But here, in Mergan’s home, Karbalai Doshanbeh began to feel as if he had been stung; he felt a burning sensation on the leathery surface of his heart. The sack of flour that had been sent to Mergan by the Sardar stung him. But he also felt stung by the partners that owned the water pump and tractor. At this point, this seemed even more important to him; it distracted him from the matter of the sack of flour.
“Eh? So you don’t have an answer for me, Mr. Driver? When is the water pump of these novices arriving? For two or three days now my Abdullah keeps talking of slaughtering a sheep in celebration. So I’d guess it’s coming soon, eh?”
Abrau uncomfortably answered, “Yes, I would think it’ll reach Zaminej any day now. Mirza Hassan’s gone to bring it here.”
It’s not necessary for someone to have killed your father for you to have a grudge against him. There are people whose walking, talking, or even their laughter incites hatred within others. Karbalai Doshanbeh was one of these people; at least that was how Abrau saw him. To begin with, on numerous occasions he had made insulting comments concerning Soluch. Even the bits of copper that Salar Abdullah had taken from their home as collateral, or the welts he’d had from the lashes that had him twisting in the cottonwood field like a snake, all led back to Karbalai Doshanbeh. Added to this was now his heavy, suffocating presence in their home—this had been going on for much more than simply a day or two. It had now been some months since he first began finding excuses to come and sit in their house. Sometimes he would not even bother to invent an excuse, and he would just sit and make snide comments, or sit silently like a sentry to the gates of hell. To understand the psyche of Soluch’s younger son, one has only to place oneself into his shoes. In the folds of Karbalai Doshanbeh’s calm and unemotive face, a kind of impudence and cheekiness shone through. Something that was not easy to rub off and clean away. This shadow cast itself over Mergan’s entire life like a dark cloud. And perhaps Karbalai Doshanbeh’s self-confidence was overstated, as if he needed to feel confident regarding the Mergans of the world as a consequence of his own failures. Whatever the reason for it, his presence was an insolent insult for Abrau. He couldn’t stand seeing the old man. How many times had he imagined himself tearing off the old, stained kerchief from around his throat? His presence in the house was suffocating him. It was like a slap in the face. In the company of the old man, he’d been unable to hold his head up at all, or even to look directly at his mother. He was in torment, a life-sapping, constant torment. It wasn’t something that just stung him and let him be. It wasn’t just a kind of pain. It was something living, something that had been born within Abrau’s soul, and was always with him. Something he couldn’t shake, even if for a moment, even if just to have a breath of air. The constant jabs and insinuations only made the situation more intolerable.
“Ha! I’ve heard you’re packing away your daddy’s shoes!”
“I’ve heard you say, ‘Yes ma’am’ to a flea!”
“Abrau, my boy! When will I see you carrying my bath things and following me to the bath house?”
“Don’t worry. He’s bound to have found a place to lay his head down somewhere!”
“It’s not what you’ve heard! Karbalai Doshanbeh’s not one to give up a fight with the angel of death!”
“Look, it seems Mergan’s appetite is increasing!”
“Mergan was never really one to skip a meal, even back when she’d eat thirty-five seer in a sitting!”
These barbs were always followed by laughter. Laughter that brought spittle to Karbalai Doshanbeh’s mouth, with his long tongue, his bulging unkind eyes, his terrible teeth. And worse, no one else knew what Abrau was enduring. It felt as if he was confronted with a barrage of insinuations and insults as soon as he lifted himself from his bed in the morning. What could he do? Once, he had stopped Salar Abdullah and said, “Salar! You have to tell Karbalai not to come to our house like he does. It’s not right.”
Salar Abdullah had replied, “He’s my father, not my son! How can I prevent him from doing what he wants to do? He’s his own boss.”
And he had stepped aside and walked away.
What more could Abrau do? Their house didn’t have doors or rooms to be able to find a bit of privacy from visitors. Karbalai Doshanbeh would just tuck his head down, cough at the door, and then walk in and sit in a corner of the house. It didn’t matter when or what time of day it was, either breakfast or dinner. Once there, he would drink their tea and eat their bread. He would even pick at the bottom of a bowl and lick it, before sitting back and saying, “Thank you, God! You have the goodness. You have our thanks!”
