Missing Soluch (16 page)

Morad was a different case. He was his own boss. His mother and his older brother ran an opium den, and only Morad didn’t help in running it. He was free to tell his mother and brother what he thought, without fear. His strength, his disposition were of a sort that led his older brother to conclude that it was not in his own interest to try to let things lead to fighting between them. Morad worked, and he paid for his own bread, thus he held his head high and—if he so chose—could gamble without having to answer to anyone for it.

“Give me that shovel! It’s as if you’ve never eaten bread, you weakling!”

Morad grabbed the shovel from Abbas’ hand and pointed at him, laughing.

“Look at him! Look, the sweat on his forehead would make you think he just dug up a mountain!”

Then he bent his body over the shovel and didn’t straighten himself until all the snow was cleared and piled up in one spot by the wall. Then he took the shovel in one hand and pushed the door to the stable open with his shoulder. The stable was small, just big enough for ten or twelve sheep and a couple of lambs. Despite this, no one could remember Soluch ever owning any animals, save the one donkey of his that had died the previous year.

The boys ran into the stable. First among them, the sons of Salar Abdullah and the Kadkhoda, who sat on the edge of the trough in a dark corner. Morad, Ghodrat, and Abbas knelt and began to work at clearing a spot of the dirt and rubbish that carpeted the floor of the stable. The lighter dust rose in the air and floated in circles visible in a shaft of light that penetrated the
space from a crack in the door. They stopped once a space was clear and an even surface was ready. Salar Abdullah’s son shut the door and Abbas enthusiastically began taking out the
bajal
pieces from his pocket, tossing them into the playing surface.

“Come on! Gather around!”

Salar Abdullah’s son, Jalil, sat back on the edge of the trough and was squinting with his left eye at the
bajal
pieces on the floor. He was hesitating and acting cautiously. But Hamdullah, who, with his big head and bulging eyes, bore a passing resemblance to his crazy Uncle Moslem, thought it would indicate weakness to act hesitantly before the others. So instead, he came forward more quickly than anyone else sitting at the edge of the prepared space and began tossing the
bajal
pieces casually into the air. The pieces would fall onto the soft soil of the stable, and Hamdullah made as if he was prepared to be the dealer of the game. He collected the pieces and said, “Okay?!”

Abbas looked at Jalil and said, “Get up and come here! Why are you dragging your feet?”

Jalil replied, “You play a round. I’ll come.”

Morad said, “Don’t be a baby. Come over here! A man needs to be confident and sure of himself!”

Jalil said, “You guys play a round. Just start without me.”

Hamdullah said, “I’ll throw the pieces. Are we playing wolves?”

Ghodrat spoke as if from experience, “Or do you want to play a three-piece game?”

Abbas said, “It’s up to you. You decide.”

Morad said, “I don’t mind. I’ll play either.”

Abbas looked at Hamdullah and said, “The three-piece game is pretty complicated. With two three-goats you’re completely done for. The game can be over before it’s even begun.”

Jalil spoke up from beside the trough.

“Four-pieces. Let’s play four. I won’t play a three-piece game.”

Morad said, with a laugh in his voice, “However we play, your hands will be shaking, o son-of-the-village-lord!”

Hamdullah looked back toward the trough and said, “You get up then! What are you dragging your feet for?”

Abbas collected the pieces from the dirt and said, “Let’s play wolves then, okay? Here we go, one round of wolves. Everybody take a
bajal
piece and toss it. Whoever has the highest one will deal.”

Each of the boys took a piece and flipped it in the air. Morad had the highest one, and Abbas collected the pieces and set them before him. Morad looked at Jalil and said, “If you want, you and I can do it over. You might get the higher one … eh? I don’t want you complaining later! If you don’t want us to do it over, then you have to sit and play a round and wait for the deal to go a full round.”

Jalil said, “Now just deal, will you?”

Morad laid out the pieces before himself, lining them up in a row. He arranged them and then took the “wolf” piece in between his fingers, telling Abbas, “Ante in!”

Abbas changed his place with Hamdullah, saying, “I can’t see a thing here. You sit with your back to the door. From here, I can only see outside.”

Hamdullah jingled the coins that he was holding loosely between his two hands. He then separated his hands and made
them into fists, lowered his right fist into the circle, and said, “I’ve anted in!”

The pieces fell into the circle. One had the wolf sign, and three others fell blank side up. Morad again arranged the pieces and said, “Ante in!”

“I’ve anted in!”

