Missing Soluch

by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi

  “Fill the cup with clay, girl!”

  Mergan took the clay-filled cup from Hajer. She wiped clay over a spot under a high shelf and stepped back from her work. She still had to go to the house of Mirza Hassan, Agha Malak’s son-in-law, to do the same task there. She brought her implements out into the yard. She set out to wash up by the edge of a pit next to the olive tree. Hajer poured water onto her mother’s hands and then sat so her mother could do the same for her. Zahra came out of the kitchen and looked at Mergan from the corner of her eyes before calling, “Zabiholla told me to tell you to be sure to do two coats. You know he …”

  Mergan picked up some of her tools and said, “Tell him I’ll send Abrau to come and collect the payment.”

  She didn’t stick around for further conversation. She walked out the door and told her daughter to gather the remaining implements and to bring them.

  * * *

  In the house, bread and tea were consumed without a word. When dry bread is combined with water, it expands inside the stomach, and when combined with a hard day’s work, it brings on sleep. But Mergan couldn’t succumb to the heaviness of her eyelids. Before the exhaustion could set in, she rose and took her work tools and Hajer and headed to the house of Mirza Hassan.

  They had just set the table and the fresh blood of a recently slaughtered lamb was still on the ground. Salar Abdullah, Zabihollah, and Mirza Hassan were sitting on a cloth out in the sun beside the yard pool while picking their teeth. Salar Abdullah was sitting with his back against the wall, leaning the back of his head against it. Although he was sitting on one knee, holding up his body with his left hand, he still looked taller than the others. Zabihollah, round and bruised-looking—not unlike his uncle Karbalai Doshanbeh—was sitting cross-legged by the throw-cloth, picking at the mud dried on the cuff of his trousers. Mirza Hassan, a petty landowner in Zaminej, had risen and was going to fetch a round of tea.

  Mergan, observing tradition, offered her greetings to the men before heading to the room behind the porch.

  Mirza Hassan had put colored glass in two of the small windows of the room. The room was already clean and didn’t need to be swept and washed down. Just a little water splashed on the walls would be enough. Hajer, as a student who has begun to master her lesson, went out to fill the water sack from the yard pool and brought it back. Mergan then began sprinkling the room with water.

  “You’re working hard for the New Year’s season. Bravo, Auntie Mergan!”

  It was the sound of Salar Abdullah. He was sweet-talking her from where he had been sitting. Mergan didn’t reply. From the moment when she learned that Zabihollah and Salar Abdullah and a couple of the others had designs on God’s Land, she couldn’t bear seeing any of them. She refused to look them in the face. But one has to separate the accounts between breadwinning and those reflecting personal preferences of good and bad in people. Sometimes, one has no choice but to accept work and pay from the devil himself. One can’t use the same hand to accept one’s wages and to ask for help. That’s just how things are. Despite this, Mergan didn’t have the heart to respond to Salar in a voice that feigned happiness. She didn’t see the need to.

  Let him go to hell!

  So she preoccupied herself with her work. After all, at this moment, Mergan wasn’t just a toy for Salar Abdullah!

  Mergan had heard that Salar Abdullah had been speaking about buying a tractor. She had heard it said that Zabihollah and Mirza Hassan and Kadkhoda Norouz were all partners in this purchase. Then, talk of a water pump also arose, and of unifying different scraps of land into a single domain. Then, the gossip became complicated and Mergan couldn’t quite follow all of it. So, she let her imagination take over. Based on things Ali Genav had said, and what she had more or less heard from others in the village, Mergan pieced together that the larger landowners were now in a partnership. According to Ali Genav, the Kadkhoda’s interest in this was that in addition to what he already had, the parts of his farmland that would not be served by the water pump would be ploughed for two years by the communal tractor. But Mergan couldn’t really believe that this could all be possible.

  Mirza Hassan’s voice rose.

  “They’ve accepted the plan. Pistachio farming is a new trend across the country. If it catches on—and I hope it does—it’ll turn the whole nation around. On paper, after eight years, the harvests will have us richer than we’d ever dreamed.”

