Missing Soluch

by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi

  Her sobbing prevented her from finishing the sentence. Hajer pleaded with her, “Don’t cry, please. Whatever you want. Just don’t cry, mother.”

  A short while later, the sound of footsteps separated the two of them—it was Morad. He stood by the door and said, “I’m looking for Abbas!”

  “Abbas went to tend the camels.”

  Morad replied, “We’re heading out—a group of us have decided go to Gonbad together this year. I wanted to let Abbas know that if he wants to join us, he should come to our house tomorrow night. The others will come there too …”

  Mergan said nothing. Something was caught in her throat. Morad turned on his heel and left. Mergan looked at her daughter; Hajer had hidden in a corner. Mergan rose, took the sacks and tools from beside the wall, and stepped outside before saying to Hajer, “Let’s get going to work; it’s well past breakfast …”

  * * *

  This day’s work would be whitewashing the dining room of Zabihollah’s home. The first task was to brush the walls clean.

  Mergan busied herself with the task. She removed her evening chador, tied her headscarf, and took the broom from Hajer, who brought it over for her and began brushing from the doorframe. With every brush, an area of dust was wiped clean from the wall, settling instead on the ground. As always, Mergan was focused on her work. She carried out her work with the mastery of a sculptor molding clay. This was not only because she needed the work, but also because her own nature allowed her to master any task quickly. For this reason, she slowly came to take on all sorts of odd jobs that needed doing in Zaminej:

  “Mergan dear, could you come and repair our walls …”

  “Mergan dear, there’s a mourning wake at our house. My mother wants you to come and help pour tea for the visitors.”

  “Mergan dear, my brother’s wedding …”

  “Mergan dear, my father’s funeral …”

  “Mergan dear, could you come to our house to help clean our blankets …”

  “Mergan dear, could you bring a jug of water for the circumcision ceremony …”

  “Mergan dear …”

  Slowly, Mergan had begun to take on the role of everyone’s wife, everyone’s sister. When she busied herself with her work, her face took on such a focus that invariably her employer was compelled to respect and even fear her. It would be impossible for someone else to be her master while she worked, and she would never allow it. Some women, it’s true, were inclined to view Mergan as an indentured servant—women like Moslemeh. But Mergan would hardly countenance such sentiments, and much less so now than ever before. Although she could be good-natured, it was impossible to mistake it for obsequiousness. Mergan’s passion in her work was not a sign of her wish to please her employer, but came from her desire to master the task at hand. Mergan had come to learn that if she approached her work without passion or determination, she would be overwhelmed and defeated by it. So she tackled each task with an open heart. The nature of any work is that it can break you down, eventually destroy you. But it’s you who must resist, hold your own ground. And Mergan would not accept seeing herself as in servitude, or as abject before her work. She tackled and uprooted each task before her.

  “Girl, go bring me the water sack and the gunny sack!”

  Hajer took the broom from her mother and went to bring what her mother had asked for. Mergan loosened her headscarf, stuck her head out the doorway, and spit out the dust that had collected in her mouth and throat. A coating of dust had settled on her eyelashes, eyebrows, and the band of her hair not covered by the headscarf. Dirt marked an outline on her teeth and caked around her nostrils. She felt as if her throat was tightening. She shouted, “Hajer …! Have you gone to bring the water from the Zamzam Spring in Mecca?”

  The girl was dragging the water sack with both hands with difficulty. Mergan stepped outside and took the water sack from her daughter and brought it into the room. First, she plunged her hands into the water and brought up handfuls of the liquid, sprinkling it into the air. Slowly, the dust subsided. Then she used a cup to sprinkle water on the walls and roof of the room. Hajer also did the same, but her work did not meet Mergan’s standards. So she took the cup from her daughter’s hand and continued to splash water on the ceiling. While dissolving the remaining grime from the walls and ceiling, the water also prepared the surfaces for whitewashing, as wet surfaces were better suited for the application of the whitewash.

  Zahra, the bitter homebody sister of Zabihollah, brought out a pot of tea, glared at Mergan, and said, “If you’ve not had a cup of tea in the morning, have one now!”