Recently he’d begun to bring raisins with himself. When Mergan would pour him a cup of tea, he’d fish around in his pockets, bringing out a few raisins and handing the others two raisins each. Wild raisins from the mountains. But no one would take the raisins he’d set out for them. But as soon as he’d walk out the door, each of them would take the raisins he’d set out for them and eat them, even Abrau.
During the entire time that Karbalai Doshanbeh would be sitting there, Abrau would be trying to guess what Mergan was thinking. But it was impossible; he could never make out anything clearly. Mergan herself would not visibly react to the man’s presence. She would just sit and do her work, sewing a patch or washing up. She was busy with repairing clothes, or standing by the stove, or coming and going, managing the affairs of the house. She showed little interest in Karbalai Doshanbeh; she seemed to just endure him as if he were something hung on the wall. It was clear that tonight, her agitation was unrelated to his presence in the house. She had been anxious before his arrival. She had also broken two glasses earlier, at the mourning ceremony at Zabihollah’s house. This was unlike Mergan; she was not a woman to be clumsy in the work she did.
The Sardar rarely made an appearance in the weddings or funerals held for people in the village, but he was sitting against the wall in Zabihollah’s home. Mergan was busy with bringing and taking the tea, sugar, and tobacco from the kitchen and was trying to act as if the Sardar was not there. But the eyes of the Sardar, like two arrows, were provoking Mergan. Her anxiety and agitation rose until the booming voice of the Sardar intoned, “At least bring me a cup a water, won’t you, woman!”
Mergan was shaken. Her toe caught in the leg of her pants and she tumbled onto the floor. Two of the cups fell on a stone and were smashed to bits. Mergan felt dead and brought to life: she would never forgive herself for losing her composure like that. She had struggled to complete her work that night, and when she returned to the house, her face was pale with agitation.
Abrau couldn’t imagine that something had happened between Mergan and Karabalai Doshanbeh, though. Let those who gossip say what they will. He just simply couldn’t imagine it. He wouldn’t even allow the thought of it into his mind. But why was Mergan ill at ease in her own skin tonight? Why was she jittery and unable to stay still? Why was she busying herself with chores for no reason?
Abrau was baffled.
Karbalai Doshanbeh spoke up, just like a cloud that occasionally rumbles with thunder.
“If Soluch, God rest his soul, were still alive, he could probably work for these new lords as a well digger for their new pump. At least that would have been work for him!”
Abrau remained silent, but inside he felt as if he was tied into a knot. He waited for his mother to say something, but Mergan instead chose to get up and go outside. She ignored Karbalai Doshanbeh’s barb, but the old man grinned a poisonous smile, and exclaimed, “Hmmmm!”
Abrau felt his whole body convulse. His young heart was beating against the wall of his chest. He felt his lips had become dry as mud-brick. He’d had to fight numerous fights as a child, and he’d heard many things said in each. He’d sometimes replied to these things in kind. Sometimes he’d been beaten; while sometimes he’d given his opponent a beating. But Karbalai Doshanbeh was something else. He was another level. And Abrau didn’t have expertise in this kind of game. This old oppon
ent! What could he do? Everyone has to take a fall and be beaten at one point or another. At least once in one’s life. So it was time for Abrau to take a risk. With a shaking voice marked with the fear and anxiety of youth, he spoke up.
“What bastard’s told you that my father’s dead?”
Karbalai Doshanbeh didn’t so much look at him with his eyes as with two lizards, saying, “Uh oh! Look who has a tongue in his mouth!”
Then he fell silent. He turned away from Abrau. He looked at the ground and began fiddling with his worry beads.
Abrau leapt up like a flame and ran out the door. Mergan was standing outside by the clay oven, her calloused fingers to her lips.
Abrau dashed to his mother and stomped a foot on the ground.
“Why don’t you throw that man out of the house?”