  Mergan hadn’t known of these details. She had only heard that Ghodrat’s uncle had offered his land and, so they said, had received a promise that he would work minding the water pump. And Ghodrat’s father, who was heavily in debt to Kadkhoda Norouz, had come to an agreement as well. He bought his opium from him and so had been compelled to give up his land. But at this point, Salar Abdullah and his partners had not yet been able to make deals with many of the others, people like Mergan and Sanam’s sons, Morad and Asghar Ghazi.

  Salar Abdullah had called for Sanam’s sons, and they had now come and were sitting beside the pool. Asghar Ghazi had a long neck and bony shoulders, a thin upper body, and a mole on his chin. He looked at the ground and played with pebbles in his hand, saying, “No, no. I’m a farmer here. I’m not the kind to take any other work. I’m staying in Zaminej. I’m busy here with my plot here, and in the end, I keep a couple of the watermelons just to wet my dry mouth with.”

  “To repay you, we’ll get the best opium from Kadkhoda Norouz to give you; that’ll be your repayment. In the opium den you and your mother run, you can make a living from that.”

  “No, Salar! I’d rather buy the opium from the Kadkhoda with cash. You can count on it!”

  “So why isn’t Morad choosing to drag his feet like this?”

  Morad looked at his brother.

  Ghazi said, “No, my case is different from Morad’s, Zabihollah. Morad isn’t meant to stay in Zaminej. His heart isn’t here. He wants to leave. He needs to pay for his travel. But as for me … where could I go? My mother and I aren’t able to leave like him! Morad has wanderlust; he’s young, he’ll be fine anywhere he goes and whatever he does. But let a cold wind blow in my face and I’m sick in bed for a month. And my mother’s worse. So we’re both fated to stay here. We’re stuck with this land, Salar!”

  Zabihollah placed a cup of tea before Ghazi and said, “Drink. Your mouth must be dry like wood now! You’re smoking a lot, man! You’ve become like a pipe yourself!”

  Salar Abdullah looked at Mirza Hassan and said, “So, you’ll pay Morad’s way, yes?”

  Mirza Hassan said, “Sure. I’ll pay for his travel!”

  Morad looked at his brother and said, “My voice has gone hoarse from telling you to lend me what I need for me to go! I’ll give you my part of the land, and I’ll repay you the money later. I’ll go and work, and I’ll send you the money. If I don’t pay any of my other debts, I’ll be certain to pay off my debt to you. But you’re so cheap! Well … now what should I do? Will you lend me what I need or shall I sell my share of the land to these people?”

  Ghazi sipped the tea and said, “You keep saying ‘give me’! No one’s at your neck with an axe, but all you want is to extort from me!”

  “I want to extort from you? You poor little lamb, who are you for me to extort from you? All I want is a little money to pay for my travel, in exchange for giving you my share of the land. That’s extortion?”

  “What share of yours? You keep talking about this land! How many times in your life have you dug that land with a shovel? Tell me! I’ve worked that land myself. I’ve planted cottonwood around it. I’ve sweated over it, weeded it on hot summer days. I’ve had to struggle just to pick a handful of watermelons from the melon patch—where were you on those days? Just because we came from the same belly, you think everything I own is also yours?”

  “Everything you have? Tell me again, what do you own, anyway?”

  Others had begun to arrive. Those who worked on God’s Land. Asghar Ghazi gave up. He could see the veins on his brother’s n
eck beginning to bulge. Ghodrat’s father also arrived, as did Ali Genav. Hajj Salem and Moslem also showed up. Salar Abdullah invited the new arrivals to sit beside the wall, which they did. Morad rose, along with Asghar Ghazi. Mirza Hassan removed his money pouch from his side pocket and took Morad to one side.

  “Do you need anything other than just the cost of your travel? I’ll pay your way directly—but why are you being such a loudmouth?”

  Morad said, “Let’s wait for now. Just let it be, Mirza. Later … I’ll … I’ll …”

  “What do you care about the good or bad of it? Take this money and go. I’ll make a deal with Ghazi myself—he has to listen to us!”

