Abbas said, “How much does a pack of playing cards cost, anyway? Do you know?”
“Abbas, you’re still awake!”
It was Morad’s voice. Abbas turned to look where the sound came from. Morad peeked over the wall.
“Oh, you’re here as well?”
There was a hint of shame in his voice. He walked around and into the yard.
“Come on up next to us. There’s plenty of room.”
“I’m fine here.”
“Come on! Come here!”
Morad could sense clearly that Abrau was desperate for someone to talk to. He sat at the edge of the oven and asked, “So what’s new? I hear the Gonbadi driver’s up and left? I saw the tractor over by the graveyard, gathering dust! They say the driver took the motor on the excuse of repairing it and he’s disappeared! Ha! You must know all about this; was the motor really in need of repairs?”
Abrau said, “I don’t know. I don’t know! However it is, it looks like the tractor’s a goner!”
“You don’t think the Gonbadi driver took the motor to make up for the pay they owe him?”
“Who knows? Maybe.”
“Definitely! A hard-working person doesn’t accept to have his pay delayed until the harvest! People like that aren’t easily fooled by the likes of Mirza Hassan, either! The guys from Gorgon have had ten or twenty years’ experience with all of this. But where is Mirza Hassan now?”
“He’s disappeared. That’s what I was just telling Abbas. There’s been no word from him for about a month! And each of his partners is more clueless than the next!”
Morad mockingly said, “Hey … you’re such a simpleton, boy! That Mirza Hassan shows one face, but he has a hundred hands working under the table. What did you expect of him? You thought that someone like him would really take on the work of sowing and harvesting? He sent his brother up to the higher villages to gather workers to take to town. They’re planning to level the old caravanserai and put a shopping arcade in its place … Real estate! And the water pump turned out to be a farce. Now the newcomers who had opened their mouths in expectation of the money they’d make from selling water are left holding the bill! The small change that they’d worked so hard to save, they invested in this water pump. Mirza Hassan took the money from them and pocketed it and left. The pump cut the canal water in half and doesn’t bring up any more water than we used to get from the canals. Where did they expect to find more water in this desert? So now we have to leave the village earlier than ever before. What’s funniest is that Karbalai Doshanbeh’s minding the machine!”
Abrau spoke out loud to himself, saying, “So what was all this fuss about?”
“You know, they don’t give out loans from the Office of Agriculture just like that! You have to have something to offer as collateral!”
Abrau, who suddenly had the air of someone who has only just realized that he’s the loser of a game, spoke loudly.
“So you people who knew all of this all along, why did you sell your lands to them with your two hands held out like beggars?”
“Our lands? Ha ha ha, lands! You say the word as if we all had major plots to offer. What lands were there to speak of? If you used all of God’s Land, and if it had water—which it doesn’t—it still wouldn’t serve to feed five families! One needs land to get one’s bread from it, not just to play around on it. If Mirza Hassan hadn’t shown up and paid us to give it to him, we’d have eventually just forgotten about it ourselves. You can’t say that God’s Land was real farming land! Mirza Hassan didn’t buy the land to actually use it. He just needed a stretch of open land to show to the government officials. As for you and me, our families never made their living from farming. So, whoever ends up with control of the farming lands, we’re not the ones who’ll ever benefit. Our claim here is wage labor, and it’ll always be wage labor. Before this, we were gleaners and ploughmen, for a wage. And now we’ll do some other kind of work, for a wage. Before I leave for the next season, I’m actually considering going up to town to work on Mirza Hassan’s arcade. Even if his brother’s not yet come to Zaminej to find workers, I know he’ll let me work on the job. I’ll go there and be a wage laborer, so that at least each night I’ll have a couple of bills of money in my pocket to show for it. I’ll just sleep there, in the corner of the caravanserai … But what about you? What do you think you’ll do?”
“I … For now, I don’t have the hands or the heart for laboring.”
“Abbas! What about you, my friend? Have you thought about this at all?”
Abbas quietly murmured, “Thought? Thought! I … think!”
“Do you think you’ll leave?”
