Missing Soluch (20 page)

She replied while digging, “God wouldn’t approve. Her legs are broken and she has no one to protect her but you. If you throw her out, where would she find a roof to sleep under?”

Ali Genav wiped his lips with one hand and said, “I’ve had it up to here, though, Mergan! I’ve not had a single happy day
for the past few years, now. What am I guilty of? And my name shouldn’t die out when they put me in my grave. As long as I can remember, this woman has done nothing but complain, cry, and complain some more. I’ve not had one happy night in my entire life. Now that her complaints are mixed with curses, I can’t even sleep a wink! She’s torturing me with her complaining, her cursing! Also, she’s the one who brought on that poor old woman’s death. She complained so much that I threw my own mother out of her house during her last days on earth, and the poor thing’s finished her life like this! Oh, God!”

Mergan finished clearing the last bit of dirt and came out of the grave. Ali Genav finished smoking his cigarette and tossed it away. He took the pick in hand and jumped into the grave. The grave was now waist-deep. They had to dig deeper, at least to chest-level. Mergan put Ali Genav’s cloak over her shoulders and sat to one side. Ali Genav bent his body and sank the pick into the earth.

He said, “She’s barren, it’s clear! I did it myself, I know. She had something in her belly and I kicked her with my boot right in the stomach, and the baby was done for. Now I wish I’d broken my foot! I was an animal. Shame! That was youth. But now … Now what? Now … Who knows? But I have some ideas. Ideas, Mergan! You’re a smart woman. You’ve seen the world. You know what I’m saying. I make a good living. I have to think about myself. My work, my life. The more I think about it, I see I want a woman who can help me. Someone who’s able to come to the baths on the women’s days, sit and help the customers wash or dry themselves, and collect a couple of coins of admission from each person. But this woman’s stuck at home, and the state she’s in she won’t be able to do anything for at least a whole year.”

Mergan didn’t know what to say to Ali Genav. She was silent. She didn’t understand why he was telling her these things, or what his intention was. Why was he telling her all of this here? Why now? Her mind was racing, but she couldn’t find an answer. She was captured by her own imagination, taken by it. The weather was still; it was just about dawn. All around, as far as she could see, was emptiness. Zaminej was silent, broken. There was still some time before the day’s eyes would open. A sudden fright ran through her. Fear. A fear mixed with an element of a woman’s nature. Of the nature of a man and a woman. Of one body before another. Something was flickering, something that was not under anyone’s control. Mergan was overtaken by a feeling initiated by Ali Genav’s words. But this light and baneful flickering was fleeting. It was now covered in layers of apprehension. Fear was overpowering nature. Now her fear had frozen her. She couldn’t move. Sitting under his cloak beside the grave, she was paralyzed. She felt as if her heart had stopped. Her eyes were transfixed by his thick, dark hands. His wide shoulders, his heavy breathing as he worked, all scared her. She suddenly wished she could find an excuse to get up and leave the graveyard, but she couldn’t. She had neither the skill nor the courage to find a way to get away. Her knees felt weak, as if she were trapped like a sparrow in a hawk’s sight.

Ali Genav threw the pick out of the grave.

“Now hand me that shovel!”

Mergan rose with difficulty, stood by the grave, and held the shovel out for him. Before she knew it, he grabbed both the shovel and her wrist, and with one motion pulled both into the grave. He threw her against the wall of the grave, and between
his heavy breaths, he stared at her wide and terrified eyes, speaking in a broken voice.

“Your daughter! Give me your daughter! Let me marry Hajer!”

Mergan felt as if she were about to die and Ali Genav had taken on the likeness of the angel of death. That was how he appeared to her; his eyes bulging, spittle around his lips. She began to shake visibly, flapping her wings like a pigeon in a well. Her mouth and throat were dry, and she felt as if her limbs had been stretched and were being torn apart in his hands. When he eventually loosened his grip on her wrist, she sat back and leaned her head against the wall of the grave. Gasping for air, she shut her eyes.

“Oh my God!”

Once Ali Genav had regained his composure he busied himself with the work of digging and said again, “Give me your daughter. I want to have a son with her. I want to keep my name alive.”

“My daughter … isn’t old enough to marry. She’s not ready for a husband.”