  Mergan called from the doorway, “Hey … Asghar Ghazi! Pay your brother’s travel costs so he can go! That is, if you don’t want your land taken from your own hands!”

  “If you’re so worried about him, pay him yourself! The same way you wanted to give your daughter to him!”

  “You fool! I’m thinking for you. You’re going to lose your land. He’s your partner in that land, you know.”

  “Don’t mix up things! Morad’s not my partner. If he takes money from Mirza Hassan, that’s between them. It has nothing to do with the land. Hey … everyone here! You are my witnesses that Morad has no claim to my land!”

  Mergan came out into the yard, her head and body covered with dust and plaster, looking for Asghar Ghazi, but he had just left. She turned and approached Morad, taking him to one side.

  “If it’s just money for your travel, I’ll lend it to you. Don’t sell the land!”

  “What sweet nothings are you whispering in the ears of our young people, Mergan dear!”

  Mergan ignored Salar Abdullah’s interjection, walked to the porch, and then was lost in the room inside. Morad followed in his brother’s footsteps. The partners began haggling over the plots on God’s Land with those who had arrived. Mirza Hassan had written up a document already and had placed it aside for those who worked the land to sign. First of all, he showed the document to Hajj Salem.

  “But I don’t own any of God’s Land!”

  “But no one does, Hajj Salem. It’s intended to be a petition for the whole village. Everyone has rights here and we want to respect them. So anyone can sign this, or put a fingerprint on it. Moslem, you come here, too!”

  Mergan was focused on her own work, but she was monitoring the sounds outside. She could sense the quality of each sound: demanding, unsatisfied, flattering, browbeaten, noncommittal, or indifferent. All the smaller farmers had spread the word that Salar Abdullah and his partners were interested in paying for the land. So everyone was coming; those who worked on God’s Land, as well as those who farmed elsewhere. They were practically begging. Others were lying, but they thought they could snap their fingers and get something. They had nothing to give, save the fingerprints they left on the petition. Shortly, only a few were left haggling with Salar Abdullah and his partners. But there was a solution for this, too. Mirza Hassan had the skills of a diplomat; he could sweet-talk almost anyone. So most, eventually, left satisfied.

  Mirza Hassan’s voice was strong and clear.

  “What we’re doing is different from when you see ten or twelve half-dying people who don’t even have a shovel between them to dig up the land to try to farm. You can’t even call that farming. It’s more like keeping themselves busy. I’ve seen it; you all know what I’m talking about. Ten people without an ounce of energy or life. Scrambling like ants in different corners of God’s Land, working the scrub for a few days each year, and eventually harvesting a handful of watermelons. And only watermelons! Why only watermelons? Because for a hundred years it hadn’t even occurred to you to try to plant something other than watermelons. And so you’ll go on teaching your children the same things you learned from your fathers. Have you ever thought for a minute that you can plant something other than watermelons on God’s Land? Clearly, no! In any case … even if one of you had thought of it, where are the tools you’d need? How would you prepare the land for planting? You can’t just use your bare hands. You need to spend money on the land! Without investment, it’s useless. I’m saying this for everyone here. But I’m saying this especially to those of you here who have thought that they were sitting on a pot of gold! It’d be good if you listen carefully; land that has no legal deed is the property of whoever makes it bloom. Am I exhausting my voice for no good reason here? Those three or four who are still holding out had better know they have nothing to stand on. We want to move ahead with this in a way that makes everyone happy and satisfied. We have to live as neighbors, so it’s best we’re all in agreement and at peace. I don’t want the outside authorities to be dragged into Zaminej. But I’m afraid some of my partners may be a little inflexible. And those who have deeds to other lands around here should really stop playing the beggar! How long are they expecting to graze donkeys or camels on their bits of land? They really either have to sell up or join our group and have their own part in the partnership. I’m not too polite to say this; my plans for the land have already been accepted by the authorities. Which means the government wants this to go ahead …”

  Mergan hadn’t noticed that she had stopped working and was frozen in her place listening closely to Mirza Hassan’s speech. But now she couldn’t make out what was being said. There was a muttering so quiet it was almost inaudible. Softly, the sound of one or two sets of feet leaving could be heard. Then Mirza Hassan said, “Say hello to those who didn’t come to this meeting! Tell them that after the third time, I’ll stop trying to make contact with them!”

