Mahmoud Dowlatabadi - Missing Soluch

“Hold on! What do you think you’re doing? Is she your prisoner?”

Molla Aman pulled his nephew off Ali Genav and pushed him to one side.

“Don’t interfere, you! He’s taking his wife to his home!”

Abrau pulled himself up in front of his uncle.

“What are you talking about? She’s my sister!”

Molla Aman responded to Abrau by hitting Hajer’s neck with his closed fist.

“C’mon, get ahold of yourself and go back to your house, you troublemaking girl! C’mon!”

Somehow, he peeled Hajer off of Mergan, grabbed her under his arm, and tossed her out of the house. Hajer dashed toward the clay oven and then made a quick dash toward the wall. She was about to pull herself up onto the roof when Ali Genav reached her and grabbed her from behind. Hajer began to shriek again, kicking and bucking. Ali Genav covered the girl’s mouth with the palm of one broad, rough hand and set his path toward the alley.

“I’ve had enough of playing! You want to cause a scene? Shut up and be quiet, you!”

Hajer’s voice was muffled by Ali Genav’s palm. But she continued to kick and squirm. Molla Aman peeked over the wall and saw something that looked like a one-winged bird being dragged in the dirt alongside Ali Genav. Hajer was now silenced. Raghiyeh arrived, looking lost while navigating on her crutch. Molla Aman returned into the house. Mergan, who had been left holding her daughter’s twisted pants, ran outside with them stuffed under one arm. She reached Ali Genav and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Ali, my dear! Ali, let me bring her to you myself. I’ll bring her, Ali dear! But let her breathe! Don’t smother her, Ali!”

Ali Genav didn’t pause a moment. He kept dragging Hajer along, like a lion that has taken a lamb from its mother. Mergan had no choice but to return. But how could she? Helpless, she walked behind him, begging.

“Ali dear … Ali dear … I’d sacrifice myself for you … Just have mercy on my daughter … Have mercy … Ali dear!”

He didn’t bother to respond to Mergan. He entered his house and shut the door behind himself. Mergan waited at the door. She was still holding the pants. She sat down, and Raghiyeh approached her. She also waited, and then sat down facing Mergan. She leaned against a wall and stretched out her broken leg. Mergan took her head into her hands and her body began shaking by itself in a gentle motion, moving from one side to another.

“Oh, my Lord. Oh, my Lord!”

Then a sudden scream. Not simply a scream, an electric bolt of a shriek. A cry that was extinguished. Hajer must be unconscious now!

Like someone struck by lightning, Mergan leapt to her feet, frozen. How long? She couldn’t tell. Then suddenly she transformed her hands into fists and began raining blows upon her own head, and then began hitting her head against the door, over and over.

“You’ve killed her! You’ve killed her! Murderer! You’ve killed my daughter!”

The sound of voices rose from the homes of the neighbors. The voice of a woman, perhaps of Moslemeh: “You brought your misery on yourself, Mergan!”

More voices of the neighbors. A voice of a girl, perhaps Zabihollah’s sister: “Are you surprised, Mergan?”

Again, more voices. This one of a woman, perhaps Mergan’s mother from the grave: “You’ll never see good come in your life, Mergan!”

Now just the sound of a woman, the sound of Mergan. Sitting by the door with her hands on her head. Something inside her was exploding. The silence of the alley swallowed her sobs. Her sound was no longer that of crying, but rather that of mourning. Her voice echoed in the alley until the dawn. Raghiyeh had fallen asleep. In the dawn’s light, Ali Genav opened the door. He had his bath supplies under one arm. He didn’t speak, just passed them by with his head lowered. Mergan attributed this to his shame; she hoped he was overtaken by shame. But it was unlikely. The gesture could just as well have been a sign of his lack of concern for her. Isn’t a husband a king for himself? Mergan rose and came to his side.

“How is she, Ali dear? Ali!”

“She’s fine!”

He walked on. Mergan ran back to the house. Raghiyeh was sitting, readying herself for her prayers. She said, “She’s asleep!”

Mergan lifted the curtain to the pantry. A body resembling a small fish lay upon the dried blood of the mattress. She’s weak, very weak; her skin, the pallor of death. Is she dead? Poor small fish, fallen onto the earth! No, her heart was still beating. Her eyes were closed; her eyelids had the hue of a shadow. Her eyelashes were clinging together. Just over night, her cheeks had become sunken and hollow. Her hands, thin and fragile, were like two harmless snakes moving this way and that. Her shirt was bloody; her hair was matted together. A piece of cloth was still tied around her feet. This was a clear indication of what had happened, but Mergan couldn’t accept it, despite its simplicity. She crept into the pantry quietly, like a strange cat, not wanting to awaken her daughter from sleep. She made out the marks of blows on Hajer’s neck, scrapes and scratches. They were the marks left from slaps or punches. Or perhaps not; even her hands had the same marks, red and swollen. The blood was either from the scratches or from the cuts on her skin. Cuts like the mark of a yolk on a sheep’s neck. Mergan suddenly realized her daughter had been tied up, like an animal.

My daughter … Oh! My little girl, who couldn’t move. Like a turtle turned over on its back. But she struggled. She must have struggled. Her head must have hit the pillow so many times that her cheeks were bruised. Her neck is scraped from the friction of the shawl around it. Her fingers have lost their color beneath her fingernails. Her fingers had been grasping at the mattress, at the ground, my daughter.

Hajer, your mother should die for you!

Mergan rose. She had to go find ointment, the same ointment she had procured for Abbas’ shoulders and his legs.

Raghiyeh was sitting by the wall, saying her prayers. Mergan passed her and left the house. It was as if there was no alley, as if she simply didn’t see it. She reached home and saw Molla Aman putting the saddle on his donkey. He was preparing himself to leave. Abrau had already gone. In the middle of the night, he had just gotten up and left the house. Abbas was still in his usual place, staring into space. Mergan couldn’t bear to look either of them in the face. Her tongue was dry in her mouth, like a piece of sod. She was anxious and couldn’t stay still. She flew to and fro, like a pigeon caught in a well. Molla Aman, when he was younger, used to go to the mouth of a well and sleep in a tent there over night. In the morning, he’d crawl to the mouth of the well from the tent and would catch pigeons in the well. On returning, he liked to describe to Mergan how the pigeons would flutter their wings. She didn’t know why the memory of these pigeons, and how Molla Aman would catch them, had just now come back to her. Molla Aman was oblivious to what Mergan was thinking and readied himself to leave. Mergan didn’t know what to do. She would sit down and then stand up and walk in circles. She gripped her own hand with her fingernails and swallowed with difficulty. It was as if her throat had become narrow and was closed up. Or as if something like a handful of hay was blocking her throat. At the edges of her lips, white spittle had dried up. She was lost, confused. Why had she come to the house, anyway? And why wouldn’t the sun rise, damn it!

* * *

“So, Mergan, I’m leaving now. Goodbye.”

“Thanks for coming. You’re always welcome here.”

Mergan came outside. Molla Aman had the tether for his donkey in one hand. He pulled and led the animal into the alley. Mergan walked with him to the alley. He hadn’t gone very far before he turned and gently spoke to his sister.