Mahmoud Dowlatabadi - Missing Soluch

The song of your name, dear man, is still not clear. The sound of your being is muffled, is rendered wordless. It’s a wordless sign in the midst of smoke and sun and dust.

Where are you?

Where have you been?

My hands and face are outstretched to you; my steps are held hostage to you.

An ancient pain shoots like an arrow from the taut string of my bow.

You can’t hear the cry of my pain, Soluch — in the bow of my back!

* * *

Mergan straightened her back. Somehow, there was news. News tainted by dreams, news of Soluch. She had a new strength within her. There was a movement in her veins. Blood was still pushing against the walls of her veins, as a heart cannot but keep beating. The old pattern of breathing had been overturned. Waves of confusion beat against her head. Particles of memory were awakened. A new life, a new spring had begun.

Mergan straightened her back and rose. She had to set out, once again. The past had been a heavy load, but looking to the future compelled her onward. Is it possible to stay frozen in one place? How long can you continue to sulk in your hovel like a beaten dog? In this immense world, there is, after all, a place for you. There is, after all, a path for you. The door to life is not blocked shut by mud!

But Mergan still could not decide what she should do. She was still unsettled by the blows she had absorbed. Nonetheless, she had to collect her wits. She tied her chador around her waist and left the house. Abbas wasn’t in his usual place. Abrau had risen early in the morning and left. Molla Aman, who was trapped in Zaminej for now, had left the house. He had gone to see if he could strike a compromise with Karbalai Doshanbeh. In the alleyway, Raghiyeh was sitting in the sunlight beside the wall, sewing the pocket of Ali Genav’s vest. When she saw Mergan, she looked away and stared at the ground. Mergan stood beside her feet. Raghiyeh continued her work and acted as if she had no interest in conversing with her. Despite this, Mergan couldn’t pass by her without speaking. She sat before Raghiyeh’s knees and asked about her health.

“I’m fine!”

There was nothing more to say. Mergan rose; it was clear that Raghiyeh’s heart would be set against her until Judgment Day. But Mergan didn’t want Raghiyeh to be hurt even more by her disregarding her. If she were able to help Ali Genav’s wife in any way, Mergan would do so with all her heart. But the ramparts that Raghiyeh maintained around her did not give Mergan a momentary opportunity to breach her walls. The only thread of relation that Raghiyeh kept with Mergan’s family was through Abbas. And to continue this relationship, Raghiyeh did not feel it necessary to show kindness to Mergan’s heart. Anytime the need or desire struck her, Raghiyeh simply went and sat by the clay oven, commiserated for some time with Abbas, hobbling away only after having gotten a couple of qerans from him. She paid no mind to Mergan’s comings and goings. It was as if she wasn’t Abbas’ mother at all. And Mergan in kind tended to pay no mind to her. For a long time, she didn’t speak to Raghiyeh at all. So now, it was useless for Mergan to try to win over the dead heart of Ali Genav’s wife. Without saying anything further, she moved on.

Mergan walked around the alleys of Zaminej with no purpose or direction, saying hello and asking about the health of each person she encountered. She would knock on the doors of some houses, going in to sit and talk for a little. She laughed and made pleasant small talk, offering to help with the laundry and washing if there was any, or finding a broom and sweeping the house a bit before leaving. It was as if she were trying to tie up the loose ends of work that she had not finished in the village. Also, it was as if she were trying to see everyone in the village for one last time. It was, one might say, a kind of farewell. She was tearing her heart away from the village and was now caught in a limbo, between the feelings of hope and despair.

They say that some people grow suddenly kind just shortly before their death. Could it have been that Mergan was anticipating the day of her passing? But no; it was not as if she could have been considered unkind before this, could she? For whatever reason, she was now going to sweep up the dust from people’s homes, as if she felt a debt hanging from her neck that she wanted to be freed from. Whether or not people gave her a little in compensation for the work didn’t matter. Poverty has its own kind of generosity. An empty hand can still come with a full heart.

“What are you up to, Hajj Salem?”

“Sewing the crotch of my pants, my sister. I’m going to go to the water pump today. They say there’s something going on there! But this needle shakes too much in my hand, and my eyes no longer see right. I feel I’m on the threshold of death, Mergan!”

“Give it to me. I’ll finish it.”

She sat in the sunlight by the wall, taking the pants and needle and thread from Hajj Salem’s hands. He had wrapped himself in a torn old cloak, but here and there parts of his bare body were visible. But even so, what did Mergan have to worry about? She finished the sewing in the blink of an eye and handed it back to Hajj Salem before rising. Moslem was on the other side of the ruins, playing a game with some cow dung he’d retrieved from the stable. Hajj Salem carefully pinned the needle into the hem of his cloak. Then he rose and put his pants on, keeping his back to Mergan. He was tying his waistband when he noticed Mergan was leaving.

“Let God not take you from us, Mergan! The house that you whitewashed last year is still shining like the skin of a chicken’s egg.”

Mergan left the ruins, running into others on the way.

“Where are you headed to, Mergan?”

“Nowhere in particular!”

“This year since my children’s mother died — may God rest her soul — I’ve not shaken out our blankets. Now they’re infested with lice. Could you do us a favor and delouse the blankets? I’m going to the water pump myself. They say an inspector is coming from town today.”

“Why not? I’ll come to help.”

Shortly, Mergan’s fingernails were covered with the blood of lice. She wiped her hands on the ground, washed them in water, and then rose to leave.

“Mergan, before you go, there’s a piece of bread for you here!”

“You eat it yourself, Zebideh dear! It’s not yet noon, and I still have other work to take care of.”

Mergan stood in the alley.

Halimeh’s mother was chasing after her daughter, cursing as she ran. Halimeh had put her two little hands on her head and was screaming as she tried to escape.

“Get her, Mergan! Get the little devil!”

She caught the girl in her arms.

“Don’t cry, my dear. Don’t cry!”

Halimeh’s mother pulled the girl from Mergan’s arms.

“She keeps acting up, the little shrew! You’ll see! She’s ten already but her head’s still an empty void! She’ll have to be married in a little while, but all day all she does is scratch her head. Her disgrace of a father just pretends that he’s not left this little beast in my hands. It’s as if it wasn’t his seed that was thrown into the well! Day and night he’s caught up in this water pump. This morning again he took his shovel and left to go to the pump.”

“What do you plan to do with her?”

“I’m going to pour bitumen in her hair. I’m not going to rest until I cut off her hair. She’s driving me crazy! Come and help hold her hands and feet, otherwise I’m liable to kill her with my bare hands!”

* * *

The sound of Halimeh’s cries still echoed in Mergan’s ears.

“Hey Mergan! Where are you off to with your head down like that? Could you help throw some dough in the oven and take it out when it’s ready? My son’s crying up a storm and I can’t leave him!”