Missing Soluch (14 page)

“Her son! Tell her son!”

“Where the hell is Ali Genav!?”

“He was clearing snow from the roof of the bathhouse!”

The women, one by one, began to curse Ali Genav’s bride. It was she who put her foot down at the beginning of the winter
that his mother should live apart from them. Mergan arrives on the scene. Everyone waits for Ali Genav to arrive and help bring his mother out from under the rubble. Mergan rushes to the ruins, climbs onto the remains of the house, and grabs onto the remaining section of the roof. Mother Genav’s head had been at the edge of the wall, and for this reason she’s covered only up to her ribcage. Mergan conjures the courage to go into the area where the roof has half-collapsed, standing under the open sky. Then she turns and goes back toward the crowd. Two or three of the younger spectators swagger up, along with the wife of Kalati. They scrape away the snow and begin removing the dirt and rubble. Half of Mother Genav’s body has been battered and crushed, like ground meat. Her face is also bruised, the color of smoke. It’s not clear if she’s still alive. First, they have to remove her from the rubble; then, they wrap her in a blanket and bring her out. A handful of bystanders clear the snow from part of the alley. Mergan and Kalati’s wife, along with a few others, bring Mother Genav to the edge of the alley. Ali Genav finally arrives running, his jacket and the scarf under his hat snapping in the wind, his wife Raghiyeh just behind him. Ali Genav tosses the snow shovel to one side and falls beside his mother. He doesn’t cry; he screams. The men pull him aside and lift Mother Genav’s body. Ali Genav puts a hand on his face and lets it slide down. His eyes fall on his wife who is crying by the wall. He grabs the shovel—it is in his hands. He falls upon his wife, insults pouring from his mouth. He accuses her of driving his mother from his house. Raghiyeh doesn’t respond; instead, she tries to run. Ali Genav runs after her. Raghiyeh’s legs give out, and she slips on the snow. She falls on the snow on all fours, slides on her belly. Ali Genav reaches her. The
shovel handle! He swings at her with the shovel handle. Raghiyeh is unconscious. She is senseless after the first blow. She stops breathing. Blood rushes into Ali Genav’s eyes. He has no awareness that the bag of skin and bones beneath him is breaking. He is deranged. The men rush to encircle him and grab the shovel from his hands, throwing it to one side.

“You fool! You’ll kill her, the poor woman!”

The women lift Raghiyeh from where she’s fallen in the snow. The snow is red with blood. The blood still pours from her head. Her shoulder and ankle are also broken. She can’t even cry. Two women, Mergan and Kalati’s wife, take the limp body to Ali Genav’s house. Ali sits on the snow and watches his wife with red eyes. What has happened? It’s as if he is only just realizing what has happened. He cries out all at once, hitting himself in the face and head, and breaks into sobs.

Ali Genav has broken down.

Abbas arrived on the scene; he had been busy gambling with Ali Genav. Often, Abbas and two or three others would start up a game at Ali’s hearth. Ali Genav was one of those people who love gambling. He had brought a set of cards to Zaminej shortly after Agha Sadegh, the shopkeeper. Now, sitting at the edge of the bloody snow, he looked as if he’d lost a round. His dark and broad face, his bruised and thick lips, were yellowing and defeated. His eyes were red, the color of blood. When he saw Abbas, he screamed, “I’m ruined, Abbas!”

Abbas grabbed him under the arms and lifted him from where he had fallen in the snow. Hajer was standing beside the wall. Abbas tossed the shovel beside his sister and said, “Did you light the fire? Go get one ready, as my hands and feet are freezing!”

Hajer took the shovel over her shoulder, and Abbas helped Ali Genav along to Ali’s home. Hajer had already set a fire in the hearth of the home, but the wet kindling still was difficult to light. So the house was again filled with smoke. She arrived first and leaned the shovel against the wall. She sat beside the hearth, leaned onto her hands, closed her eyes, and began blowing. Again, the wood would not catch and nothing but smoke came from the fireplace. Smoke. Smoke. But despite this, there was nothing she could do, she had to blow, because at least the smoke dried the wood a little. If just one spark caught, Hajer could take the tray and fan so much that the fire would spread to all the wood. But there was still not even a spark, so Hajer had to keep blowing. The smoke drew tears to Hajer’s eyes, and it set her nose running. Her lungs filled with smoke, but she still kept blowing. She knew her brothers well enough; if the fire wasn’t ready when they arrived, there was no knowing what might happen. But she understood why, as she could imagine what it would feel like to work for one or two hours in the snow with only tattered shoes and rags wrapped around their feet. Their feet would first sense the coldness, and then they’d begin to freeze. They’d become numb, and then throb with pain. And toes, like babies, can cry—her own toes were also crying right then. Fear—what was stronger in Hajer than anything else was her fear of everyone, and most of all, of her brothers. Not that her mother was less of a worry, far from it. If the fire wasn’t ready, Mergan was unlikely to be more merciful. At the very least, she’d give her a few slaps. So Hajer blew and blew. Either until the fire would catch, or until she collapsed trying.

