Missing Soluch (9 page)

“I don’t know. They’d already shut the door of their house.”

Mergan hurried, taking a tin container from beside the stove. Abbas grabbed his mother’s wrist.

“You still didn’t say where you hid the copper? What are you hiding? What were you thinking? That I’d be fooled? That copper belongs to me, too. It’s not all just yours!”

Mergan pulled her hand from her son and said, “You’d better shut your mouth, you. So now you think you’ve become a grown-up for me! Let’s wait till your piss froths, then I’ll let you puff out your chest a bit!

However it was, and from wherever she could get it, Mergan needed to bring embers back to the house. For this reason, she couldn’t wait around and argue with her son. She grabbed the edge of the tin and rushed out of the door like a wolf. Abbas, stung by his mother’s treatment, felt he was weak, a nothing. Such a nothing that he wasn’t even worth fighting with; exactly the sort of sentiment that no young man can bear. The fact that he didn’t have facial hair yet was acceptable, as long as he was taken seriously, treated like a person, like a man. Mergan, in the state she was in, had no chance to perceive the nuance of this. So Abbas was left to bemoan his mother’s insult. An insult, no matter how off-handed. He wished for the day that he could take a place above his mother. To be the master. But this was not all. Someday …? When? Where to find the patience to wait for that day? Now. He had to make up for his humiliation right now. If no one had been there, then that would have been different. But this had happened in front of his little sister. So, just as Hajer was staring at him, he glared back at her.

“What? What are you looking at? You’ve never seen a human?”

Hajer looked away.

Abbas said, “Very well! So if you don’t want me to make you pay for it, tell me, where did you go with Mama today?”

Hajer replied quietly, “We went to get some sun.”

“What else? After that?”

“After? After …”

“Stop hemming and hawing! Speak up. Where did you hide the copper?”

Hajer began to cry, half from fright and half on purpose.

“I swear … I don’t know. I wasn’t there, I swear! I swear on my father’s grave!”

“Watch what you’re saying, you! Has our father died for you to be swearing on his grave?”

Hajer began to sob, saying, “Mama said. She said today he was dead!”

“She’s talking out the side of her mouth! Dead? Ha! Just wait till she comes back. I’ll show her how dead our father is. She’ll see!”

Hajer let out a cry. But Abbas wasn’t so weakhearted as to let her off so easily.

“Fine. Let’s forget about this. Let’s imagine our father’s dead. Tell me, where did you two hide the copper work?”

Hajer again evaded the question and set to stalling. Abbas began removing his belt and rose.

“So, are you going to talk, or do I need to make you?”

Hajer slid to the corner of the room. Abbas pursued her, stood before her, and cracked his belt against the floor.

“Get up! Start talking! Or do you want me to make you black-and-blue with this belt?”

Hajer shut her eyes and lifted her small hands to protect her face, still crying. Abbas bellowed, “I swear to Imam Abbas I’ll make you sorry! Have some mercy on your own skin and bones and start speaking!”

Hajer just kept crying. She was crying from her heart. Not only from fear, but from everything. Everything she’d seen and heard weighed upon her heart, and since she had no other way of relieving herself, she could only cry and cry. And perhaps if Abbas hadn’t also jumped on her, she would have still had plenty to cry about. But now that Abbas had set into her, her tears flowed from her heart. It was like a boil ready to be lanced, as if it were ready to burst. She had to cry, so as to loosen the knot around her heart. Even if she did not want to, she had to. These tears were ready to flow. These tears only made Abbas angrier, these tears and her locked lips. And the suspicion that Hajer was hiding something beneath her tears only made him angrier. He began to lose control. Perhaps he was looking for an excuse as well. He raised the belt above his head and brought it down. Hajer flickered like a lantern. Abbas showed no mercy. He brought it down again. And again.

The sound of the belt falling on Hajer’s body brought Abrau around. He opened his eyes with difficulty and saw his sister backed into a corner while Abbas’ merciless blows fell upon her. He leapt up, throwing aside the blanket. He did it unselfconsciously. Still hot with fever. From behind, he was able to throw his hands around Abbas’ throat and pull him back. They both fell over backward. Hajer ran. She escaped through the
door shrieking. But she didn’t go far. A moment later, she returned to watch her brothers grappling from the doorway. Like a mongoose and a snake. They twisted and struggled in the dust. Hajer didn’t dare come closer. With one movement, Abbas was able to release himself from Abrau’s grip and to position himself on his chest. Now he placed his hands around Abrau’s throat.

