My son, be strong!
“At least say something, Auntie Mergan!”
She didn’t say anything.
“So you come forward, Abrau. You say something!”
Abrau looked at his mother. Was she looking back at him? No … it seemed she was both in her own thoughts while also almost looking at him. She was like stone, like crystal. Abrau approached and stood by Morad. Mergan remained sitting in the same position. Abrau had to say something. But what could he say? He stood there.
Morad again began speaking.
“Kiss each other on the cheek then! The world is the place to forgive. So go ahead, kiss each other!”
He grabbed Abrau’s wrist and pulled him into a kneeling position.
“It’s the night before the holiday, as well. So make peace with each other. Come on, Abrau!”
Abrau threw his arms around Mergan’s neck. His cheek pressed against his mother’s bony cheek, and he stayed in that position for a moment. Their eyelashes were blinking. Their hearts were beating. Abrau turned and sat on the ground.
Morad said, “Good! Auntie Mergan … good … You can set aside your anger now. You, Abrau, act like a decent person now. What was that you did? But let’s forget it now! Okay, let me go and set the kettle on. We can drink a cup of peace tea, no? Where is it? Where is …?”
Morad was looking to light the stove and prepare the tea. The blinking of Abrau’s eyelashes slowed a little. He pulled himself to the edge of the wall. Mergan sighed. The air was broken. Each one, by the movements of their bodies, or with a glance, broke the dark icy silence, which was thrown into confusion. The first to strike at it had been Morad. Once he had begun to speak he didn’t stop. He busied himself with preparing the tea, and kept talking. He said nonsensical things, as he had become a prisoner of his own stream of words. He talked and talked and talked, and when he thought he had said something that made no sense, he just tried to make up for it by saying something else. This led to further binds; nonsense begat worse nonsense. But Morad wasn’t trying to just say sweet things, or trying to have his words produce a specific outcome, or bear a specific fruit. He didn’t think of these things at all. His only desire was to fill this house of ghosts with sounds, the sounds of voices. He wanted to rend the curtain and try to take things back to where they had once been. He didn’t hesitate to add flourishes to what he was saying, and even spun unrelated tales—some true, others not—about his work and life outside the village.
“… so now it was almost dusk! We were going to go to wash our hands to think a little about what to do for supper that night. We brought up some water from the well, and all of us made a circle around the well. There were eight or nine of us! Guys from Kashan to Nahavand, and from around here, too. All that was left of the sun was a sliver the width of a single tooth from a winnowing tool. I turn my head, exhausted and tired, and I could see that someone was coming toward us from far away. He looks tired, too. He’s limping. He has a shovel in one hand as well. I tell the guys, look at him! They all turn. We’re all looking at him. When he sees us, he begins to slow down. It’s clear he’s hesitating. When he comes closer, we see he’s a stranger. None of us have seen him anywhere in the area where we were working. He comes closer. We see that his clothes are all torn up. Nothing on his body is in one piece. One of his sleeves is torn right off; one of them’s only hanging by a thread. His arms are bare up to the shoulder. But what muscles he had! His shirt was torn from the collar down to his belly. His arms are bloody up to his elbows. There are scratches on his forehead and on his cheeks. The blood on his face and chin is dried. He had cuts on his chest as well. One of his pants legs wasn’t torn; that was the leg that was limping. I thought maybe he’d been hit with a stick or a shovel. He didn’t say anything, and neither did we. One of the guys from Kashan—Rizaq, what a great friend he was—took him a bucket of water. The man kneels at the bucket like a thirsty camel. I think to myself that it looks like he’s not had a drink of water in ten days! He puts his face and lips in the water, and it seems like an hour before he takes them out. The sun’s set by the time he gets up from beside the bucket. We thought he’d just wash up and then rest with us and tell us what had happened to him. But he just takes his shovel, and without looking at any of us he leaves, vanishes. We were just left there, completely baffled … I’ll go get the kettle off the stove. The tea’s ready. Shall I pour you both some?”
Abrau was also helping out. He brought out the cups and went to get the kettle. Mergan pulled the lamp over to the wall. They sat in a circle. Abrau brought the kettle and put it beside his mother. Mergan took the kettle and poured the tea. Three cups of tea. It was time for them to sit back and drink the tea. Mergan took the cup before her, took a block of sugar, stood up, and walked out the door. Out by the clay oven, she set the cup and the sugar beside Abbas and then returned and sat down.
Abrau slid his cup of tea over toward his mother, saying, “We’ll take turns!”
