Missing Soluch (7 page)

Abrau became dizzy, nauseous. Abrau was torn from his place by the bile that was pushing up from his intestines. Rising, the bundle of wood was lifted along with him. He knelt over, and the wood slid over and on him. Bile. Abrau vomited and fell on the ground chin first. The bundle slid to one side on top of him. The pressure in his intestines was not quelled. It kept throbbing. Wind blew within his empty intestines. He had no strength left in him to move. But the pressure inside compelled him to do something. The notion occurred to him to rid himself of the bundle of wood, so he grasped the knot on his chest and with a motion opened it. The bundle loosened and fell to one side. Abrau became lighter. More vomit. Not just bile, this time also some blood. He quickly lifted a finger to his
ear. No, the blood on his ear was caked dry. He didn’t want to believe that he had brought up blood. Drenched in sweat, he crawled on all fours into the house and dragged himself to the foot of the stove. The extinguished stove.

In no time, a cold—the cold that he had, in his feverish state, forgotten—took hold of him, shaking him like an electric shock. Every part of his body shook. No one was there. No one was home: “Is there anybody here? Anybody?” His broken voice echoed back at him. He had to get up. He rose. With one hand on the wall, he stood, still shaking. Like a willow sapling in the wind. As if an earthquake was shaking him. His knees, shoulders, and waist all shook. It took a great effort to hold himself up against the wall. The house was dark, or … were his eyes going dark? He looked at the door. The night had filled the doorway. No, the house itself was dark. Nonetheless, he had to do something. The blankets were in a far corner. Staggering and groping, he made his way to them and, trembling, lifted one blanket over him. No, one wasn’t enough. Another. And one more. All of them, every blanket. But the sound of his chattering teeth continued. His teeth made the sound of hard candy shaking inside a tin. Something even he didn’t understand compelled him to let out a wail. A cry. Something to open the way for the pain. To open the narrow passage that any person in pain must keep open. Otherwise, if the pain cannot escape, it explodes. A cry, a drawn-out cry. As it ploughs through the heart. A cry that sounds as if it’s one hundred years of age, drawn from the veins and arteries, from the marrow of the bone. No, it is the veins and arteries, the marrow itself, that has transformed itself into this sound, this call, now pouring up through the throat. It is life itself. Life, pouring over the
tongue, getting caught within the chattering teeth, seeking a way to ask for help, to seek succor.

“Oh … mother …”

These words, now being lost within the chattering teeth of this son, of Abrau, must be the first words a human ever uttered as a result of pain.

Abbas arrived. Bread in hand, a morsel in his mouth. As he chewed, his eyes were stretched open more than even usual for him. He took the empty bundle from his shoulder and tossed it to one corner. With the loud voice of a man bringing home bread, he shouted, “Isn’t anyone home in this ruin?”

Only Abrau’s trembling body shook the darkness of the room.

“Why didn’t you light the goddamned lamp?!”

Abrau couldn’t respond. Words lost their form beneath his teeth. Abbas grasped the wick of the lamp and a weak light broke the blackness of the room. Abbas still had the bread in his hand. He turned around and his eyes fell on his brother’s broken face that was visible wrapped among the blankets, and his sickly and fear-stricken eyes that were darting to and fro. Whatever blankets there were in the house were piled upon him, and with his small face and frightened eyes he looked like a vulnerable animal. Abbas, not thinking of what he was seeing, walked over to Abrau and, with a tone not bereft of violence, said, “So what’s happened? Why’d you go and dig yourself a grave like that?”

Abrau didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He didn’t try, either. Abbas wasn’t blind; he could figure it out. He came closer and asked, “Why are your lips bloody? Did Salar get his hands on you again?”

Abrau trembled and his teeth continued to chatter. Abbas indignantly fell to one knee in front of his brother and said, “So you’re deaf and dumb? What’s wrong with you?”

Abrau responded in fits, “Fever and chills. My bones are coming apart; my veins are being ripped apart. Help me!”

“What should I do? You’ve gone and thrown every rag and scrap on top of yourself already!”

“Yourself, yourself! I can’t stop shaking!”

Abbas stood and lay on top of the blankets, belly down. The motion of Abrau’s body also shook him.

“What’d you bring on yourself this time?”

“My belly, my insides …”

“What shit did you eat?”