What could Mergan say to this?
Abrau expelled all the rage that had been caught in his chest through a single syllable.
“Eh?”
Mergan took the boy’s elbow and led him into the stable. It was the only place where one could have a private conversation. But the sound of heavy steps at the door of the stable stopped them before they could speak. They could feel that a man had rounded the wall and was coming to the house. They both turned; a giant was facing them. The Sardar! His teeth shone white in the midst of his bushy beard. Abrau sensed the trembling that had taken over Mergan’s body through her fingers, still holding his elbow. The trembling of a bird in the trap of a viper. He sensed that she had gone pale. The Sardar began laughing, approaching them. He had a handkerchief filled with something. He set the handkerchief between Mergan’s chest and arm, and he turned and entered the house.
“How’s my old friend there?”
Abbas was silent, all eyes. He stared at the Sardar as he had stared at Karbalai Doshanbeh. He didn’t reply to the Sardar’s inquiry, but the Sardar hadn’t expected one anyway.
“Don’t worry about him! I lost my camel to him, but there’s always more to have in the world, eh, Mergan?”
Abrau and Mergan stood in the door, watching this uninvited guest standing in their home. Mergan saw a black look in the Sardar’s eyes. She lowered her head in silence. The Sardar pulled a pipe from his cloak, sat on the mortar, and took out his tobacco. Seeming as if he’d just noticed Karbalai Doshanbeh, he exclaimed, “Well! Karbalai is here, too!”
Karbalai Doshanbeh had not moved from his place. He’d not move for the Sardar or for God Himself. He hadn’t even raised his head. This was not just here; that was how he was everywhere. Whether in mourning, or at a wedding, or at any gathering for any reason; it was just the millstone that he was.
The Sardar’s pipe smoke rose, and Karbalai Doshanbeh looked at him from the corner of his eyes.
“So, you say you’ve come to see how your old friend here is doing, eh?”
Karbalai Doshanbeh’s question gave light to a suspicious presumption, which did not escape the Sardar’s notice. It was the kind of suspicion that the person who says it is aware of, and the person who hears it is aware of as well. Old opponents understand each other’s speech. This understanding between the Sardar and Karabalai Doshanbeh was not recent; they had known each other well for some thirty years. When the Sardar was young, Karbalai Doshanbeh was already a man. They would lead their camels together in caravans. Head to tail, they would comprise a single team. During their travels, they would rarely be apart. The Sardar was the front leader of the caravan and Karbalai Doshanbeh would be responsible for overseeing the entire team. But it would be wrong to think that their familiarity with each other was a kind of friendship. This was because Karbalai Doshanbeh was rarely a friend to anyone. The sense of companionship he shared with some people was simply borne out of need. These were needs that arose from having to cross a dangerous pass in the deepest winter snow, or in having to cross the desert in the summer heat. For him, companionship was simply a solution to the problem of being alone, either to face the threat of wolves in the winter or to find protection from jackals in the summer. Everyone knew this. But you can’t kill someone for being self-preserving. Goats have hair, and sheep have wool.
“Will you smoke a pipe, Karbalai?”
“Um … yes … I’ll smoke.”
The Sardar offered his pipe to Karbalai Doshanbeh.
“You’ll suck it up even if they were giving it away for free! Ha ha! You’ve been smoking pipes for a hundred years, but I’ve never once seen you take out a bag of your own tobacco from your sack.”
Karbalai Doshanbeh exhaled the smoke from the pipe and said, “A hundred years? More like a hundred and twenty years! Just go and bring my death shroud, won’t you? Do you think you’re a spring chicken yourself? Don’t judge by your beard, just because it’s still jet-black! How old do you make yourself to be, anyway?”
“How old do you think I should be?”
“You tell me.”
“Fifty. At most, I’m fifty.”
“No. Start at twenty! You’re still innocent and haven’t seen the world, eh?”
“So you think I’m older than fifty?”
“I told you: you’re twenty!”
“If I’m older than fifty, why don’t I have a single white hair?”