Morad lifted his cup, and while he blew to cool it, said, “Don’t worry about it, Auntie Mergan! That land wasn’t really any good for anything. You could burn yourself out working on it and still not end up with a bit of bread from it. Let it go in the wind! Let’s see how those who were fighting over it do and what they’ll harvest from it. Mirza Hassan’s planted a handful of pistachio saplings and took the rest of the money off somewhere where even the wind can’t find him. It’s not clear how and where he ended up with the money! Just a little while ago I was saying that those lands are nothing but a burden on whomever owns them! If someone knows he has nothing, it’s better than driving yourself crazy over something you own! What’s the point of becoming the master of something worthless? You need to stand on something that has some value. I’ve figured out what my life and work will be. My heart’s not tied to anything here. All I have in the world are two hands, whether I’m here or somewhere else! I can go to Tehran, Mashhad, Ghuchan; anywhere I go, I can work and make some money to feed myself with. I’m trying to convince Abrau to come with me as well. Over in other parts, you find as many tractors and other machines as you can dream of. They’re everywhere. And there are more and more by the day. Abrau’s already learned a skill for himself. He’s good at these kinds of things. So what’s to worry about? We’ll go and find work. We have our health. Our hands and arms are strong enough. And this country, thank God, is rich enough. We’ll find a corner for ourselves in the end, won’t we?”
Mergan didn’t really understand the details of what Morad was saying. But she comprehended the overall message. Despite this, she couldn’t answer. She couldn’t align her yesterday and today the way that Morad did. She felt she had chains around her feet, such as Hajer and Abbas. How could she tear herself from her children so easily? Her children were the same as her. So she remained silent and hesitant. There were many things that could compel her to leave the village, but there were many things that bound her to stay. This tug-of-war went on inside Mergan. It was not just a consequence of Morad’s discussion, but he had taken root in her from the very moment that Soluch disappeared, when half of her wanted to just pick up and leave. But why should Mergan speak of something that she has no confidence in? Uncertainty appeared in her heart that was already split in two—no, in many—different directions. She couldn’t lie to herself, could she? Did she not sometimes have a desire to fill the jug of water at the Sardar’s house again and bring it to him? Yes, she did. Are there not many things that blossom within a person that will be taken by them to the grave? As a woman, this was clear to her. It was clear that her desires as a woman would be going with her to her grave; her baneful, seductive desires. It was something that would be lost in the dirt, in the earth. Despite this, could she deny its existence? No, it is and is and will be! Is it possible to forget the most colorful flower that you were ever given, even if hatefully, and drive the memory from the house of your soul? It is something that is left within you. You take it with you wherever you go. You take the good and evil
of it with you and leave it in you. It’s there, wherever you go. You try to expel it from your memory, if you don’t actually gain strength from the memory! It’s not just you who are trying to overcome it; it also has its own presence. It sometimes tickles you. Sometimes it stings. Sometimes it makes you ashamed. And sometimes in overthrowing all of these feelings, it boils up within you. You’re still a woman, even if you’re Mergan!
“We don’t have anything to lose. We’ve never had anything to lose, mother. What do we have? I’ve been thinking about it for a while. We were born naked and we’re still naked. We don’t even have clothes on our bodies that someone can’t take from us! I’ve got a skill. I will use it for work. Mirza Hassan’s tractor has broken down, but even if that’s broken down, the world’s not broken down. My body’s still healthy. That’s enough for me. I’ll go with the others and leave the village.”
Abrau said this and tried to stop the trembling in his trumpet-shaped lips.
Mergan looked at her son. She looked at him openly. She felt that from her roots she wanted to once again understand him; she wanted to understand her own son Abrau, to believe in him. But was this the same Abrau? Was this the same boy who used to speak openly and honestly? Was this the same boy she had given birth to? That she had washed and dried as a child?
My son, my boy!
The sound of Abbas’ crutch turned Mergan’s head to the door. Abbas was standing there—he put the empty teacup by the door and turned and left. The sound of the crutch receded, died out, faded.
Morad rose, picked up the cup that was left by door, and said, “Don’t worry about Abbas, Auntie Mergan. He’ll take care of himself.”
Mergan was all eyes, ears, and imagination: that’s right. He’s able to take care of himself! That’s easy enough to say. But others like Abbas have been worn down, become dispirited, become listless, and have died. The distance between these stages, from being worn down, to becoming dispirited, and from that to listlessness and death can be quite short. Abbas could take care of himself, true, but how? What kind of work could he do? What skills did he have? Work! Work was the key to keeping all of Mergan’s children on their feet, even if it had been forced or cruel work. They always had to first lift a hand before they were able to put food in their mouths. So yes, Abbas could take care of himself, but she didn’t know how he would. Perhaps Abbas himself would know!
All of a sudden Hajer threw herself into the room, quickly, violently. She was trembling; she had run all the way. She was upset and her voice cracked in her throat. She hadn’t noticed Morad.
“Mother, uncle’s come! I’ve seen him!”
So what? Why should Mergan care?
“Mother, Karbalai Doshanbeh stopped uncle’s donkey in the alley and took the animal to his own house!”
Again, so what! So what if he took it?
“He’s keeping it there until someone comes and vouches for uncle. No matter what people say to him, Karbalai Doshanbeh’s not listening!”
Mergan looked at her daughter and a faint smile began to take shape on her lips.
Abrau shifted and Morad coughed. Hajer sensed Morad and so left the house awkwardly. At the same time, Morad noticed that Hajer was pregnant, and only just caught himself from saying something under his breath.
The sound of Molla Aman’s steps and his cursing voice echoed in the alley.