“So, you little rat, should I suffocate you? You’re too weak to even stand on your feet, so why are you throwing yourself into the arena? Now go get lost!”

Abbas rose from Abrau’s chest, threw a blanket over him, and then turned toward Hajer. She ran and reached the alley. She screamed and ran toward the house of Ali Genav’s mother. Abbas decided not to start a commotion in the night. He turned back and sat in the doorway.

Now it was Abrau who had disappeared. He wasn’t to be found anywhere. Maybe he had slid away, ashamed of himself. That is what Abbas presumed. He wanted to find him to explain why he hadn’t whipped Hajer unjustifiably.

He said, “Mother and daughter, they’re working together. Just when our attention was elsewhere, they went and hid the copper somewhere. Do you see? Are you listening? They took four pieces of good copper work and have lost them somewhere. Somewhere only they know. Just themselves! The little one is working with Mama. She won’t open her lips for a second. But you …”

Abrau didn’t respond. He didn’t have the heart. He didn’t want to show his face. He hid himself under a blanket. But Abbas was worked up. He couldn’t let go. He rose, stuck his
head outside the door, and shouted, “Hey … if you don’t want me to give you a beating, come back to the house yourself. Get up and come back. I won’t do anything … Where the hell are you? Hey … I’m speaking to you. Come on, where are you?”

There was no reply from Hajer. Abbas left the house. He investigated the bread oven and the stables. Hajer was nowhere. He went to the alley. The alley was dark. She was like a cricket, lost in the night; she could be hidden in any corner. So Abbas decided to try to use sweet talk.

“Hey, you little devil! You think I don’t know where you’ve hidden yourself? I can find you, but I’d rather you came out yourself. So come on! I was just kidding around with you, girl! Don’t you know what a joke is? So come on out … Hajer … Hajer … Where are you? Eh? I’m with you, girl!”

Abbas began to worry again. Hajer was stoking his anger. Her sudden silence in the dark night struck his heart with a kind of fear. There was no clear reason for him to worry; nonetheless, for some reason his heart was filled with dread. Something unclear frightened him. Something like the image of Hajer falling into a ditch or a well. So Abbas began to zigzag the cold, hard soil of the alleyway, in bare feet, winding up and then loosening the belt that was still in his hand.

“Where are you, you foolish girl? You want to drive me mad tonight? Come out from whatever hellhole you’ve hidden in. Come out! Why are you all trying to torment me like this? Come out, you daughter of a beast! Hajer … Hajer!”

Hajer was nowhere to be found. It was as if she’d melted into the earth. Abbas, tired and angry, like an injured dog, returned to the room and sat by the stove. Abrau had still not emerged from beneath the blanket. Disconsolate and irritated, Abbas
shouted, “Now you’re pretending to be a dead mouse! Get up and let’s see where the hell this girl’s gone off to! Get up!”

Abrau didn’t respond. He didn’t want to reply to his brother. Abbas cut short his fury, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and left the house again, saying, “Damn you all. You can all go to hell. Go to hell!”

He went straight toward the bread oven and climbed onto the roof of the structure. He slid over to the edge of the wall and leaned against it. He propped his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, and he sat there. He felt like crying. But it was as if his penetrating eyes could only cry blood. So silent and despondent, with sorrow in his throat, he remained in his place with the blanket wrapped tightly around himself.

The dark night and its cold cut like a double-edged knife. He tucked his feet in and wrapped them with the blanket, wiping his nose with the palm of his hand. Pointless anger. Why was he so wound up? He felt something deeper than this commotion was bothering him. Something voiceless had softly pricked his heart. Like a thorn, slowly it cut in, opening a wound more and more as it went. It wasn’t painful; it irritated. He knew it wasn’t deadly, but it was wearing down on him. He could see very clearly that it had made him out of sorts. He’d become rabid, like a dog. His father always used to call him a flame, and said that if he was left in a forest, he’d set the place afire. His father had put all of his efforts into raising Abbas as a mud-plasterer for bread ovens, but Abbas refused to learn. He would always escape. He’d escape and get a beating when he came back at night. Abbas’ grandfather was a reputable mud-plasterer who, in his later years, suffered from a bad back. He couldn’t stand straight. When he walked, he had to keep himself
steady by holding onto his knees. He walked in a way that made Abbas think he was just about hit the ground with his face. He wobbled like a broken wheel on a cart.