“Here, two signs showing. Now pay in.”

Hamdullah tossed two two-
qeran
coins at Morad’s feet.

“Ghodrat, your turn!”

Ghodrat lowered his fist into the circle, saying, “I’ve anted in!”

Morad tossed the pieces in the air and slapped his hand against his thigh. Ghodrat’s fist was below the pieces as they fell.

“Foul, do it again!”

Morad grumbled and rearranged the pieces.

“Right from the beginning, you’re messing things up! You’re a cheat like your cheating father. Okay, call it! You can’t shake me with your moves. Ante double!”

“I’ve anted in. My hand’s in!”

“Ante double!”

“I’ve anted. Just toss the pieces!”

“Nice one! Three horses!”

The pieces were on the ground. A full wolf hand!

“Pay in double!”

Ghodrat tossed in two five-qeran coins.

Morad said, “Let’s see the other hand.”

Ghodrat opened his left fist; there was one five-qeran coin stuck to his left thumb.

“Accepted?”

“Accepted.”

Ghodrat said, “Don’t go saying anything bad about me!”

Abbas held his fist into the circle, and Morad smiled as he said, “Well, well … watch as I give you a set of four pieces with signs!”

Abbas pursed his lips and squeezed them together, not saying anything. His face was pale, and as was usual, the corners of his lips were trembling. When Abbas joined a game, he would change entirely. A kind of terror would take hold of him. His heart would pound and his eyes would bulge. If he won, he would scream with joy, and if he lost he would still scream. He was clumsy and awkward. It seemed as if he were trying to eat the anted coins with his eyes. For Abbas, nothing seemed as exciting as when the money in play would be collected in his pocket. But since that never happened, he was always unsatisfied. Morad, who knew Abbas’ nature well, tossed the pieces up once, called a foul, and set them out again just to wind him up.

“Okay, ante in!”

Abbas, whose fist had remained clenched at the edge of the circle, said in a trembling voice, “I’ve anted!”

Two pieces with signs came up, one of them a wolf.

Morad said, “You have to put in three times as much as your ante!”

Abbas opened his fist. It was empty! Morad clenched his teeth and sharpened his eyes.

“Are you trying to pull the rug out from under my victory? Fine. I’ll still win if we do it hundred more times. Ante up! I’m not worried!”

Abbas rose and said, “I’ll ante a ten
shahi
.”

As Morad rearranged the pieces, Abbas looked at Jalil and said, “Take my place a second while I go splash some water on
my face. Come on! I’m the one who arranged for a place for you guys to play. I didn’t want to play in the first place!”

Morad said, “Come on. You ante for yourself, Jalil. Don’t be such a baby about the game.”

Jalil came over heavily and sat in Abbas place, saying, “Let me examine the pieces!”

Morad pushed the pieces over for him to test out. He separated the wolf piece.

“There’s lead in this piece; replace it!”

Rising to leave the stable, Abbas took the piece in question and put another one before Jalil, saying, “Even a bride isn’t so finicky before going out to her wedding! Is there anything else you would like from us?”

Jalil picked up the new piece and said, “I thought Ali Genav was going to bring his deck of cards over. So where are they?”

Abbas was just about out the door as he said, “I was just about to go and see where the hell he’s hiding his dark head!”

Abbas didn’t wait to hear anything more. He closed the door behind himself and entered the yard. He stuck his head into the room, but Mergan wasn’t there. Hajer was alone, asleep and snoring. He turned and entered the alley, finding himself face-to-face with Hajj Salem and Moslem. He was surprised for a moment, but gathered his bearings, saying hello and moving on. It wasn’t far to Ali Genav’s house; it was at the end of the dead-end. One of the doors was always open. Abbas entered; the house was always open to visitors. Ali Genav was sitting by the clay oven, in the sun, mending his camel-hair shawl. He seemed oblivious to the fact that both his mother and wife were in bed, crying in pain. Perhaps he thought to himself that he couldn’t do much for them other than what he had done
already—to send Abrau to find the bonesetter. What else could he do? Beat himself? Cry out loud? No, Ali Genav was more thick-skinned than that. He was also cool-headed when playing cards. Although he was one of the most experienced card players in Zaminej, he had not once had a scuffle with another player. He was always cool and calm. And he rarely lost. When he did lose, all that he did was furrow his brow in anger, but he would stay as calm as he was before.

Abbas’ shadow fell on Ali Genav’s hands, and while he continued his sewing he looked up.

“Eh? Can I help you? You must be here for the cards, no?”