“She is! If you toss your hat up, by the time it hits the ground she’ll be old enough. And she’ll be ready for marriage!”

“Hajer’s still a child. She’s not mature enough. She’s not of age.”

“She’ll mature. She’ll come of age. Why are you worrying about these details? If I marry her, I’ll be satisfied with her as she is.”

“Because … but …”

Ali Genav poured out the contents of his shovel heavily.

“No buts and ifs! Promise me right here. Your family needs someone to look over them. I’ll give your sons jobs. I’ll have you work with your daughter at the baths. Until your daughter’s old enough to do the work by herself, you can oversee her. I’ll take Abrau under my own wing. I’ll have him tend the water heaters and he can go and gather kindling for the boiler stove. I’ll find something for Abbas as well. If nothing else, I’ll get him work tending my cousin’s camel herd. If nothing else, he’ll be making a living for himself! Your life will improve; you’ll be happy. You think these young fools who leave the village for six, seven months to run like dogs after a single morsel of bread, who then come back and sit bored by the hearth for the rest of the time … You think they’re better than me? Think of Morad, Sanam’s son! You think someone like that can provide for a wife? A woman needs a man to oversee her, not a fancy baby rooster! Think about it and convince her. In the first month of the New Year, after the forty-day mourning period for my mother, we’ll go to town to buy the things we need. You, too—you need to be in your best.”

“But what about Raghiyeh, then?”

“She can’t be a wife any longer. I’ll have her stay in the pantry for a while, and then I’ll build a little hole for her in the pen. When I have a chance, I’ll build a roof next to the clay oven and I’ll put up walls. Then Hajer and I will move out into the new room, and Raghiyeh will stay in the place off the pen.”

Their work was done. Ali Genav scraped the walls of the grave with his shovel and tossed out the last pile of dirt. He pulled himself out of the grave and then held a hand out for Mergan. She wrapped her hand in her chador and held onto
his hand. He pulled his presumed mother-in-law out as if she were already family. Then he brushed the dust from his clothes, put his cloak on his shoulders, and picked up the shovel and pick.

“Why don’t you leave the shovel here. We’re going to have to cover her up afterward.”

Ali Genav replied, “I’ll bring it back with myself. Some person might come by and take it.”

They walked back together.

“Do you know how to wash the corpse?”

Mergan replied, “Of course. But after that, I’ll need to carry out a full ablution for myself.”

Ali Genav replied, “Nothing to it! In the evening, I’ll give you the key for the baths, and if you’d like, you can take Hajer as well and give her a good wash.”

Mergan didn’t say anything, neither yes nor no. Silent, and with a lowered head, she walked alongside him.

He continued, “You know that bit of rough land that Soluch used to work? We’ll plant watermelons on it. With the snow we’ve just had, I’ll wager each plant will give fifteen
mans
of melons. I’ll bring you the seeds. The land is rough and doesn’t need to be ploughed. You can do the work yourself with your sons. I think we could have two, three thousand plants take root there. And let me tell you something, since we’re going to be related. If you don’t watch out, this year you could lose that very bit of land you own. Mirza Hassan, Salar Abdullah, and a few others are thinking about trying to register all the land out by the valley to themselves. I hear they’ve already begun the process in town. If you’re not working the land, you won’t be considered its owner.”

Mergan raised her head. “They want to register God’s Land as their own?”

Only half-seriously, Ali Genav replied, “If it were the land of God’s worshippers, it would already be registered with a deed! It’s as if they’ve found a dead horse and they’re trying to steal the horseshoes off of its hooves!”

“What about the fact that we’ve been working on that land for the past several years?”