He and his kind can go to hell; let him take what’s mine! It’s more of a sin than for him to have eaten dog meat! He thinks he’ll live another hundred years! How much does he think I owe him, anyway? It’s just theft, that’s what it is! What else can you call it?”
The edges of his cloak were wrapped around his legs; his collar was open and disheveled as he entered the room. Once inside, his voice rose even louder. His cursing increased. Without looking at anyone, he made several circles around the room before sitting angrily against one wall. He took his cigarette out of his pocket and struck a match with his shaking hands. A moment later he breathed out a pillar of smoke.
“The miserly fool! He finally poured out his poison; he finally struck! Oh God …! He took my donkey and my goods as collateral. He tore the edge of my cloak! He ripped the cuffs from my sleeves. It’s just evil to do that, no!?”
No one seemed to be listening, or at least, no one responded. Molla Aman spat and began addressing an absent Karbalai Doshanbeh.
“You want a woman for nothing? Come on! You’re not worthy to sleep beside her. Aha! You shameless man!”
Mergan rose, went beside the stove, and sat down again.
Molla Aman continued, “May your hovel burn down, you pathetic man! I finally will tell her the truth. Soluch! Soluch is alive! I’ve found him. He’s not dead. Our man is alive!”
Mergan looked at her brother’s face. She knew that lying, to him, was as simple as drinking water. But why would he lie about this? And if Soluch were still alive, where was he?
“He’s near Shahroud, in the mines!”
What? Mines? In the mines?
3.
Where are you?
Where have you been?
Where are you, Soluch—you, whose name is the song of the bells of a caravan in the far reaches of the hot deserts of salt?
In what dark cloud have you been hiding? In what haven?
With what fabric have you hidden your face? In what sands have you been swallowed?
How did you melt to water and penetrate the dirt? How did you transform into dust and blow away with the wind?
It defies imagination how you lost yourself in the mountains and hills, you who were a man of your home.
Your name! Your name has assumed a narcotic songlike quality. Your name was swept away by water; your name was blown away on the wind. Your name—Soluch—is the song played by bells tied to the camels of a caravan lost in the hot desert!
You grew distant, were lost, disappeared into nothing!
Your story, Soluch, is an echo in the expansive valleys of an ancient night. How late you came!
The song of your name, dear man, is still not clear. The sound of your being is muffled, is rendered wordless. It’s a wordless sign in the midst of smoke and sun and dust.
Where are you?
Where have you been?
My hands and face are outstretched to you; my steps are held hostage to you.
An ancient pain shoots like an arrow from the taut string of my bow.
You can’t hear the cry of my pain, Soluch—in the bow of my back!
* * *
Mergan straightened her back. Somehow, there was news. News tainted by dreams, news of Soluch. She had a new strength within her. There was a movement in her veins. Blood was still pushing against the walls of her veins, as a heart cannot but keep beating. The old pattern of breathing had been overturned. Waves of confusion beat against her head. Particles of memory were awakened. A new life, a new spring had begun.
Mergan straightened her back and rose. She had to set out, once again. The past had been a heavy load, but looking to the future compelled her onward. Is it possible to stay frozen in one place? How long can you continue to sulk in your hovel like a beaten dog? In this immense world, there is, after all, a place for you. There is, after all, a path for you. The door to life is not blocked shut by mud!
But Mergan still could not decide what she should do. She was still unsettled by the blows she had absorbed. Nonetheless, she had to collect her wits. She tied her chador around her waist and left the house. Abbas wasn’t in his usual place. Abrau had risen early in the morning and left. Molla Aman, who was trapped in Zaminej for now, had left the house. He had gone to see if he could strike a compromise with Karbalai Doshanbeh. In the alleyway, Raghiyeh was sitting in the sunlight beside the wall, sewing the pocket of Ali Genav’s vest. When she saw Mergan, she looked away and stared at the ground. Mergan stood beside her feet. Raghiyeh continued her work and acted as if she had no interest in conversing with her. Despite this, Mergan couldn’t pass by her without speaking. She sat before R
aghiyeh’s knees and asked about her health.
“I’m fine!”
There was nothing more to say. Mergan rose; it was clear that Raghiyeh’s heart would be set against her until Judgment Day. But Mergan didn’t want Raghiyeh to be hurt even more by her disregarding her. If she were able to help Ali Genav’s wife in any way, Mergan would do so with all her heart. But the ramparts that Raghiyeh maintained around her did not give Mergan a momentary opportunity to breach her walls. The only thread of relation that Raghiyeh kept with Mergan’s family was through Abbas. And to continue this relationship, Raghiyeh did not feel it necessary to show kindness to Mergan’s heart. Anytime the need or desire struck her, Raghiyeh simply went and sat by the clay oven, commiserated for some time with Abbas, hobbling away only after having gotten a couple of qerans from him. She paid no mind to Mergan’s comings and goings. It was as if she wasn’t Abbas’ mother at all. And Mergan in kind tended to pay no mind to her. For a long time, she didn’t speak to Raghiyeh at all. So now, it was useless for Mergan to try to win over the dead heart of Ali Genav’s wife. Without saying anything further, she moved on.
Missing Soluch Page 37