Missing Soluch (47 page)

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?

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 Raghiyeh’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.

Mergan walked around the alleys of Zaminej with no purpose or direction, saying hello and asking about the health of each person she encountered. She would knock on the doors of some houses, going in to sit and talk for a little. She laughed and made pleasant small talk, offering to help with the laundry and washing if there was any, or finding a broom and sweeping the house a bit before leaving. It was as if she were trying to tie up the loose ends of work that she had not finished in the village. Also, it was as if she were trying to see everyone in the village for one last time. It was, one might say, a kind of farewell. She was tearing her heart away from the village and was now caught in a limbo, between the feelings of hope and despair.

They say that some people grow suddenly kind just shortly before their death. Could it have been that Mergan was anticipating the day of her passing? But no; it was not as if she could have been considered unkind before this, could she? For whatever reason, she was now going to sweep up the dust from people’s homes, as if she felt a debt hanging from her neck that she wanted to be freed from. Whether or not people gave her a little in compensation for the work didn’t matter. Poverty has its own kind of generosity. An empty hand can still come with a full heart.

“What are you up to, Hajj Salem?”

“Sewing the crotch of my pants, my sister. I’m going to go to the water pump today. They say there’s something going on there! But this needle shakes too much in my hand, and my eyes no longer see right. I feel I’m on the threshold of death, Mergan!”

“Give it to me. I’ll finish it.”

She sat in the sunlight by the wall, taking the pants and needle and thread from Hajj Salem’s hands. He had wrapped himself in a torn old cloak, but here and there parts of his bare body were visible. But even so, what did Mergan have to worry about? She finished the sewing in the blink of an eye and handed it back to Hajj Salem before rising. Moslem was on the other side of the ruins, playing a game with some cow dung he’d retrieved from the stable. Hajj Salem carefully pinned the needle into the hem of his cloak. Then he rose and put his pants on, keeping his back to Mergan. He was tying his waistband when he noticed Mergan was leaving.