  Mergan splashed the last cup of water at a dry spot on the wall.

  “I had tea this morning, but put the teapot and cups on the ground by the wall. We’ll have some more!”

  Zahra put the cups and kettle down, grumbled under her breath, turned her thick buttocks around, and left the room.

  Mergan looked at her daughter.

  “What an oven of jealousy! She’s so envious she’s about to explode. She’d even be jealous of a desert bramble bush. Since she’s so beautiful!”

  Hajer asked, “Shall I wet the clay?”

  “Not now. Let’s have some tea first and let her stew over it. We’ll do it later!”

  They arranged the cups and sat down. They drank cup after cup. Each sip was accompanied by a disparagement of Zahra, and each insult was accompanied by the sound of Mergan’s guffawing laughter. Mergan sensed that with each cup she was pricking Zahra’s heart with a pin. In the end, Zahra couldn’t hold back and she poked her head into the room.

  “Not done having tea yet, are you?”

  Mergan said, “Come and take this all away! There’s a bit of tea left in the bottom of the teapot. Take a cup and have some yourself!”

  Zahra took away the teapot and cups, grumbling, “As if they’d just escaped a famine!”

  Mergan imitated her mockingly, saying to herself, “I hope you die from jealousy!”

  Hajer rarely saw her mother so happy. She attributed this joy to the success of her work, and to the fact that during the New Year’s season Mergan’s prosperity meant that she had become accustomed to the sound of coins and the color of bills. Hajer had not thought that the blood of youth could still course through her mother’s veins. Although Mergan appeared old and broken, inside she was not. Women of Mergan’s age, those who did not have the worries and problems that she had, are usually just reaching the heights of their womanhood. But alas, some are destined to age more quickly than others; Mergan was one of these. But one should not expect that in these cases, the vestiges of youth are completely erased. No, youth remains, if only hidden. Like something that is shameful, hidden in the far corners of the soul. It does not show itself, yet nevertheless it remains. It remains, wound up tightly inside, and given an opportunity or a momentary respite, it may show itself in the light of day. It waits, and if by chance the veil of age falls from one’s grim face, so does youth make a move and tear its own veil off without hesitation. Youth will not accept depression or anxiety; instead, it riots, crushing and destroying everything around it. It smashes all the walls that have risen around the soul, obliterating every barrier!

  Perhaps it was because of this that Mergan, as she moved around and between her tasks, snapped her fingers in rhythms, strode around in characters, and like a blushing new bride, told jokes to Hajer. This may also explain why Mergan sang while she worked, calling out romantic lyrics to different songs without a second thought. Does love have to be evident and apparent for one to have the right to be called “in love”? Sometimes love is hidden, but it also still remains. It remains because it has not truly gone. What is love, after all? Is it only that which is evident? No, in fact, if love is evident, it is not truly love. When evident, it becomes knowledge, wisdom. Love, one might say, is actually only evident when it is not. It’s not apparent but it can be discerned. It riles … overturns … leads to dancing and clapping. It brings tears … beats … runs. It drive
s the love-maddened lover into the desert!

  At times, one may be love personified. One may personify love just by being. By coming and going, by looking at the world. Love can be in one’s hands and heart, boil in you, without allowing you to recognize its footprints. Without your understanding where it entered into you, how it grew within you. At times, it’s better not to know. Perhaps you would want to know, yet also don’t want to, or can’t know. Sometimes love is simply that washed-out memory of Soluch and your mud-covered hands as you whitewash the walls. Perhaps love is Mergan herself! Love is evident and hidden at once. At times it excites; at times its pain throws you into a well.

  So, is it Soluch? Is he the well that Mergan’s been thrown into? Where is Soluch? It’s the New Year, the holiday. It’s that time when people of all kinds and classes drag themselves back to their homes, sitting around the tablecloth and, with whatever means are available to them, making an effort to enjoy one moment as special and different from the rest of the year. And where’s Soluch? Where could he be? In the foothills of Shahrud? What could he be doing in a coalmine?

  Is Soluch in the mines of Shahrud?

