Abdullah’s son shouted at them as they left, “I’ll tear those coins out of your throat!”
Abbas didn’t reply, muttering, “One hundred tomans wouldn’t be enough to pay me for what I went through! And now he wants to raise the dead!”
Salar’s son continued, “I’ll make you give birth to that money!”
Abbas answered, “If you do that, be sure to cut its umbilical cord!”
“You son of a bastard dog!”
Abbas turned into the safety of their home’s doorway before answering, “The bastard’s you, with your seven shit bastard ancestors!”
Mergan stuck her head out of the door of the house, saying, “Now, who is it this time? Why don’t you let me be calm for just a minute, you?”
Not answering his mother, Abbas looked at the saddle pack set against the edge of the wall, paused a moment, and asked, “Who’s here?”
“Your uncle!”
“What?”
It didn’t matter who or what their maternal uncle was, but his appearance excited the boys. They ran into the house. Molla Aman was sitting at the far end of the room, leaning against a pile of bedding. He was sitting on one knee—as was his habit—and had his large boney hand on his kneecap. His wrists were loose and his fingers were each like the claws of a crane, hanging down over his knee. His large, wide nose and its well-shaped arching tip cast a shadow over half of his face. The sight of his nephews brought a smile to his penetrating eyes. He shifted a little and stretched his hands, like a crane’s wings, out to the boys. They threw themselves into the embrace of their Uncle Aman as he kissed each of their faces and set them beside one another against the edge of the wall. Jokingly, he asked how they were, saying, “I’d have expected you to have grown beards by now!”
Missing Soluch Page 18