“What does white or black hair have to do with anything? A goat’s hair is black! Is that an argument? White hair runs in the family.”
“So your beard went white while you were still a young man?”
“Ahmmm …”
Karbalai Doshanbeh wrapped his lips around the pipe, and the Sardar looked at Mergan with a gleeful smile.
“You don’t want to bring us a cup of tea and a date?”
Mergan was still holding the handkerchief full of dates. She didn’t know what to do with them.
“Put them somewhere by the cabinet. Just put them over there. They’re delicious dates.”
Mergan put the handkerchief by the cabinet. Then she looked at Abrau, who looked away from her. Mergan went to put the kettle on the stove.
“Hey, Abrau! Where are you, boy?”
Salar Abdullah’s voice rang in the alley. Abrau ran out. He couldn’t bear the thought of Salar Abdullah coming inside and filling the room with his huge frame as well. He met him and stood chest-to-chest with him, his back against the wall.
“Yes, Salar?”
“Run! Run and bring the ram over to the road! Mirza Hassan is coming. He’s bringing the water pump. Everyone’s gathering at the road. We need to celebrate by killing a ram! Now, go. Run!”
Mergan was standing with one foot inside and one foot outside of the house, listening to what Salar Abdullah was saying. She listened to her son’s footsteps and those of Salar Abdullah until they faded into the distance. Then she returned to the room.
“So, they’ve finally brought it!”
Karbalai Doshanbeh was speaking to himself.
Megan sat beside the stove.
The Sardar asked, “What does this new group want to do with their water pump, Karbalai?”
As always, Karbalai Doshanbeh waited a few moments before offering a few words.
“No doubt they want to draw water up from the earth! Ha ha!”
“But from dry earth?”
“What do I know?”
“But if our land had water, it wouldn’t be dry. If it had water, our canals wouldn’t be drying out every day.”
Karbalai Doshanbeh saw that the Sardar and he shared the same view in this matter.
“They say the water in the canals is so low there’s no point in re-dredging them.”
“Well, let them dredge them again, if they want!”
Karbalai Doshanbeh began to laugh silently.
“What? Dredge them? Who’ll take charge of that? You have an active imagination! This group can’t manage to drink a glass of water without someone telling them what to do. They can’t get anything done without the threat of the stick! When there used to be one or two real leaders in this village, the landowners used to collect money to have the
canals dredged. Soluch himself, God rest his soul, used to make a month’s living every year from dredging them. But now that our former leaders have gone to live among strangers in town, they don’t bother with the canal waters any more. So this is now in the hands of the petty landowners. They’ve spent all their money for the land and irrigation on buying and selling. So the canals have fallen into the hands of this group of new lords! And they each think they should be in charge, since none of them trusts the others. Each of them considers the promises of the others as worthless. They each say, ‘What do I care? I only have a foot of water myself. Why don’t the others do anything about it? What’s it to me?’ The other issue is that the value of grain has fallen. That’s the most important reason, actually. They have to sell their wheat for less than three tomans per unit. It’s not worth it to the petty landowners to farm more than what they’ll use themselves. So now everyone who has some land and a bit of water only plants enough for his own use. During the harvest, how much pay can you set aside to hire gleaners? And those who don’t have land have to buy their wheat from the market. So, they need to get money from somewhere. Where will the landless in Zaminej make money these days? From the small landowners? The small landowners are already in a tight spot. That’s why Zaminej is falling apart now. The young men are leaving to sell their labor elsewhere. Many may not return. That’s why the canal’s been forgotten. Everyone’s forgotten about the canal. And the canal’s like a person, or, if you like, a camel or a sheep. If you don’t care for it, if you don’t feed it, when you don’t care for it when it gets sick, it falls from its feet. It becomes ill. It gets worse day by day. Its throat tightens; that’s the water level dropping … and it will get still worse than it is now! You’ve not seen anything yet! Mirza Hassan will show up and hire a few simpletons to help dig the well for this pump. But what will be the end of all of this? I don’t see any good coming from it. And I say this while my own son is a partner in this plan!”
Missing Soluch Page 32