Abrau threw himself into the house. He was shaking; his teeth were chattering. He tossed his shovel to one side and then sat down. He took off his shoes and unwrapped his feet and brought himself over to the hearth, saying, “It’s not lit yet?”

Hajer kept blowing. Abrau sank his feet into the kindling, but nothing worked. He took his feet out and knelt by his sister with his hands on the ground, blowing alongside her. Finally, in the center of the kindling, slowly a fire was catching. Brother and sister together blew at the spot that was catching. The fire was rising just as Mergan and Abbas arrived. Mergan came straight to the hearth and knelt beside the children. Abbas took his shoes off and joined them. The flames were spreading. There was nothing to say. Abbas knelt beside his mother and blew into the fire. Now all four were blowing without pause. The flame kept rising. The twigs and sticks had dried in the smoke and now were sacrificing themselves in the fire. The warmth of the flames began to spread, and mother and children began to sense it on their faces. The fire had caught, but still they continued blowing. The fire must catch well. A feeling of satisfaction spread; they had defeated the smoke. Once the fire was strong, they drew themselves back. They lifted their hands from the floor, wiped their noses and the edges of their eyes, and sat around the fire. Abrau had his feet up to the flames, so close that the edge of his trousers caught on fire. Mergan threw his legs to one side and smothered the flames. Abbas had a piece of wood in one hand and used it to stoke the fire whenever it weakened. Hajer set the kettle to the side of the hearth.

It was time to find out what Abbas and Abrau had brought home. Mergan wiped the tin tray with the edge of her shirt and
set it before Abbas, who undid his belt. He opened his pockets—he had tightened his belt over the top of his pockets. He leaned over to his mother and said, “Empty them!”

Mergan thrust her long fingers into Abbas’ pocket and brought out handfuls of wheat grain. It wasn’t bad. There was about half a
man
all together. When his pockets were nearly empty, Abbas put his knees on the ground and rose calmly. He looked like a dignified mother cow standing over a milk bucket while being milked; his face was marked with a pleasure approaching arrogance. His face was measured. His eyes were lost in the flames of the fire. His lips were shut, covering his teeth. Abrau’s head was lowered while he glanced at his brother. Hajer, out of Abbas’ view, looked at her brother with an expression full of veneration. Mergan tried to conceal her happiness, but her quick hand gestures and racing heart made it difficult to hide. She scraped the depths of Abbas’ pockets with extraordinary care, extracting from their folds the last grains of wheat. Then she pulled each pocket out and shook it over the tray before neatly reinserting it. She wanted to grab her son’s arms out of happiness and clasp him, but held herself back. Instead, he gave him a little squeeze on his shoulder and said to Hajer, “Bring him a cup of tea.”

Now it was Abrau’s turn. He put his hand beneath his arm and took out a flat cut of bread, placing it on top of the wheat grains on the tray.

“This … is from Bibi Malek.”

After that, he removed a few small coins from the pouch he wore around his neck and said, “And her son Mirza Hassan gave me these.”

Abbas and Mergan both stretched their hands out to Abrau, who placed the coins in his mother’s palm. Abbas’ eyes sparked from the sight of the coins, then went dark. He brought his hand back and said, “I thought I was supposed to buy us molasses!”

Abrau said, “I’ll buy it myself!”

“With your shaking hands? Can’t you see your feet are as red as beet root from the cold?!”

Abbas didn’t continue arguing. He rose and took a container from a cupboard shelf. He put his shoes on and stood over his mother. Mergan couldn’t say no. She couldn’t look at him—he stood so firmly it was as if the coins were already in his pocket. Mergan, who was in the process of wrapping the coins in a piece of cloth, forlornly handed them to Abbas, saying, “Just promise me on your life that you won’t skim any of the money for yourself.”

Abbas walked out the door. The jingle jangle of the coins gave him light feet. Abrau had observed his brother’s exit and then looked at where he had been sitting, then said, “It’s impossible he won’t steal some of it! Abbas would even bite off his mother’s nipple to get a bit more milk!”

Mergan didn’t reply. What could she say? She poured a cup of tea for Abrau and went to bring some oleander seeds. Abrau took the cup of tea, and then looked at the snow that was still piled against the outside wall. He barked at Hajer, “Go clear up that snow from the wall!”