Abrau didn’t respond. He only moaned. Abbas slid off the blankets and brought over the bread.

“Maybe because you’ve not eaten anything, huh? Here, here!”

He took a piece of the edge of the bread and fed Abrau.

“Chew it well. Chew it. I’ll give you some more. I’ll give you more. Chew it.”

“Cold. Cold. Warm me somehow. My bones are cracking. Cold!”

Abbas went straight to work. He tore his shoes from his feet, slid under the blankets, and grabbed his brother tightly. Abrau’s shaking body shook him as well. But Abbas, like a harness on a bouncing ball, kept Abrau snug in his arms.

“Eat some bread. Eat more; eat as much as you want! Your belly’s empty; that’s why you can’t shake this fever. Eat!”

Abrau swallowed piece after piece of the bread. Slowly, more and more of the bread was being consumed. Like a hedgehog
that has grabbed onto the tail of a snake, slowly, slowly swallowing more of it. If Abbas had remained generous, the whole bread would have been eaten. But he came to all of a sudden, grabbing the last piece from Abrau’s teeth. “You two-timing bastard! I didn’t say eat the whole thing! You ate most of it already!”

Abrau wailed, “You’d eaten the larger part already!”

“Oh, so now you’re complaining, too! I shouldn’t have … Well, anyway, you seem better, no?”

“A little.”

Abbas’ shirt was soaked in the belly from Abrau’s sweat. He let go of his brother’s body and dragged himself out from under the blankets, saying, “Don’t let air get to you. You’re soaked with sweat.”

Fever. A moment later, Abrau’s body was in an oven. He was burning in his sweat. Sticky, slick sweat. He was in a bad way, and bit by bit felt more and more as if he was suffocating. As if he was trapped beneath a mountain’s weight.

“Take these old rags off me. I’m suffocating”

Abbas would not agree. “You’re having the sweats. The last thing you want now is air blowing on you.”

“Then lighten what’s on me. I can’t breathe!”

“No. Hold out a bit.”

Abrau began swearing before his brother. “I swear to God, to the Imam, on the life of anyone you love, I feel I’m going to die under all this. Please do something!”

Abbas stopped his restiveness, and he slid the last piece of bread into his shirt, swallowed the morsel he was chewing, and said, “Fine, very well, now that you’re swearing all over the place, I’ll take one of these off of you.”

He removed a sackcloth.

Abrau continued pleading. “Another, just take another. I beg you on Papa’s life!”

Abbas hesitated a moment.

“That reminds me; why has he not been around for the last few nights? What do you think, Abrau? Is he really, really gone, or is Mama just acting in front of that bastard, Salar Abdullah?”

Abrau kept pleading, “God, it’s like I’m in an oven! Take another off me.”

Abbas replied, “But where is she? I mean Mama. Don’t say she’s also taken off in a different direction.”

Abrau screamed, “Abbas … Abbas … Have mercy, I can’t breathe! Take the mattress off me!”

Abbas dragged the mattress that he had laid on Abrau off and placed the last piece of bread in his mouth. “Better? That’s the mattress.”

Abrau said no more. It was as if he was losing consciousness. He laid one side of his face on the ground, brought together his heavy eyelids, and emitted a plaintive cry, “My bundle … bring my bundle over here … leave it here by me.”

He was sleeptalking—Abbas had heard that feverish people sometimes hallucinate. So there was nothing to worry about. He wanted to go and take a look at the bundle of wood Abrau had gathered. He went outside and set the wood straight. The bundle seemed heavy to him. He became curious. He sat next to the bundle; it made him worried. He set his back against the bundle. He drew the rope over his shoulder and pulled it. The loop on the rope tightened against his chest. He tied the end of the rope back to the bundle. It was now set tightly against his back. He gathered strength and pulled. The bundle would not rise
from the ground. The load was heavy, but Abbas couldn’t accept this. He convinced himself it was due to the wetness of the wood. Again he pulled with all his might. The bundle rose, but before falling into place on his back, it fell back on the ground.

How did that half-pint kid carry this?

