Missing Soluch

by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi

  But they were free. The Sardar’s camels were free in front of Abbas, untethered and without bridles, without anything, not even the bells or chimes that camels often wear. It was spring, and spring breaks the work habit of a camel. It may gallop or trot if it likes. It froths at the lips and there is a wild abandon in its eyes. Spring fever intoxicates.

  Abbas had noticed spring fever in the camels over the past few days.

  The black male was walking ahead of the others. It was not far to the grazing lands. By the time the sun was up three ticks, the camels would be in the wild lands. The sun was rising, and with it the daybreak’s first heat was dissipating. The air felt milder and milder. Abbas began to feel that his shoulder was sweating beneath the sack he was carrying. The sunlight on the red earth reflected against the woolly coats of the camels. Abbas waved his walking stick over his head and called out, “Hey hey hey … you bastard!”

  The black male had turned on a mare camel. Abbas ran forward and brought a blow down on the temple of the male, who had grabbed the female’s throat in his teeth. Abbas brought down a second blow, and then another. The male let go of the mare and stared at Abbas. Froth was pouring from the edges of his mouth. With a shouted threat, Abbas pushed him forward and broke his stare. The black male camel fell in with the others and began walking ahead. Abbas walked along, calling at the herd.

  Over the last few days, the look of the male camel had changed. He seemed unsettled, as if there was a trace of hatred or even anger in his actions. Abbas had sensed this. The male also disturbed the other camels. He would act aggressively toward them, biting at them for no reason. He would suddenly grab at them with his teeth, biting their legs or their ears. Abbas had been riled by this. He had to constantly separate this one camel from the others. With a few blows and by shouting he could eventually be made to let go of the other animal, but sometimes it would take forty blows to his head and legs before he would let go. Abbas was not so softhearted as to be bothered by hitting the animal. He was concerned more for himself in the situation, since this wasn’t easy work. Separating two camels, one of which acts drunken and tinged with madness, made him tired and irritable. He would end up sweating all over. Alone in the desert, he’d be exhausted and had to eat more of his bread and drink his water quickly. As a result, he’d return home twice as exhausted as usual and collapse in his bed like a corpse at night.

  With the ascending sun, the herd entered the grazing lands. The scrub was long enough for them to eat, green and moist. Other than in spots, these lands were covered by wild shur, a kind of plant that only camels can eat while still green, but that could be used for feed for cattle if dried. In the spring and summer, men would gather the shur into bundles for feed for their donkeys and camels, stacking it in bundles alongside the outer wall of their homes. The plant would slowly dry up and lose its toughness while taking on some moisture from the rain, making it suitable for their sheep and goats. Some would pound the dried plant to collect its seeds for use in laundering clothes; this was called ajuvveh. But as long as it was still green and in the ground, the plant was only suitable for the camels; only their mouths could pull the plant out from the roots and eat it with its salty flavor. The camel’s store of water, perhaps, gave it a special ability to digest the plant inside its huge stomach.

  Abbas let the camels go free in the field while he set down his sack and sat beside an ancient well.

  This now-dry well was, as Abbas himself remembered, one of a chain of salt-water wells that were once connected underground. Before this system dried up, the water in it was used to power the old mill. Salt water is only useful for this, for turning the stone of the mill. But when the water level dropped, the mill also went out of use. And just before the old mill fell out of use, a new motorized mill was set up over in the village of Dehbid, taking over from Zaminej. People now had to take their wheat to this mill instead. So then the old salt-water mill’s doors were closed and the miller, old Shahmir, had migrated to Dehbid. There wasn’t much for him to do in Zaminej, and he’d gone blind by then as well. The times when Abbas helped his uncle Molla Aman with his peddling he’d sometimes see Shahmir in Dehbid, walking with one hand on a wall and a walking stick in the other, reciting old stories from the epic poems. If the women of Dehbid wanted, they would invite Shahmir into their homes for him to regale them with the old tales that only he knew from the poems.

  Now Shahmir’s old mill, far away from the village, situated at the end of the underground channel linked by the salt-water wells, had fallen into disrepair. Broken, dry, and crumbling, the mill was half-covered by sand and rubble and was a haven for snakes and mice.