“Leave? Are people leaving?”
“They have no choice.”
“Leaving? Going to …?”
“What do I know? Anywhere. Somewhere!”
“No … no, cousin. I … no … not going … I … no … strength for traveling … no …”
Morad once again turned to face Abrau.
“What about you? You still don’t know what you’ll do? Are you sitting here waiting for Mirza Hassan to come back?”
“No, no. I don’t know. I don’t know yet!”
Indeed, Abrau didn’t know anything about his future. He was dizzy and confused; he felt lost. Things had happened, events had taken place, but Abrau had no understanding of what they meant. He was in the middle of the action and couldn’t make out the bigger issues. Perhaps others, such as Morad, could see things better from the outside. But Abrau was unable to. He felt that he had to have some time to himself to understand the implications of these recent changes. He had to be alone and in peace. He was still confused by the excitement he’d felt. He was still caught up in the storm brewed by Mirza Hassan, and he couldn’t see a way out. He couldn’t see what he would do if the storm were to dissipate. He was in the middle, in the eye of the tornado, the howl of which was still ringing in his ears, the dust from which was still filling his eyes.
When you leave the scene of the battle, you’re still caught up in the battle. The battle is still raging inside you. The struggle, the fight was still inside Abrau. It was caught up in him, and he hadn’t yet cleansed himself of it. He believed, or wanted to believe, that Mirza Hassan was going to return. That he would return to complete what he had made others believe he would do for the village. But he couldn’t accept what seemed to have happened. He didn’t want to believe his dreams were based upon a set of lies and fantasies. No, this couldn’t have all been a game. There had to have been some element of truth to it. Abrau had devoted his heart and soul to something; he had believed in it. And it wasn’t so simple for him to break the chain linking his heart to this project, the exciting work that had been begun. He also couldn’t and didn’t want to believe that he’d been taken advantage of. Abrau had done his work with the dream of turning Zaminej’s fields into a lush green garden, and in doing so had nearly destroyed everything he had previously had in his life. He had worked day and night, giving up sleep and forgoing meals. He’d walked long distances in both heat and bitter cold to obtain a nut or bolt for the tractor, or a gallon of oil. He’d endured insults, and he’d sold off the bit of land that was his inheritance. He had worked. Worked like he’d never done before. He had sacrificed his body to it. The work had torn him apart. And in the end he had attacked his own mother like a savage dog, or something worse than that, in fact a hundred times worse. The shame of this fact was now eating away at him.
But what was now left to show for all of Abrau’s sacrifices? What was left for him? Mirza Hassan had disappeared all of a sudden. He had taken the money that he was supposed to spend on the scheme and just vanished. The tractor and the water pump were now left to the partners, as was all the debt Mirza Hassan had run up on purchasing them. The tractor was now out of commission, and the water pump barely managed to bring a trickle of water out from the well. The canal water was drying up. The petty landowners had fallen to infighting. Those who hadn’t bought into the water
pump and who were relying on the meager water left in the canal had registered a complaint with the provincial governor’s office. They claimed that Mirza Hassan’s water pump had dried out the canal waters. Those who had put all they had into the water pump were split into two groups. One group had tried to confront the complainants and the other group had begun to give up hope in the water pump and wanted to re-sell it. There were some who had already stopped paying dues for the pump to Mirza Hassan’s older brother, who was in charge of collecting them. The dues were meant for buying oil and gasoline for the machine. And there were some who had invested both in the canals and in the pump and were now caught in the middle, uncertain of which side to take. It was not yet clear which side was most beneficial to them. In the middle of all this, the Office of Agriculture was still demanding the monthly payment on its loan!
On the surface of it, it seemed clear that everything had fallen apart. What had to be destroyed was clearly losing ground, but what was taking its place wasn’t what it should have been. It was being replaced by confusion, by a loss of direction.