  Mergan knew her brother all too well. Molla Aman could tell a hundred stories without your knowing which of them was untrue. Could it be that he’d make up a lie to comfort Mergan? His own nature was that he couldn’t thrive in an air of gloom or depression. Perhaps he didn’t want to spend even one night at his sister’s side commiserating and cradling her sorrow in vain. Maybe he only hoped to bring some fresh air into their dark, silent home.

  But where is Soluch now?

  “Ah, Madam Mergan, how are you?”

  It was Karbalai Doshanbeh, Zahra’s and Zabihollah’s uncle. He filled the doorway with his stocky, short frame, holding himself up with a hand against the wall. He held a lamb’s collar in one hand, while his self-satisfied smile brought creases to the edges of his eyes. Mergan recognized his voice and without turning—and not because she couldn’t—greeted him back. He stepped into the room and placed his hands behind his lower back and looked at the walls and ceiling.

  “It’s truly the work of a genius! Never before have I seen a woman capable of this kind of hard work. Bravo …! May my neck break for having broken my own woman like a piece of glassware … Bravo, Mergan!”

  The sound of Karbalai Doshanbeh was soft and melodious, with an edge of sarcasm mixed with his perpetual self-satisfaction. In the resonance of his words a kind of presumption rang out, and that was the superiority of Karbalai Doshanbeh and his family. He had a kind of tribal chauvinism, and so did all the members of his family. Even if hunger were to bring them to their last breath, still the arrogant echo would remain which, in and of itself, mocked and ridiculed all others. This was the case with all of them, both woman and man. They were demanding, insulting. It was as if each of them had hung a veil of arrogance on their faces beforehand, so that all of their deeds and sayings would be marked by it.

  Mergan was well acquainted with Karbalai Doshanbeh’s nature and disposition. So even when she was the subject of his admiration and esteem, she could not help but sense the poisonous barbs that effortlessly dripped from his tongue and that were wrapped into every word. But she didn’t care. As far as Mergan was concerned, all this was old and unremarkable. Mergan imagined herself as a hedgehog that as soon as it senses an attack turns into a ball made up entirely of sharp needles. No animal is able to penetrate its defense. Mergan was thus made up of several different personas, and whenever needed, a different one would appear and face the world. At this moment, Mergan was a hedgehog. And none of the other personas wanted to give any notice to Karbalai Doshanbeh, saying to herself, “He can go to hell! I’m working, earning a wage!”

  But Karbalai Doshanbeh was not dissuaded. “I’ve heard the happy news that you’re giving your daughter’s hand in marriage?”

  “Oh … we’ll see what God wants.”

  “God only wants good. If the deed is good, God will place no obstacle before you. And praise Him, she’s really grown up!”

  “It’s in your kind eyes, Karbalai. Hajer is like your own servant.”

  Karbalai Doshanbeh turned and made a semi-circle, looking for a spot to sit down. There was nowhere to sit but in the doorway. He lifted the hem of his cloak and sat on the ground, set a shoulder against a wall, and brought his worry beads out from his pocket. He fingered the tiny beads with his short, thick digits. His lamb had come closer to him and was chewing on a bit of cloth torn from his cloak’s shoulder.

  “Did Zahra bring you something to drink?”

  “Yes, Karbalai. She brought us tea.”

  He extricated two raisins from his pocket and placed them on his tongue, saying, “Your children must have delivered my message to you, Mergan! I had said that if you have any needs, just let me know. After all, I have a bit of my own to share. We would come to terms easily. You’d be dealt with as a close friend. I don’t need any collateral from you, since you yourself are worth a good hundred ashrafis to me!”

  “May God not reduce your greatness, Karbalai. But with His help, we’ve survived the worst of the winter.”

  “Well, all I’m saying is that I’m not the kind to make hollow promises … No news from that worthless man of yours, Soluch, eh?”

  “Oh yes, I have news from him. He’s busy with work out near Shahrud. In the mines.”