  Abbas reached for the water flask, put its mouth to his, and swallowed. The water wet his mouth and throat. He returned the flask to his sack, closed the bag, and lay on his back. Face-to-face with the sun, he brought his eyelids together, closing them. This was what was good about herding camels. You could set the herd loose in a field and then just relax. You could sleep if you were sleepy—it didn’t matter. Before the evening prayers, all you had to do was get up once in a while and bring back any camels that had strayed too far away. The camels busied themselves, and the camel herder was usually free to do as he wished. If he was ambitious, the herder could go out alongside the camels and gather a bushel of the scrub to bring home with himself at dusk. But those who shared Abbas’ disposition would just while the day away until sundown, gathering the herd from the various corners of the field while there was still some sun, to bring them back to Zaminej. The evenings were the time for the young men to enjoy; sitting by a wall in the moonlight or gathering in the back room of Sanam’s house—that was what Abbas lived for.

  But where were the other guys now? All of the other youth, where had they gone?

  Between his closing eyelids, Abbas saw his peers leaving … They were already gone. It was so quick. He shut his eyes. He had to forget them. Abbas didn’t want to be the kind of man to let useless sorrow into his heart. Just like a young wolf that cannot afford to be swayed by regret or grief, he had to stay focused on eating his next meal and finding the next prey to ambush. No time for sentiments: let sorrow raise its head in some other place, far away.

  This was all well and good, but something still bothered Abbas. All this coming and going would no doubt bring changes to the village. Some things were almost certainly going to be rearranged. But what would they be? He couldn’t foresee them. He couldn’t pass by the old ruins of the salt-water mill with his eyes shut so as to forget Shahmir’s sad end. The mill that was now, at best, a haunt for spirits was not so long ago a warm and lively place. The people who brought their barley and wheat to be ground there would gather around its oven in the winter and tell stories and gossip. Abbas had gone there many times with Soluch to bring grain to be ground. Abbas rode on their donkey—this was before it died—holding a sack of barley between his legs while holding onto the bridle. The early mornings brought Soluch to the mill; for this reason, Abbas’ memories of the path were usually of sleeping on the way, or of being on the smooth stone ground beside the mill’s oven.

  But now, the motorized mill of Dehbid could grind all the wheat and barley that was brought to it from all over, making more flour from the grains than one could know what to do with. And old Shahmir, whose eyes could no longer see, was left only with the old stories that filled his mind. He was left to tap his walking stick as he wandered, recollecting all that he’d heard and seen in his life, relating it to others in the weaving of his stories.

  Could it be that the youth of Zaminej, Abbas’ contemporaries, would never again return to the village?

  Abbas was suddenly shaken. What if they didn’t return? Some might never come back, since it had been said that after the group of partners set up their motorized water pump, there would be even less water in the cisterns. People were complaining that the pump would suck out the underground water of the surrounding areas. Abbas couldn’t get his mind around it all—all of the changes that w
ere beginning to occur. All the talk of pistachio farming. Pistachios. Even the name was unfamiliar. Abbas had never even eaten a pistachio. He’d heard it was something similar to the meat of an apricot pit. He had seen apricots, out in the foothills, while he was traveling with his uncle. But in Zaminej, all that came out of the ground was barley and wheat and cotton. There were fruits also, such as honeydew or watermelons, and in some places people planted tomatoes.

  Abbas had heard that the water pump would reach down into the heart of the earth and bring up the water. Mirza Hassan and Salar had hired a few people to dig a well. When he heard this, Abbas thought of his father—himself a well digger. If he were still around, he could have become the overseer of the digging of the water pump’s well. They’d not need to have hired well diggers from Dehbid. The rumors were that a few of the other landowners had gotten their courage up and had also invested in the water pump, so they’d be able to make use of it for an hour or two at a time. But most villagers had not only refused to invest in the pump, but had begun to give voice to their dissatisfaction about it as well. Their claim was that the pump would dry out the cisterns, and that if this happened all the other village lands would become dry and worthless. They’d say, “What it means is that once the pump is set up, we’ll have to pack up our things and leave the village!”

  Ignoring their concerns, Salar Abdullah and his partners expected the pump to arrive from the town any day now. Mirza Hassan himself had spread the word that he’d gone to the capitol recently and settled the business of the pump and that nothing would stand in its way. Today, the tractor had gone out to Mirza Hassan and Agha Malik’s lands to plough the earth there. The lands that had previously been readied for dry farming and ploughed in a way to collect rainwater no doubt would be ploughed in a different way from today on.