Although Abrau hadn’t lost very much materially in these events, he still felt lost in the storm. He felt stranded in the desert. He didn’t know what his role should be, what he should hope for in his work. As a result, his disposition had been upended, and his temperament and nature had changed. He no longer saw things as he once did. The earth, his home, his brother and mother, these all had new meanings for him. Something had collapsed under its own heavy weight, imploding, and its bits and pieces were scattered in the shifting dust and smoke. The scattered pieces were no longer recognizable. They were part of the original object, but had lost their original mass. They were now scattered, lacking identity. Each of them no doubt sought a new identity, but Abrau couldn’t recognize them. Among the pieces were Abbas, Abrau, Hajer, Mergan, and—perhaps—also Soluch. These were the elements of their family, but none of them comprised the family on their own. They were all individual elements to themselves. Also, the people of Zaminej were individually still the same people. But as a people, they were not the same. It was as if an infestation had spread into everyone’s clothing. The landless people had set out on the roads to town, and the small landowners were hiding in various corners of the village, still trying to make out what was to be won and lost in this new game. Zaminej was being torn apart. The previous stillness that blanketed the rubble of the village had been overtaken by a new struggle, a struggle inevitably leading them into a new battle.
No one could try to imagine where and in what city, province, or location Mirza Hassan might show up next.
“I had come to ask about Auntie Mergan as well!”
Abrau came to himself. He started in his place. Morad came down from the oven and began heading to the house. His heart pounding, Abrau quickly leapt down and grabbed the edge of Morad’s jacket.
“Take me with you. By God, please take me with you! Will you?”
Morad removed the edge of his jacket from Abrau’s hand and said, “You can come on your own. Who’s stopping you?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, and he stepped over to the threshold of the door. The house was as dark as a grave. He stood leaning against the doorframe, trying to get used to the deep darkness of the room. He couldn’t see anything. He took a match from his pocket and asked, “Are you asleep already, Auntie Mergan?”
“No!”
Her voice sounded broken. Morad drew the match to light it and stepped forward. He could see the outline of Mergan in the trembling shadows cast by the light before the flame died out. Mergan was sitting, just sitting quietly. The flame went out. Morad went to the cabinet and lit the lamp there with another match. A layer of dust, as though it were one hundred years old, covered the outside of the lamp. It was as if Mergan never used the lamp. Morad wiped the dirt from the glass and turned up the fuse a little. The room was illuminated by a dim light. Morad turned around; he could now see Mergan clearly. She was sitting with her back against the wall and had her chin resting on her knees. She sat motionless, frozen, and silent. It was as if she had been in the same position for a thousand years.
Morad walked forward, holding the lamp. He set it down and sat before Mergan, looking at her. Her eyes were set deep into their sockets, a strange look caught in them. A peculiar, frightening look. This stopped Morad from opening the conversation with niceties, and he was at a loss for words for a few moments. Suddenly he wondered, why had he come? He didn’t regret coming, but he was disturbed to be there. The problem of what to say and how to explain why he had come at this hour, and to have a good excuse for having come at all, now stymied him. He was stuck, trying to find a way to move this mountain, wondering how to raise it. Something suddenly occurred to him.
“Abrau! Auntie Mergan … I’ve brought you Abrau! He’s sorry for what he did! Auntie, do you want to see him?”
Mergan remained silent. It was a heavy and profound silence, one that seemed impossible to break with a few words, especially uncertain ones. It was a silence that portended a forty-day vow of silence by Mergan. A forty-day meditation, the kind that seeks new avenues into the soul. A silence hinting at living through a distilling experience, twisted and terrifying, passing through pain to a summit. A forty-day vow that becomes one of forty thousand years. An old, even ancient vow that ends up as something entirely different from what it began as. It casts a new mould, takes a new structure.
A forty-thousand-year vow by Mergan, or a forty-day vow by Morad.
How can a mere infant speak with the old mother of the earth? He can’t converse with her; it would be sheer impudence! But how can this infant now escape the field of Mergan’s disbelieving stare? Morad felt short of breath. He had to find a way to release himself of this situation. His forehead was bathed in sweat, and he felt as if his shoulders were bound tightly and his legs were paralyzed. The feeling was like death. He wondered, what kind of woman was this? What kind of woman had Mergan become? Was she made of stone? Of dead earth? Was she death itself?