Abrau spit out his oleander seed into the fire and asked, “No news from him?”

Mergan looked at him and said, “No.”

Abrau wanted to ask something about his father, but Mergan cut him off before he could speak.

“Drink up your tea!”

He gulped the rest of the cup of tea and sat silently. It was obvious that Mergan didn’t want to speak of Soluch. She never would allow them to speak of him. Forget him! She made every effort to forget her husband. Soluch was gone, and Mergan had already wrestled with his absence and had vanquished it. Perhaps her feelings were different from those of her children. No matter what the context or what the reason, she was heartless on one matter: she refused to allow his name to be spoken. The children simply did not have the right to speak of their father before her. So Abrau bit his tongue and said no more.

Hajer brought some snow in a handkerchief, which her mother took from her. Mergan placed the snow in a pan and then returned to the hearth.

“Will Mother Genav die, Mama?”

Mergan answered her daughter’s question, “Everyone dies, my dear.”

Mergan remembered that she still had a bit of sheep’s lard in her stores, so she rose and brought it. She scraped some lard off into the pan, which she placed on the fire. Then she took the tray of wheat grain to the pantry to put it away. By the time she was finished, Abbas had returned. Mergan took the cup of molasses from Abbas’ hand and poured it into the pan and then asked Hajer to lay out the tablecloth. Hajer brought the cloth while Abbas sat down by the hearth.

“In Agha Sadegh’s shop, everyone was talking about Mother Genav. They say she’s going to die!”

Abrau asked, “Did the syrup cost you all the money you took?”

Abbas replied without looking at his brother. “How much money do you think there was?”

Abrau said, “May it be more dirty than dog’s shit if you skimmed even a penny of my money!”

Abbas carelessly answered, “Fine!”

It was clear to Abrau that the syrup hadn’t cost what Abbas took. He even could guess, or almost be certain, that Abbas had mixed the syrup with water. But he had no grounds on which to make his claim. And Agha Sadegh wasn’t the type to talk; he saw himself as everyone’s confidant. Since he himself traded in stolen goods, he kept everything a secret. Abrau knew that he’d not be able to get information from Agha Sadegh. Since he refused to speak about his business in general, it was inconceivable that he’d give himself any trouble about a matter concerning a few coins, and that for a child like Abrau. Abrau decided he would prove Abbas’ theft. He began to pay close attention to everything he did. One thing was that Abbas seemed nervous; he couldn’t hide his awkwardness. Another was that suddenly he was acting like a dead mouse, refusing to speak or answer Abrau. In addition, he was half hiding his face in his collar, as if he were protecting a secret. Once the food was laid out, Abbas quickly gulped down a few mouthfuls of food and grabbed a piece of bread. He then began putting his shoes on and left the house. It was as if he’d grown wings and flew away! There must be a reason for his wanting to leave so quickly; it was clear he was up to something.

Abrau said to himself, “I’ll get him eventually!”

Abrau licked the bowl clean, slid to one side, and leaned against the wall.

“Put down the fire a bit and let’s set up a Kurdish hearth!”

Hajer set up a covering over the fire and placed a heavy blanket over it. Abrau crawled to the edge of the blanket and then slid under it, pulling it up to his nose. If Abbas hadn’t worried him as he had, he would have been able to spend the rest of the day in bliss beneath the heated blanket. But his mind was racing. He couldn’t imagine that Abbas had just gone to Ali Genav’s house for a game. No matter what he thought of Ali Genav, Abrau couldn’t imagine that on such a day—with his wife beaten and broken, and his mother breathing her final breaths—he would sit down with the usual low-lifes to play cards. But Agha Sadegh wouldn’t give Abbas the time of day in his games; he wouldn’t even let him into the back storeroom. This was because Abbas didn’t have the money to play and wasn’t of the same level and standing as those who came to play in Agha Sadegh’s storeroom. His players were respectable people. One was the accountant for Hajj Ali’s affairs. Another was Murad Dashtban. Another was Agha Vaseghi, one of the respectable landowners of Zaminej. There were one or two others who had only recently joined this circle; Khodadad and Hamdullah, the latter of whom self-admittedly was involved in theft and rustling. So it was likely Abbas had gathered up a few people and was this moment in a stable or in the storeroom of some abandoned house busy with his
bajal
pieces! There was a reason for his sorting through his collection of game pieces in the morning; he’d been planning this all along. Who knows if he might not have sold half of the wheat grains he’d earned and
was at Agha Sadegh’s shop on the way home? Anything was possible with him.