Abbas said, “No! How are they?”

“Fine!”

So as to follow up with what he had said, Abbas walked to the door and peeked inside the house. The two women, Raghiyeh and Mother Genav, were on two sides of the room, and Mergan was sitting between them. Abbas returned. Ali Genav was still busy with his sewing.

“So? What do you want? Get to the point!”

Abbas said, “I think Hamdullah and Jalil have full pockets today! But they really want to play cards.”

Ali Genav replied, “That one boy’s in love with cards. But I won’t lend them to anyone.”

Abbas said, “What I mean is that you should come yourself. It looks like a good group to play with.”

Ali Genav said, “If I come, I’ll bring my cards with me!”

Abbas walked back toward the door to the alley. Before reaching it, he slowed down and turned around. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t bring himself to. Abbas knew Ali Genav’s temperament. It would be counterproductive to push
him any more than he already had. So he turned again and left. But as soon as he reached the stable, his eyes opened wide with amazement. He couldn’t believe that Hajj Salem and Moslem were inside the stable. Where did they come from? He hoped that Hajj Salem hadn’t come to teach a lesson to his nephew, Hamdullah! If he caused a commotion, what would Abbas do? He couldn’t think of a way around it. He said hello, and slid down beside one of the walls. Hajj Salem and Moslem were both sitting quietly. The former was sitting on the edge of the trough, with his cane leaning against the center of his chest. His son was sitting beside Hamdullah in the circle and was watching the game over the shoulders of Hamdullah and Morad. The game had heated up. Hamdullah was dealing; he would cast the pieces and then tell his Uncle Moslem to move his head to the side.

“I told you to move your muzzle to the side, you!”

Moslem followed Hamdullah’s every movement with his entire body, and at that moment had reached his head and neck over the gambling circle.

“Three donkeys!”

The pieces moved on from his hands; in the last hand, he lost fifteen
qerans
from his total winnings. Hamdullah shoved Moslem’s chest with his forearm, bellowing, “I told you a hundred times, sit back, you cow! You shook my hand so much I ended up with three donkeys!”

Moslem pulled himself back and collected himself before saying, “Be generous! A little gift! A gift!”

Hamdullah was collecting the coins from before his feet, and replied, “Go on. Forget it! God’ll give you gifts some other place! You idiot, you really think you’re going to get something here?”

Moslem didn’t listen to this and kept staring at the clenched fist of his nephew’s hand. Hamdullah said to Abbas, “Why don’t you throw him out?! What are we paying you to host us here for?”

Abbas spoke up, grabbing Moslem’s thick wrist between his hands and shouting, “Okay! Get up! I’m not a fool to want to split the host’s take, giving a payout to the likes of you. Get up. Open up this space, you!”

It was impossible to move Moslem from his place. He was like a block of stone. He didn’t listen, and he wasn’t easily moved. He kept staring firmly at his nephew’s fist until Abbas was somehow able to pull him into a prone position on the floor of the stable. But that didn’t end the problem; Moslem simply started bellowing loudly, sounding unlike any other living thing. If his familiar and unsettling cry was raised for too long, it was likely that all the neighbors would make their way to Soluch’s stable to see what was happening, and then Abbas’ work would be ruined. There was nothing he could do. He had to find a way to get Moslem out of there. So he began pulling at him with all his strength. Abbas and Moslem were slowly starting to scuffle, while Hajj Salem stayed where he was at the edge of the trough. The old man was like a cleric sitting inside a religious academy. With his long cloak, his scarf and cane, his thick beard.

“I’m not playing any more!”

This was Hamdullah who was pulling himself out of the circle.

Ghodrat replied sharply, “What? You’re out? That’s what kind of man you are? You win a round and then say you’re not playing? That’s incredible!”

Morad realized the game was about to fall apart at a time
when he was down twenty-five
qerans
himself. It wouldn’t do. The money couldn’t leave their circle. He had to do something. He rose. The cause of the problem, Moslem, had to be removed. He gestured to Ghodrat to help him. Hamdullah opened the door of the stable, and Abbas, now assisted by Ghodrat and Morad, dragged Moslem out and threw him out into the snow. They ran back to the stable, closed the door, and threw their bodies against it. Hajj Salem had just risen from his seat and was passing his cane from hand to hand. Moslem reached the other side of the door and began beating on it, crying as he shouted, “Papa … Papa … Come here, Papa …! Come here! I’m scared. Come! I … want Papa. My Papa …”