“No doubt you’ll have to get your compensation from God himself. You simple woman! Landless people go out to these rough lands, pick a bit at it with a shovel, plant on it for a year, and then leave it in the hands of God. Very few people have chosen a plot for themselves. Usually they go once a year, plant a few seeds, and then leave the village for work. Later, they gather a small harvest off the land, and if they didn’t, the wind would simply blow the seeds. That’s why there’s no accounting or ownership. It’s constant work, planting, ploughing, harvesting, that gives someone ownership of land. Open, unused land has no owners, since there are no plots on it. No one works the land, and so the owner will be whoever has the strength to take it. Whoever speaks more cleverly, who has more in his pocket. What they’re saying is that from the valley on one side of the land, to the edge of the sands of the desert, they want to plant pistachios in a field of one
farsakh
by three
farsakhs
. That’s what they’re dreaming of. They want to bring in a water pump and to smooth out the land there. The ministry of agriculture will give loans for these kinds of projects. In any case, what I’m saying is that to keep your plot, you need to be sure to keep working it. If possible, you should outline the borders of the plot. From what I hear, Salar Abdullah, Zabihollah, and a few others are doing
the work on this. Kadkhoda Norouz also has a hand in it. They need to come to agreement with a handful of the landless here, one of them being you. I don’t have high expectations of the others. People like the sons of Sanam. And like Ghodrat, the son of that thief. And a poor and motley group of others, just like them.”

Mergan said, “I’ll take my shovel out on the first day and go to the land. They want to register it? Ha! What about all the work we’ve done to pull out the thorny weeds one by one, and to smooth the land so it’s like the palm of my hand? I have to feed my children during the summer from the fruits of this land.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Soluch was the first to think of doing something with these forsaken lands. I remember seven years back, it was after he had begun to work there that others also started to as well. For example, I myself have only been planting there for two years.”

They had now reached the mosque. The Molla of Zaminej was sitting on the broken wall. Ali Genav told him that the grave was ready. The Molla rose and entered the mosque. Hajj Salem had stopped his recitation and was now napping beside the casket. Moslem was awake and was playing with bits and pieces he had gathered from the floor of the mosque. Hajj Salem’s head was resting on the casket. Morad was also there, standing silently by the pillar in the night-prayers niche, like a shadow. The Molla went and asked them to help raise the coffin. Morad came over. Hajj Salem jolted awake, picked himself up, and placed the tattered Qur’an of the mosque onto the bookshelf, mumbling something under his breath, something like, “There’s no strength and no ability without God!”

The Molla of Zaminej looked at Ali Genav, who strode over to the casket. Hajj Salem tapped Moslem with his cane and gestured at him to help before taking one corner of the coffin in his hands. They took the coffin into the courtyard of the mosque. The front of the coffin was held by Mergan and Ali Genav, and the back was held by Moslem and Morad. The Molla of Zaminej and Hajj Salem were walking behind the coffin, praying and reciting as they walked.

The cold, silent coffin traversed the empty alleys to its grave. The cold had entered the marrow of their bones. There was no sun. The snow broke beneath their steps. Outside the village, the coldness was even sharper.

They passed the edge of a stream just before reaching the graveyard.

A cold wind was blowing. Ghodrat’s father was standing over the grave leaning on his shovel, his cloak’s edges flapping in the wind. Ghodrat was with him, sitting by the gravestone of Ali Genav’s father. When he saw the casket, he rose and walked forward along with his father, who resembled a broken twig.

Before they reached the group, Ghodrat’s father said, “We’d come to lend a hand, Ali!”

“God give you life. There wasn’t much to do.”

Ghodrat took Mergan’s place under the coffin, and his father put a finger on its side and said, “There’s no God but God himself!”

The water in the stream gave off a pleasant steam in the coldness of the dawn. The water was not very warm, but it was warm enough. They set the casket down beside the running water. The men stood around and Mergan rolled up her sleeves
and the bottoms of her pants legs. Ali Genav diverted the stream with a few shovels full of dirt and stones, so as to prevent the water from the corpse-washing from going downstream to the fields. The men turned their backs and sat farther down on the banks of the stream. Mergan and Ali Genav took the corpse out of the casket and set it flat on the stones. She instructed him to fetch the half-broken jug that was submerged in the stream, which he did. Mergan began to remove the shroud and told Ali Genav that there was nothing more for him to do. He joined the other men and sat with his back to the corpse. Sitting beside the Molla, he lit a cigarette.

“Death is truth, my son!”

So as to not be outdone by Hajj Salem, the village Molla said, “And inheritance is just!”

Ali Genav half-smiled as he said, “How am I to repay you for this? Here! Have a smoke. Take one each. You, too, father of Ghodrat. What? You want one, Moslem? Here! One for you as well!”