“Ahh … Auntie Mergan, shall I bring him? He’s come to kiss your hands.”
He no longer expected an answer. One couldn’t expect an answer from this Mergan. So this was his avenue to escape. It was as if the silence was frozen in ice. He had to make a move. And to make a move, he had to say something. So he spoke, not for her, but just to speak.
“Let me bring the poor boy in from the dark!”
He ran outside and grabbed Abrau’s elbow, dragging him in with himself.
“Come on. No need to feel embarrassed! You’ve said yourself you ate shit for what you’ve done. Your head was full of air that day. Now you’re sorry! So come on!”
In the doorway, Abrau pulled his elbow out of Morad’s grip and stood by the wall. He felt like he did when he was a little boy. He had thrust his hands into his pockets and looked at a spot on the floor. On his face, below the skin, an abundance of feelings mixed to make an expression that was unintelligible. Did it signify pain and love, regret and arrogance all at once? And this was not the full burden that he now felt lay upon himself. A thick smoke had wrapped the young flame of his soul into itself. It was a smoke that exhausts, that makes you listless, that smothers you and makes you want to claw at your collar and tear your shirt open to your belly.
While the cells in his body were enflamed, Abrau just stood there silently. It was as if his entire existence had been awakened. He felt as if covered by a thousand scorpion stings. Stings stung upon other stings, all venomous. Abrau felt filled with this venom. It rose within him; it poured over. It poured forth like a fountain, from his eyes, and his breathing, the helpless breaths that come and go, carrying a torturous world upon themselves. This venom pours like a fountain—from the cells of the skin of his face, from his forehead and his eyes. A fountain of the soul’s poisons. Is it the blood rushing in his veins that beats within him so anxiously? It is his jugular pumping, or is it the feckless beating of the wings of a pigeon whose head has been ripped o
ff by hand? Why don’t these veins rip apart, then?
“Okay … I’ve brought him … Auntie Mergan …! Here … finally … finally … Well, okay!”
Mergan sensed her son, but didn’t look at him. Abrau was still standing in the same place. He’d grown up! His voice, most likely, had dropped? She didn’t know. Maybe his facial hair was beginning to sprout by now. That day—how many months ago was it?—the day he took her out of the ditch? That day, she’d sensed that his arms had gained the strength of a man’s arms. Bless you, my boy! He’d pulled her out of the ditch in a single motion. He must be a man now. Thank God! She finally knew that she had brought one of her children into adulthood. But what of the other two?
I wish my back would break! I wish your back would break, Mergan!
If she had been able to bring the other two to this same stage, she would have had no sorrows in the world. But they’d been wasted along the way. Each was trapped in a different predicament. Her sorrow no longer centered on the question of why Abrau had turned out the way that he had, but why the other two had turned out as they had.
I’d sacrifice myself for you, my son!
But Abrau was now of age. He was a full person. He could fly away, or work. He could work without being tormented. He could even fight with her, with Mergan!
Come here, my son. Come here!
No, but Mergan couldn’t do it. She couldn’t. It was not that she couldn’t forgive him; she could do that easily. She had already forgiven him. Mergan no longer had a sense of herself, although she knew herself. Things had been shifted; some things had been unified. Her “self” was no longer separated from the “self” of her children. Mergan “was” as they were. Her inability to speak was not as a consequence of her difficulty in forgiving him. She could forgive. But she didn’t want to fill the house with lamentations by opening her mouth. If she opened her mouth, she felt, fire would shoot out, a store of smoke and fire and pain. She would be crying, wailing. Tears were better left for solitude, especially if they were going to make your throat ring like a piece of copper. She didn’t want to release the unending pain from its binding within her heart. There would be other times to cry. But not here, not now. Abrau had not come to mourn. He had come to make peace. His man’s shoulders need not be made to tremble. He need not cry! He need not drown himself in lamentation. This was not the role of a man, and Mergan’s son Abrau was now a man.
Missing Soluch Page 36