Mahmoud Dowlatabadi - Missing Soluch

A pained soul resided inside this worn body. But it was not defeated. This injured soul masked a hidden fight, not a pained lament. This was why Mergan’s eyes had retained their beauty. Hers was a stubborn radiance shining from an abyss of despair. Like a trembling light flickering from a lantern held in the depths of the night. Mergan was strong-boned. Not like her brother, who had a skull like a horse. But among the other women, she looked broader of shoulder, even if her bones were somewhat diminished. Destitution and constant hunger had not worn her down as they might have.

Mergan was looking outside. With the snow, the dawn seemed lighter than usual. A pleasant light, with a color that was rarely seen. It was a color that could not be seen just visually. One had to also see it with one’s soul. How does the ailing person sense a panacea? The thirsty, water? This is how Mergan perceived the color of the snow. If you were to look at her face carefully, you would see the reflection of the dawn snow within it, and with it a transformation, a new perspective. You could sense that she imagined something was about to change. Imagine that the snow that had settled on the ground was instead a bed of colorful grass seedlings just sprouted from the dirt. Imagine the movement of those seeds beneath the earth that had imprisoned them for the cold, dry, and unhappy winter; imagine this earth was transforming; imagine the sun that will shine after the snow; imagine the plough share, the land just ploughed, the farmers; imagine the fields with their wide arms extended once again; imagine the braying of the cattle, the calls of the shepherds; imagine the smoke rising from people’s bread ovens; imagine the people’s furrowed brows vanquished by charging waves of laughter.

In imagining all this, Mergan had been renewed with new sensations. The kind of sensations that adolescent girls overflow with, the same ones that Mergan herself had while crossing the wasteland of puberty, drunken and confused, some twenty years ago. Those days when she felt she could wrap all the men in the world into a single embrace, when Mergan had spring fever. She felt it in her laughter, her jokes, her dancing and drumming, her idleness, her breadmaking, and her ginning, with her gleaning with the men at harvest. It was in her cotton spinning, and when she spent long winter nights spindling with the other girls, gatherings that culminated in waves of laughter and giggling. It was in the songs and poetry recitals; the whispers about what the men, the young men, were saying; in breasts heaving and hearts filled with joy; the flow of blood in the veins and the occasional taste of love; a love that was hidden, not yet emerging. It was in just being. In being at work, in the home, in bed, in the fields. Being in love. A tie in a stalk. In having children, in becoming pregnant. In breast-feeding. Singing a cradlesong. In swaddling the child. Washing the child in lukewarm water, under the mild midday sun. In the sensation of desire. He’s ticklish! Laughter. Laughter. Water. Sun. Laughing. The pure laughter of the child. The flowering of the bud. A feeling in between laughter and crying. In loving everything. The man’s firm shoulders. The sweet scent of underarm sweat. Soluch’s shirt, a mix of sweat and dust. The boy playing in the water of the water pot. Kisses. Kisses on the head and feet of the boy, whose teeth have not come out yet, but who is ticklish. How he laughs, the little bud! He flowers. Ah …

The fields are brimming with wheat. The fields are golden, raining gold. The summer sunlight. The sounds of people calling. The gossip of the gleaners: girls, women, children. Bringing water jugs to the shelter of the haystacks, sleeping on the banks of the brook, a shade made from a saddle from the landowner’s horse. Bread and tea and dates. Young men. The men. A silk handkerchief. The young men tie a silk handkerchief around their necks, with hair styled high with no hat. Sweat pours down under the handkerchief, passing the space between the shoulders to be caught on the tight belt, then spreads to each side. Wheat chaff the color of sugar, adhering to the sweat of a body, on a shirt. Shirts drenched with sweat. The mix of sweat and dust, and shirts in between. Sweat and dust, dust and sweat. The upper arms, the shoulders in motion. The forearm and hands in action. The scythes and sickles shine in the sun. The threshers gather handfuls to make bushels, and bushels to make stacks. The women and girls follow the threshers, gathering the stalks that have fallen aside while the wheat stalks grow into armfuls, and then bushels, and when they are placed onto a bushel bearer to be taken to where the stacks are gathered.

Mergan was among the threshers. She was sitting on the edge of the fields watching Soluch harvesting. Soluch had made a name for himself as a harvester. He was neither tall nor strong, nor particularly audacious, but he worked honestly and vigorously. Compact and capable, Soluch crouched on his heels and pivoted, clearing the land of the long and leaning stalks of wheat. An efficient harvester, Soluch enjoyed making an extra effort to clear a wider berth of wheat than was usual. The landowner of the field approved of this, even though he knew that Soluch was clearing the extra stalks for Mergan to gather. This was a kind of ritual. It was a secret agreement between the harvester, the landowner, and the woman gleaner. If a young man who was working as a harvester liked a woman, it was his right to employ his scythe in such a way as to leave more of the dry, soft stalks on the ground behind him. The pouch tied around the woman’s waist had to be filled. As a sign of his love, Mergan had to return from the fields with her arms full of wheat. And so she did. So what of the gossip, the innuendoes? Let them say what they want! Mergan paid no mind. The talk only showed what was in their hearts. And so what if some hearts were not on Mergan’s side?! There are always people who will use gossip to express their own frustrations. They don’t realize that rather than seeming clever they seem twofaced. They lack the courage to be sincere. And what would be said at the end? That Mergan of the camel herder’s family and Soluch of the mud-plasterer’s desire one another? Let them gossip! What harm could come of it? What sin? Let everyone in the village climb on their roofs and sweeten their mouths by telling each other the news. Who could stop them from being engaged? No one. Mergan only had one brother. Her father was dead, and her mother was housebound. What would Aman say? He himself was under the spell of Gisou. Yes, Molla Aman! He was even more deeply ensnared by his own love. He was infatuated with her. He would walk aimlessly, composing verses of poetry for her. He had one foot in the stars. The fable of Molla Aman and Gisou gained renown with everyone. What’s a brother like this say to Mergan? After all, Mergan was drunk with Soluch, with only him. What could Molla Aman, who was infatuated with Gisou, say about this? And even if he did?! If he resorted to threats and kicks and beatings? What could he do? Mergan couldn’t be killed by kicking and whipping; only being apart from Soluch could kill her, being apart from the mud-plaster’s son.

Where are you, Mergan?

She came to. The cold overwhelmed her. How far she had gone from the present! Where was she? Memories … remembrance. She turned. Her children were still asleep. The embers had burned to cold ashes in the hearth. The children had gathered themselves into a ball beneath the dozens of blankets that covered them. Mergan went and took a handful of corkwood to the stove and lit a flame beneath the kettle. Hajer turned her head. She had to get up earlier than the boys. Abbas and Abrau would rise shortly after her. Eventually they all were awake.

“What a snow!”