  Abbas thought, “That clever bastard Abrau really knew what he was doing when he jumped onto the tractor’s running board! One day, I might find that he’s even forgotten his own brother’s name!”

  Deep in his heart, Abbas didn’t like Abrau. He felt like an abandoned fellow traveler, as if Abrau had gone and just left him behind. A dull and dust-covered grudge pierced at Abbas’ heart. Just thinking about it made him grind his teeth.

  “That son of a bitch! Like a clever dog nuzzling at his owner’s stirrups, he’s really got himself a nice little situation. But we’ll see what happens!”

  The lack of sleep from the previous night began to affect Abbas. Under the hot sun, his body began to go numb and his eyelids settled into the soft sands of sleep. The quiet of the fields and the wild lands settled like a weight upon his eyelids. Sleep overtook him. Then, all of a sudden, his body covered in sweat, he lifted his head from his sack and opened his eyes wide—the cry of one of the camels had filled the air. The dark camel had once again attacked the old mare. He had brought her to her knees and was sinking his teeth into her throat just beneath her jaw. The cries of the old mare took different shades, as if she were crying an old woman’s lamentation. She waved her head to and fro, and then began to scrape and hit her head against the earth. She cried out in pain, but the dark male would not let go of her throat, as if he was set on her destruction. Abbas had to do something. If the old mare were injured, it would be his responsibility. Of course, even if Abbas couldn’t be expected to compensate the Sardar for a lost camel, he would never find work again. They send a man out with the camels for a reason; and they expect you to be just that, a man!

  Abbas grabbed his stick and leapt up. He reached the camels quickly. Their necks were bent into each other; the old mare was beginning to lose her breath. Abbas began beating the dark male on the neck, raining blows on him. He grasped the stick with both hands, unconcerned with where he was hitting him, on his head or nose or neck. He beat him, and with each blow his anger rose. He beat him and swore with each blow, cursing the camel and its owner, cursing him and the earth and the sky above.

  Even with the most cold-hearted of people, when they are drawn to hit a beast in a moment of rage, there is still a sensation of pity that twinges in their heart. So usually a moment of realization will compel them to step back from their own wild violence. One sees villagers and camel herders or shepherds who, just after they have beaten an animal with a chain or stick or even rake or shovel, will begin to talk to the animal. They may shout at it, if only to give a reason or justification to the donkey or cow or camel for why they were drawn to lose control and take up violence, saying, “How else can I get it into your head, you beast?”

  But in this case, the unequal clash between the old mare and the black camel had closed the door of pity in Abbas’ heart. Abbas only knew that the black camel would have to be brought into line by force. So it was that he kept beating him with abandon, landing blow after blow upon his face and temple, like a rain of hail upon a black stone. Eventually the black stone cracked: the dark camel let go of the old mare’s neck, bellowing in anger, and turned his gaze to Abbas. The old mare drew herself to one side on her knees and lay on her side. Now Abbas had to draw the dark male away from the old mare. But the wild look in the camel’s eyes had frozen Abbas to his spot. The camel’s mouth was frothing and its eyes were fixed onto Abbas’ eyes.

  Abbas was taken with fear. But he couldn’t back down. One can never give ground to an animal. You can never show fear or it will attack you, throw itself on you, destroy you. He had to gather his wits!

  Abbas shook his stick once. He did it again. The camel was supposed to lower its head and walk away. This was what Abbas had hoped. But the camel stayed put, and even began to advance on him. It picked up speed. Abbas backed up, and kept moving back. It was all he could do. He’d heard that one should never show one’s back to a threatening camel. But this advice didn’t work in the open desert. He recalled hearing how Yargholi met his end. On the road between Damghan and Rey, a crazed camel attacked him and had ripped his arm clean off, right inside the Damghan caravanserai. He was about to be crushed beneath the camel’s hooves, but just as it was about to smash his bones, the other herders rushed in and pulled him out from under the beast.