  “It’s a lie! All of it! They’re putting you on. If you want my opinion, you should just consider Soluch as gone. He never had the strength and foundation to bear living away from here, much less so during the winter, with nothing to his name. He’d have gone mad, the poor fool. Who’s heard of a sensible man doing such a thing? In the darkness of winter! To leave from here then! I lived far away for some time, even as a prisoner. Six terrible years; everyone here knows about it. But returning in one piece is not something just anyone can do. Not that poor wretched Soluch; he could barely survive even while here. He’d sucked the marrow from his life already, the pathetic soul. He could hardly walk. He was dragging his legs behind himself as he went!”

  If the conversation had ended right here, and Karbalai Doshanbeh had descended off his podium to go take care of his own business, perhaps Mergan would have been able to just take in all he said and not react. But he couldn’t give up there. He’d found a foil for himself. He was sitting in his nephew’s house, preaching to a woman whose hands and hair and face were covered in mud. It was as if he was intending to reach in and empty Mergan’s heart simply through his oration. Mergan was trapped and didn’t know what to do. Should she respond? Of course, if she could … but how?

  “Karbalai, it’s never good to speak of one who’s not present.”

  Karbalai Doshanbeh responded with a sincerity verging on insolence.

  “You mean, to speak of the dead!”

  Mergan softly and painfully said, “What in the world had Soluch ever done to you?”

  “Oh, nothing, nothing. I never saw ill from him. He was always truthful in his business. But we didn’t know he was planning to leave. But the day before he left, he came to our Salar Abdullah and told him to come and settle his accounts by taking some pieces of copper work. But no, he was always honest in his dealings.”

  “Good. So why do you speak ill of him, then?”

  “So you want me to sing the praises of such a man? Hardly even a man! Ha! In whose care did he leave his young wife before going? In whose care? In the care of the wind of the plains? How am I to speak of such a person? Isn’t this just what he deserves? Do you even know what this means?”

  “What?”

  “If a man disappears himself in this way and is gone for several months—I don’t know how many exactly—and there’s no word from him, his wife is considered to have been divorced. Just as if a Muslim does not eat meat for forty days and nights he is considered an unbeliever! Did you know this? You’re a Muslim woman! A person without a spouse is cursed on the earth!”

  Karbalai Doshanbeh had said his peace.
He rose and said, “This is an important point, from religious law. So you should know about your own status and situation!”

  Mergan looked at the broken frame of the old man in silence. Karbalai Doshanbeh led his lamb away and left. She stood quietly for a moment and then, as if something suddenly clicked in her head, she sharply returned to her work. She snapped at her daughter, “What are you doing just standing there? Pour water in the mud! Can’t you see the clay is drying?”

  Hajer leapt back to work.

  Once again, the mother and daughter were swept away by the work. But now a thorn had pierced Mergan’s heart. Her heart was burning. Karbalai Doshanbeh had released a bag of poison in Mergan’s heart and left.

  Was it true, that Mergan was now single, and her marriage was invalid? Was Soluch no longer legally hers? Had Molla Aman brought untrue news of Soluch for his sister for this reason? These questions all mixed in her mind and made Mergan more and more anxious. Mergan had not taken this possibility into account. Could Soluch have divorced her with this silent act, just by leaving? Strange …! But why? Mergan wanted nothing from Soluch. So why had he not just divorced her by handing her a religious writ, as was legal? No, perhaps Karbalai Doshanbeh had made all of this up himself! It’s impossible. Mergan had to go in person and request a religious consultation. But what would people say? If Mergan went to request a decision for this question, the others in the village would say a thousand different things about her. It was impossible that they would not say, “The woman’s drunk! Her husband’s been gone for a short while to work and provide for her and their children, and she’s been possessed! What people you’ll find!”

  And if they said this—which they certainly would—Mergan felt they would have a right to. After all, she would say the same thing were it another woman instead of her. Things like, “She’s scrambling around trying to find a legal justification for herself!”

  But what would happen to Mergan? To her sons and daughter?

  So she needed information. The matter needed illumination. Mergan had the right to be worried for herself. The only path she could imagine taking was to go late one night to see the Molla of Zaminej. But how? His wife would certainly find out, and as soon as she’d heard what questions she’d brought to him, it would be spread all across the town. Any gossip from the Molla’s wife’s mouth had an audience of a thousand ears. So what to do?