He decided that it was because Abrau’s legs were shorter than his, and so could fit beneath the bundle more gracefully, and only had a short distance to be lifted before fitting on Abrau’s back. Despite all of this, it was too much to accept that he couldn’t lift a bundle that Abrau had carried. He summoned the last of his will and strength, and with two pulls, lifted himself with the bundle on his back. The weight made his knees tremble, and his legs could not steady him. He involuntarily made a half-circle in place, but before becoming dizzy, he managed to stop. He stood straight in his place. A sensation deriving from arrogance made the weight easier to bear. If it had been otherwise, if he’d not been able to lift the bundle of wood, he would have been ashamed of himself. He wanted to set the bundle back down on the ground. But something prevented him. He shifted the bundle on his back, set out to the alley, and was lost in the night.

Abbas sensed the sound of Mergan’s way of walking. Then he could make out the outline of her body. Abbas’ sister, Hajer, was walking beside their mother. Abbas leaned the bundle against a wall and remained stooped over under the weight of the load.

“Where the hell have you two been?”

Mergan, who was swallowing a sensation of rage, instantly said, “At your daddy’s grave!”

She was about to pass by her son when she slowed her step and asked, “Are you coming or going?”

Abbas raised the bundle back off wall. He set out with his back to his mother, saying, “I’m heading to the bread seller.”

Mergan ground her teeth and continued on.

Mergan and Hajer were lost in the house, and Abbas in the darkness.

Abrau continued his moaning. “My bundle. My bundle. My wood. Bring it here. Right here. Next to me. They’re taking them.”

Mergan was drawn to her son. She paid no mind to what he was saying. Abrau’s moaning made clear that he was unwell. Fever. Mergan lightened what was piled above him. Abrau’s eyelashes and eyebrows were awash in sweat. She dried his forehead and his eyelids with the edge of her scarf and sat beside him and ran her fingers through his hair. His hair was dripping wet.

Hajer was left there standing. She was still considered too insignificant to be able to have a role in such matters, much more than to become saddened by her brother’s plight. Hajer stood, waiting for an order or instruction, for someone to want something, to demand something. She’d not yet found enough of her own place to be able to go, of her own volition, to take a jug to get water. She was able to carry the jug on her shoulders. But she only did so when her mother asked her to. The little girl, the baby of the house. All this made Hajer seem insignificant. Her small face continually shifted between doubt and anticipation. Between weakness and irresolution. In this face, there was not yet a sign of her as herself—it was like a pool of
water. Sometimes it sparkled, as if the sun was shining on it. Other times it was dark, as if a sandstorm was brewing. Sometimes it was frozen over, as if winter had set in. Sometimes it was gray, as if clouds were accumulating. If on this night she seemed dark and sullen, it was because the house was dark and sullen. Hajer reflected her surroundings.

“Girl, go put the kettle on.”

Following her mother’s instructions, Hajer went to light the stove.

Disturbed and upset by her son’s moaning, steadfast and unbending in the face of what had been happening, anger coursing through her, Mergan was in turmoil, yet struggling to control herself. She had to do something. The only release was to take a step forward. She took a lantern from the cupboard and went to the pantry, rummaging in the corners of the house that only a mother would know of. She returned with two or three dried herbs, which she crumbled up into the kettle to boil and to give to Abrau. She replaced the lantern and unconsciously walked around herself in a circle, returning to kneel beside Abrau.

For Mergan, illness was nothing new, nothing that could be cleansed from life and forgotten. She had grown up with it, and she believed she would grow old with it as well, stepping into her grave hand-in-hand with it. She had already seen untold numbers of young and old who at one time or another had entered death’s embrace. She had also seen many who had returned from the edge of the grave and had once again rejoined the living, who walked step-by-step with the march of the days. Mergan’s memories, seen and heard—her mind was
filled with these memories. But who can calmly set aside her motherly instincts when her own child is burning with a fever, even a simple fever?

Mergan appeared calm, but was in turmoil inside. Abrau’s sleeptalking hallucinations elicited such waves of sorrow in her that pain rose from her heart like smoke, burning the lining of her nostrils. The extent of what she must do in this situation was simply to give him boiled herbs, which she was already in the process of doing. What else? She consoled herself by the fact that he was sweating, which was a good sign. Now she only needed to keep watch over him so that the cold would not do him in. She had to keep watch so that after improving he wouldn’t relapse. But this was all she could do.

“Has it started boiling?”

Hajer didn’t say no. She said, “Almost.”