Mahmoud Dowlatabadi - Missing Soluch

“His wife? You think his wife can kick me out of my own house? She’d never dare to! She knows that every day I expect her to prepare three full meals to put before me. Each week I eat eggs and molasses cooked with yellow oil seven times.”

“If so, where’s your fat ass?”

“You want to arm-wrestle me over this?”

Now this was completely reckless. Karbalai Doshanbeh blurted this out from frustration, all at once. Something instinctive had compelled the old man to say this, or rather, to let this slip out. It was pure bravado. If Mergan hadn’t been around, Karbalai Doshanbeh would never have spoken so foolishly, not even in a hundred years. But it seemed that Mergan’s presence, and the fact that she was the audience to their verbal sparring, had agitated the old man. He was now heading for a confrontation with the huge Sardar, which would no doubt have a sorry end for himself.

The Sardar began to roll up his sleeve and prepare.

“What’s the bet?”

“You decide!”

They both clearly understood the reason for their resorting to such bravado and, now, tests of their manliness. It was also clear to them that Mergan had sensed the reason for all of this as well. So the Sardar quickly said, “The bet is, whoever loses can never show his face in this house again!”

There was no place for backtalk or negotiation in these terms. The Sardar had thrown down the gauntlet, but was confident of winning. Before Abbas’ wide eyes, and Mergan’s quietly shocked gaze, the old hero Karbalai Doshanbeh rose calmly from his place against the wall and came to the lowered floor next to the hearth, standing before the Sardar. Short and compact, he was quiet and serious. He set his left knee on the ground, and set his right foot in the ashes of the hearth. The Sardar did the same before him. The two old men took their positions facing each other. It was now time for them to grip each other’s palms and to try to break the other down. This ritual to test men’s strength was brought by the caravan drivers from Kerman province as a gift for the people of Khorasan. They each grasped the other’s right hand. Karbalai Doshanbeh’s fingers were short and thick, while the Sardar’s were each like a cucumber. In this test of strength, their hands were to be locked together and their elbows set onto their raised kneecaps.

Mergan didn’t know what her role was in all of this. In fact, she was the most worried of all. She didn’t want to be a part of this game. She stood and watched the battle from the edge of the room. Two ogres had made their way into her house, had imposed themselves on her and her household, now she could find no way to extricate herself from the predicament they had laid out before her.

“Okay, let’s see how strong you really are!”

“You begin. I’m waiting for you to start!”

“No, both together!”

“Okay, together … Go!”

Each directed all of his strength into his arm and toward his fist. The contest was simple, gauging the strength of two men’s arms, pushing in opposite directions, as two sources of power. The veins in Karbalai Doshanbeh’s neck began to bulge. The Sardar’s eyes began to widen. The struggle proceeded quietly, slowly. The pressure moved in waves through their muscles and nerves, focusing in their hands. The veins in the backs of their hands were visible. The two hands had become one; the two men, one body. A body set alight. Blood rushed to their temples. Their cheeks and eyes were contorted. Stones in the slings of two fingers. Their teeth bit their lips. They could each taste blood in their mouths. Necks stiff and thick. Beards trembling. Nostrils wide. Bodies shaking as if feverish. Their bodies looked as if they were breaking down, nearly collapsing.

It was clear that the Sardar could, in one sudden motion, break the grip of Karbalai Doshabeh’s fingers. But he didn’t, on purpose. He wanted to play with the old man, exhaust him, cut him down, and lay him out for dead. He mercilessly pushed on, intending to completely destroy the old man. But Karbalai Doshanbeh held his ground. It was as if he was finding strength from each of the days he had lived through. He found the spirit to defend himself as if with claws and teeth. Blood began to trickle from his lower lip into his beard. The capillaries in his eyes were red with blood. The vein in his forehead was about to break. But he didn’t want to back down. He couldn’t bear the insult of defeat. He was looking for an opportunity to play one last card. The Sardar gave him room to keep looking for a way out, given his complete confidence in his own strength. So as to give some hope to the old man, and to drag out the game a little, he began to shake his wrist on purpose. Karbalai Doshanbeh couldn’t help but believe that the tide was turning, and his hopes were raised. He summoned all the strength he could gather and in one sudden move broke the pillar of the Sardar’s hold, causing his hand to shake in a way that was now out of his control. He gained momentum and mercilessly pressed down, so much so that the angle of the Sardar’s grip fell to a point that made it impossible for him to recover his initial advantage. Karbalai Doshanbeh made the most of the dead end that his opponent had now found himself in, and he brought one more final surge in his grip. Crash! The Sardar’s four fingers broke backward. The sweat-covered palms of the two men’s hands broke apart, and the men each fell back, bathed in his own sweat.

The pain was immense, but the disgrace was much worse. What does a man have other than his own word? The Sardar raised his body, holding his injured fingers under his arm. Without looking at a soul, he exited, under his opponent’s triumphant glare. Mergan followed the outline of the man’s broken shoulders as he disappeared into the darkness with a hint of pity. The miserable, wretched man!

Karbalai Doshanbeh dragged himself to the edge of the wall, leaning against it as he always did. He busied himself with massaging his fingers, without saying anything or looking at anyone. He sensed Mergan’s silent surprise, but he felt it improper to ruffle his old feathers before her any more than he was doing.

Abrau entered the room, his sleeves rolled up and his hands covered in blood. He was holding a horn from the head of the goat that had just been sacrificed to celebrate the arrival of the water pump. With a glance at the flushed face of Karbalai Doshanbeh, and another to his mother’s pale visage, he tossed the horn to one side. He pulled a knife from his waistband and, standing just before Karbalai Doshanbeh, he thrust the knife into the wall. He turned and looked the old man in the eyes and leaned his body against the wall. The bloody knife was in the wall just above his shoulder. This was the first time that Abrau had slaughtered an animal. This may have been the reason for the new color and disposition in his eyes. He opened his lips and growled, “Up, Karbalai! Get out of this house!”

The weight of the words was such that Karbalai Doshanbeh’s arrogance was shattered at once. The old man put one hand on his knee and half-rose while saying, “Not a bad idea … I was just thinking of … leaving!”

He rose and walked to the door. He paused and asked, “So, it seems the water pump’s arrived without a problem?”

Abrau didn’t respond. He shut the door behind the old man, threw the latch into place, pulled the knife from the wall, and turned to face Mergan.

Who would believe it? Could a son kill his own mother? Abbas’ large, worried eyes were staring at them. No, Mergan couldn’t believe it!

Abrau, under Abbas’ anxious gaze, stood before his mother, looking directly into her eyes.

“Tell me the truth, mother! What the hell are these beasts doing in my father’s house? Are they here to try to take his place? Eh? Did you lose your tongue, then?”