  Mergan sensed that the gist of what Mirza Hassan was saying was addressed to her and those like her. She began her work again. It was as if this issue rubbed her the wrong way and there was no chance to accommodate her. She had already developed a grudge over this issue, a grudge that came from the pain in her life. It was as if her entire life now depended on this one little bit of land. She didn’t want to yield an inch, even though she wouldn’t admit to herself that her steadfastness was at root a purely emotional response. If she was honest to herself, she knew better than anyone else that God’s Land was no more than scrubland that couldn’t provide much for her and her children’s sustenance. But she felt her only choice was to stand her ground.

  “Did you hear what was said, Mergan?”

  Mergan turned. Ali Genav was standing by the door. “What do you think?”

  Mergan said, “I have no intention of selling off my children’s inheritance!”

  Ali Genav said, “You think you can stand up to them on this? Mostly everyone else has taken what’s been offered and has left. You know as well as I that that land isn’t much for farming!”

  “Everyone has to make their own choice.”

  “What shall I do?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “No, depending on you … no! If you won’t sell, then I won’t. And if you want, I’ll give the land to Hajer in our marriage contract.”

  Hajer had hidden herself in the corner. Ali Genav continued, “Will you have time today to go to the baths?”

  Mergan replied, “If I have a chance to I’ll come by and pick up the keys from you.”

  Ali Genav turned to go, but found Mirza Hassan face-to-face with him. He was stretching and strutting as he ascended the stairs to the room.

  “So what do you say, Ali?”

  Ali Genav looked at Mirza Hassan and said, “I think I need to sleep on it.”

  “So go and sleep on it then!”

  At the door, Mirza Hassan greeted Mergan. “So now your Hajer’s all grown up, Mergan! Now it’s her time, and hopefully it’s all for the best!”

  Mergan didn’t stop working and she mumbled something under her breath in response to his greeting. Mirza Hassan leaned against the doorway; he stretched his long neck and looked into the room. Mergan was covered from head to foot in muddy water from her work. Ali Genav exclaimed, “God give you strength in your work!”

  Mergan tied
an old shirt to a broomstick and plunged it into a bucket of whitewash. She straightened her back and said, “Thank you for coming by!”

  Mirza Hassan pleasantly enquired about Mergan’s health, to which she replied in dry monosyllables.

  “So, are your sons thinking of leaving Zaminej for work, Mergan? Do they plan on going elsewhere?”

  “What should I know?”

  “I can give one of them work right here. Your Abrau is a clever boy, but the other one’s not good for much.”

  “That’s how it goes.”

  Mirza continued, “If I were in your shoes, I’d send Abbas off with the other young men who are leaving Zaminej; let him work in other areas and grow up a bit.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “If you do want to send him off to work, I would be happy to pay for his travel for you.”

  “Should he want to go, I’ll find the money for his travel from somewhere myself!”

  “Yes, of course, you’ll find it somewhere. But let me give you the money to settle my debt to you.”

  “What debt, Mirza?”

  “I’m talking about God’s Land. It wouldn’t be proper for me to just evict everyone from the land and tell them to go. God wouldn’t approve.”

  “Where would you want us to go, Mirza? Where?”

  “Mergan, don’t play games with me. We’ve already registered God’s Land to our own names. We intend to work it and to plant pistachios on it. That’s a suitable crop for this land. You know, if pistachios are a yielding crop, what benefits can it bring not just to Zaminej but to this entire area? The engineers say that the pistachios that grow here can be more valuable than the famous pistachios of Rafasanjan! We want to make this area bloom. How long can we keep on just planting watermelons?”