Mahmoud Dowlatabadi - Missing Soluch

Abbas looked at the boys and said, “Who here has cards? Would you lend us yours?”

Ali Genav turned to follow Abrau, saying, “Perhaps I’ll bring them with me.”

This was the final confirmation that he would send Abrau to go bring the bonesetter. If he were to send Abbas, the gambling circle would not be held, and that wasn’t what Ali Genav wanted. Abbas led the other boys toward the house and shouted after Ali Genav, “So you’re coming?”

Ali Genav said, “Ah … maybe!”

Abbas led the boys toward the house, but Mergan said, “No, not in the house. You can do what you want to in the stable.”

To enter the stable meant they had to clear the snow in front of the door first. Abbas ran into the house, grabbed a shovel, and ran back to clear a path. Salar Abdullah’s son, Jalil, and the Kadkhoda’s son, Hamdullah, just stood there, shifting their weight from foot to foot and chewing on their lips. It was clear they were uneasy, uneasy because they didn’t want to be seen there. But they didn’t want their opponents, Abbas, Ghodrat, and Morad, to sense their anxiety. It would be humiliating if it were known how afraid they were of their fathers. Abbas had told them that no one was home, but so far they’d run into three people. Although they weren’t strangers, it was very odd that they were there. On the other hand, Morad and Ghodrat had no worries. Ghodrat had learned how to play from his own father, Mohammad Gharib. He was a serious gambler himself and had no problems with his son also gambling; it was only if he lost that he would have to worry. If he came home empty-handed, Mohammad Gharib would pick up whatever was close to hand and run after him, chasing him even to the outskirts of the village. Eventually, with his sweat pouring from his head beneath his felt cap, onto his dry eyelashes and his thin beard, between his forced wheezing he would begin to lay out a set of curses that made Ghodrat responsible for all that was bad.

“… You reek of foot-sweat! Who told you to take my dear money and toss it down a well! So you had bad luck gambling? You tossed snake eyes? What good are you? When you set foot in the world, was it me who made your mother stop breathing? You’ve made me old before my time! My life is black because of you! You want to gamble but you keep playing the fool!”

On such occasions, which were not infrequent, it mattered little to Mohammad Gharib that his son Ghodrat was following behind him close enough to hear his curses, or that others might hear them as well. For him, in those moments, all that mattered was to say what he needed to say to lighten the weight on his heart, as if not saying them would lead to his heart exploding. Although this would lead to a shaking across his body that would only be quelled with his smoking three more seeds of opium than his usual ration. All this naturally meant that Ghodrat would rarely admit his gambling losses to his father.

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!”