  But now? Where were the other herders? Their absence here could well be filled by death. It was death that was now approaching Abbas with long steps, in the form of the large black camel. He could no longer keep backing up while keeping his eyes on the animal. It was impossible to not turn his back on it. It was impossible. Impossible. He had to do something. He was at war. He roused himself and prepared for war. Face-to-face, he lay one blow on the camel’s neck. The animal reared and cried out. Abbas attacked again, parrying then backing off. The camel then came at the boy, full of anger. Abbas recalled the old saying “A camel is late to grow angry, but woe to him who conjures anger in a camel!” Putting out the lake of fire that is its anger is no easy task. It will only burn itself out in a torrent of hatred. Its anger is like a thunderstorm raining daggers. Only the desert itself can absorb such a thunderstorm; but a single man, never. Escape. Now all he could do was run. He had to find a way to escape somehow. He needed an able body and quick feet. Be like the antelopes, Abbas! Run, run so fast as to leave even the wind behind. You’ll have to run along with the wind, quick and lightly, because the gallop of a camel itself has the speed of the wind in it. Because it’s death that is pawing at your back, now. And it’s you who are running in the shadow of death; if only you had four feet instead of two!

  Abbas wished he were closer to the ruins of Shahmir’s old mill.

  As he ran, he could feel the muzzle of the camel on his shoulder, as the giant shadow of the animal danced along his feet, rushing along the surface of the earth. Thirst. The moist breath of the camel was like the breath of a serpent that tickled the back of Abbas’ neck, hotter than the heat of any desert wind. His shoulder and neck were wet with spit from the camel’s mouth, but Abbas’ own sweat prohibited him from being able to sense it. There was only a single step between him and death. A single breath. But death, when it nears you, puts its body upon you
rs without your feeling it. That is the moment when life dangles along the border of two opposing forces. That is the moment when weakness overpowers, after the climax of a struggle. It’s the possibility of death that is so terrifying, not its actuality. And Abbas was already at the heart of death, and the intensity of fear had already drawn him to the climax of the struggle against it. He was now numb, and that fear that most often results in one’s surrender was put out from Abbas’ mind. There was no chance for him to even think, no chance for the kind of thinking that often leads one to surrender to the onset of death. For this reason, he could not even consider this possibility. Even to think, one needs a proper time and place. But Abbas could only run and run. This action was all that his body and soul would accept for him, and toward this end he deployed every ounce of power stored within his muscles and bones. His feet carried him on. The wind blew across an empty field, full of sunlight. Terror. Twigs and dried brambles. Winding shadows, the way of death in the approach of the camel. How unjust it is! A crazed beast grabs at the body of a man and knocks him with one hoof. The man falls. He tries to raise himself in vain, hoping against hope. But escape is impossible. His hope is in vain! The camel throws himself upon the man, dragging him beneath his chest. Just so he’s positioned directly beneath the bow of the animal’s chest. Then it crushes him, in such a way that as the sound of the man’s breaking bones are heard, and as he cries out from the pain of his pulverized limbs, and as the crazed animal cries out as well, he dies.

  This was what Abbas was facing, what he could be facing at any moment. His destiny. Oh no! The camel grabbed at his shoulder. He shook his body in defense, but the camel’s teeth continued gripping his shirt and jacket. The flag of death was rising. Abbas sent the last of his strength to his knees, but it was already too late. The crazed animal was already like a tent above him. Now he grabbed at Abbas’ head. The crazed scream of a human echoed across the fields. The camel was about to lift him and to throw him to the earth when Abbas pulled his head from its jaws and fell to his knees. Now the camel’s hooves were upon him. Abbas slid and rolled like a snake on the ground. The camel dropped to its knees to try to grab him again in its jaws. This was Abbas’ last chance. He raised himself to his knees and drew his knife from his waistband. There was no other choice so as to end the battle. But to slaughter a crazed camel is not something any man can do on his own. Even the oldest and weakest camel of a herd needs to be tied down, and it takes six men with six lengths of rope around its limbs and body for the seventh to be able to slit the animal’s throat at the jugular. And this itself isn’t the end of the story. Even at this point the animal, in the throes of pain with its throat cut, can tear off the ropes holding it down and crush the men who are near to it. So what hope could there be for a single boy with no assistance and no rope to tie down the crazed animal to be able to defend himself with a single knife? To be able to slay the animal on the spot? To be able to kill it quickly and escape the death throes of the dying animal? Even if this camel is already struck by madness?