Mahmoud Dowlatabadi - Missing Soluch

“Look, it seems Mergan’s appetite is increasing!”

“Mergan was never really one to skip a meal, even back when she’d eat thirty-five seer in a sitting!”

These barbs were always followed by laughter. Laughter that brought spittle to Karbalai Doshanbeh’s mouth, with his long tongue, his bulging unkind eyes, his terrible teeth. And worse, no one else knew what Abrau was enduring. It felt as if he was confronted with a barrage of insinuations and insults as soon as he lifted himself from his bed in the morning. What could he do? Once, he had stopped Salar Abdullah and said, “Salar! You have to tell Karbalai not to come to our house like he does. It’s not right.”

Salar Abdullah had replied, “He’s my father, not my son! How can I prevent him from doing what he wants to do? He’s his own boss.”

And he had stepped aside and walked away.

What more could Abrau do? Their house didn’t have doors or rooms to be able to find a bit of privacy from visitors. Karbalai Doshanbeh would just tuck his head down, cough at the door, and then walk in and sit in a corner of the house. It didn’t matter when or what time of day it was, either breakfast or dinner. Once there, he would drink their tea and eat their bread. He would even pick at the bottom of a bowl and lick it, before sitting back and saying, “Thank you, God! You have the goodness. You have our thanks!”

Recently he’d begun to bring raisins with himself. When Mergan would pour him a cup of tea, he’d fish around in his pockets, bringing out a few raisins and handing the others two raisins each. Wild raisins from the mountains. But no one would take the raisins he’d set out for them. But as soon as he’d walk out the door, each of them would take the raisins he’d set out for them and eat them, even Abrau.

During the entire time that Karbalai Doshanbeh would be sitting there, Abrau would be trying to guess what Mergan was thinking. But it was impossible; he could never make out anything clearly. Mergan herself would not visibly react to the man’s presence. She would just sit and do her work, sewing a patch or washing up. She was busy with repairing clothes, or standing by the stove, or coming and going, managing the affairs of the house. She showed little interest in Karbalai Doshanbeh; she seemed to just endure him as if he were something hung on the wall. It was clear that tonight, her agitation was unrelated to his presence in the house. She had been anxious before his arrival. She had also broken two glasses earlier, at the mourning ceremony at Zabihollah’s house. This was unlike Mergan; she was not a woman to be clumsy in the work she did.

The Sardar rarely made an appearance in the weddings or funerals held for people in the village, but he was sitting against the wall in Zabihollah’s home. Mergan was busy with bringing and taking the tea, sugar, and tobacco from the kitchen and was trying to act as if the Sardar was not there. But the eyes of the Sardar, like two arrows, were provoking Mergan. Her anxiety and agitation rose until the booming voice of the Sardar intoned, “At least bring me a cup a water, won’t you, woman!”

Mergan was shaken. Her toe caught in the leg of her pants and she tumbled onto the floor. Two of the cups fell on a stone and were smashed to bits. Mergan felt dead and brought to life: she would never forgive herself for losing her composure like that. She had struggled to complete her work that night, and when she returned to the house, her face was pale with agitation.

Abrau couldn’t imagine that something had happened between Mergan and Karabalai Doshanbeh, though. Let those who gossip say what they will. He just simply couldn’t imagine it. He wouldn’t even allow the thought of it into his mind. But why was Mergan ill at ease in her own skin tonight? Why was she jittery and unable to stay still? Why was she busying herself with chores for no reason?

Abrau was baffled.

Karbalai Doshanbeh spoke up, just like a cloud that occasionally rumbles with thunder.

“If Soluch, God rest his soul, were still alive, he could probably work for these new lords as a well digger for their new pump. At least that would have been work for him!”

Abrau remained silent, but inside he felt as if he was tied into a knot. He waited for his mother to say something, but Mergan instead chose to get up and go outside. She ignored Karbalai Doshanbeh’s barb, but the old man grinned a poisonous smile, and exclaimed, “Hmmmm!”

Abrau felt his whole body convulse. His young heart was beating against the wall of his chest. He felt his lips had become dry as mud-brick. He’d had to fight numerous fights as a child, and he’d heard many things said in each. He’d sometimes replied to these things in kind. Sometimes he’d been beaten; while sometimes he’d given his opponent a beating. But Karbalai Doshanbeh was something else. He was another level. And Abrau didn’t have expertise in this kind of game. This old opponent! What could he do? Everyone has to take a fall and be beaten at one point or another. At least once in one’s life. So it was time for Abrau to take a risk. With a shaking voice marked with the fear and anxiety of youth, he spoke up.

“What bastard’s told you that my father’s dead?”

Karbalai Doshanbeh didn’t so much look at him with his eyes as with two lizards, saying, “Uh oh! Look who has a tongue in his mouth!”

Then he fell silent. He turned away from Abrau. He looked at the ground and began fiddling with his worry beads.

Abrau leapt up like a flame and ran out the door. Mergan was standing outside by the clay oven, her calloused fingers to her lips.

Abrau dashed to his mother and stomped a foot on the ground.

“Why don’t you throw that man out of the house?”

What could Mergan say to this?

Abrau expelled all the rage that had been caught in his chest through a single syllable.

“Eh?”

Mergan took the boy’s elbow and led him into the stable. It was the only place where one could have a private conversation. But the sound of heavy steps at the door of the stable stopped them before they could speak. They could feel that a man had rounded the wall and was coming to the house. They both turned; a giant was facing them. The Sardar! His teeth shone white in the midst of his bushy beard. Abrau sensed the trembling that had taken over Mergan’s body through her fingers, still holding his elbow. The trembling of a bird in the trap of a viper. He sensed that she had gone pale. The Sardar began laughing, approaching them. He had a handkerchief filled with something. He set the handkerchief between Mergan’s chest and arm, and he turned and entered the house.

“How’s my old friend there?”

Abbas was silent, all eyes. He stared at the Sardar as he had stared at Karbalai Doshanbeh. He didn’t reply to the Sardar’s inquiry, but the Sardar hadn’t expected one anyway.

“Don’t worry about him! I lost my camel to him, but there’s always more to have in the world, eh, Mergan?”

Abrau and Mergan stood in the door, watching this uninvited guest standing in their home. Mergan saw a black look in the Sardar’s eyes. She lowered her head in silence. The Sardar pulled a pipe from his cloak, sat on the mortar, and took out his tobacco. Seeming as if he’d just noticed Karbalai Doshanbeh, he exclaimed, “Well! Karbalai is here, too!”

Karbalai Doshanbeh had not moved from his place. He’d not move for the Sardar or for God Himself. He hadn’t even raised his head. This was not just here; that was how he was everywhere. Whether in mourning, or at a wedding, or at any gathering for any reason; it was just the millstone that he was.

The Sardar’s pipe smoke rose, and Karbalai Doshanbeh looked at him from the corner of his eyes.