Abbas didn’t want to follow in his father’s steps. The crooked back of his grandfather—Samad the Plasterer, as he was called—was always in his mind. But he’d thrown himself more into the work of well digging. When Soluch would pick up his spade and pick and go to dig a well in someone’s house, or if he went to open a blocked canal, Abbas would tag along. This work was more interesting to him. Soluch would position Abbas at the top of the well and would descend to the pit of the well himself. Abbas would send down the tools Soluch needed in a bucket. He’d also send down the tallow-burning lantern, the water jug, and bread when the time came. Abbas would lie on an incline of dirt around the well and watch the birds flying in the sky, waiting for Soluch to fill a bucket with dirt. He would sing songs to himself, or toss stones at the reeds. He could stare at the distant wastelands, or watch the road that traversed the surface of the highlands.

“Hooooy …”

This was Soluch’s call rising up from the well. Abbas had to grab the rope and slowly raise the bucket of earth to the surface, empty it, and send it back down to the bottom.

“Hooooy … coming down!”

This was different from the work of replastering bread ovens. Mud-plastering required someone who was dedicated to the job. Someone with patience for hard work. From morning until dusk. It was detailed and careful work, needing full attention and patient dedication. All of which Soluch possessed. In
the same way that Soluch was dedicated to this kind of work, Abbas was disheartened by it. During working, Soluch would never say a word. His eyes and hands worked as if he were weaving silk. Abbas, who couldn’t sit still for a moment, didn’t have the patience.

Abbas preferred well digging to plastering, and preferred working as an itinerant salesman to well digging. Traveling with his uncle, buying and selling goods, wandering from place to place. Molla Aman would buy four blocks of sugar, four boxes of tea, ten boxes of safety pins, ten boxes of sewing needles, two
mans
of hard candy, forty or fifty pieces of
gaz
candy, and a couple of packs of rice bangles from town, pack them onto the back of his donkey, and head out to the mountainside villages around Mount Kuhsurkh. Once or twice, Abbas went along for the trip on the coattails of his uncle. Afterward, Molla Aman had told his sister Mergan that Abbas wasn’t trustworthy. But Abbas knew there was another reason—Molla Aman couldn’t countenance sharing his life with the son of his sister. Abbas actually respected the fact that his uncle had blamed Abbas for this decision.

Molla Aman had told his sister, “I can’t look away for a moment before your son pockets a couple of
seer
of hard candy and hides the take in his bag. And he’s got a thing for deal making … and worse, he’d take a few hair clips or bangles and give them away to girls for free. All it would take is for one to smile at him, and he loses his wits. The goods aren’t safe in his hands. He’d even try to steal the sand from the desert! It’s as if I didn’t sweat blood to get those goods in the first place. But my biggest fear was that one day he’d lay a hand on some girl and
start a scandal, and a hundred men with sticks and clubs would descend on me in some distant hilltop village. Now that would be just perfect!”

Uncle Aman wasn’t far from the truth. The girls in the hilltop villages weren’t modest at all. They didn’t even wear
chadors
. They were quick to laugh. They’d gather in groups and come to buy things. They’d gather around the display and beguile Abbas with their natural and pleasant laughter. Abbas would lose his bearings and the girls would pocket pins, hair clasps, and bangles, trading them for a flirtatious wink.

One time, Uncle Aman and Abbas had begun to argue, in the middle of nowhere. The uncle’s blood began to boil, and he threw Abbas onto the parched cracked earth, and said, “I’m going to search you all over, even in your nostrils! You’ve wasted just the few coins I have. You’re bankrupting me, you thief! What the hell am I supposed to do with you?”

Then he stripped Abbas bare. Naked. He looked in every fold of Abbas’ clothes until, out of the hem of his pants, he managed to find a two-
toman
note. Still naked, with his clothes in his arms, he ran alongside his uncle, pleading, “I swear to God, on the blood of Imam Hussein, these two
tomans
are my own. I won it gambling!”