Mahmoud Dowlatabadi - Missing Soluch

“Oh, so whose did you eat? We’re not good enough to eat as well? You think you’re the only one with teeth to chew bread? This isn’t the first time either. It’s always the same thing. Eating everything yourself. The last time you took the dates out of the chest and ate them yourself. And those dates were for alms!”

“Of course I’ll eat them. You’d rather I brought them and gave them to you to eat?”

“At least just eat your own portion.”

“Oh, you’d not said that before!”

“So now I’m saying it.”

Abbas placed the handful of stalks next to the bundle and, crouching on his hands, suddenly flared up. “Lower your voice to me, Abrau. You’ll regret it otherwise!”

“Fine!”

Abbas bellowed with anger, “And stop grumbling under your breath. I’ll bury you right here!”

“Yeah, fine. I’ll just go dumb then. Is that what you want?”

“I wish you would!”

The heavy shadow of Salar Abdullah filled the space between the two boys. Abbas and Abrau had not noticed him approaching at all. Both were dumbstruck before the man. Abrau raised his foot and took a step closer to Abbas. Abbas also moved a step toward Abrau. Now, only a walking-stick’s distance apart, the brothers stood in an even line. Salar Abdullah faced them. He bore no sign of anger, but a rough sort of dryness filled the expanse of his face. This field was worked by Salar Abdullah, but the custom was anyone could gather corkwood stalks from any of the village’s land. This is good for the soil, since ploughs cannot dig up the stalks from the root unless the plough was run by a tractor. And it does no good to the new crop for a farmer to leave the stalk roots in the soil. So not only is the work of gathering the stalks not a detriment to the land, it actually benefits the landowner. So what could Salar Abdullah complain about?

“Gather your things, you sons of bitches! Pick up your bundles and rags and get off this land!”

Abrau looked at Abbas. Abbas was silent; his lips trembled softly.

Salar continued, “And hand over the sickle you borrowed from my house this morning. I need it for something.”

Abrau again looked at Abbas, who reached over and took Salar Abdullah’s sickle from Abrau’s hand and tucked it into his belt. Then he turned away from the man and went toward the pile of stalks he’d picked.

Salar Abdullah glared at Abrau. “Didn’t I tell you to bring the sickle and give it to me? Are you deaf?”

“He has it!”

Salar looked at Abbas and said, “Hey … you, idiot! Bring the sickle and give it to me.”

Abbas, who had just finished piling the stalks onto his bundle, said, “I didn’t borrow a sickle from you.”

“Didn’t you just take it from Abrau?”

“I borrowed it from Abrau, not from you. Call an apple an apple. Get it back from him!”

“It’s tucked in your belt and you want me to get it from him?”

“That’s not my problem!”

“So you want me to straighten you out with a few swift kicks, eh?”

“Let’s see if you can!”

“You think I’m worried about you? Your mama’s not here to throw her skirt over her head and raise a ruckus! You bastard son of a bitch, I’m telling you to hand over that sickle right now! Are you deaf?”

Abbas had already tied up his bundle of stalks. Ignoring Salar Abdullah, he raised his half-full bundle to his back and said to Abrau, “Don’t you want to take all those stalks you spent so much time and effort digging up? Well, get on with it!”

Abrau quickly devoted himself to gathering up his loose stalks. Salar Abdullah strode toward Abbas, saying, “I’m talking to you, idiot! Hand over the sickle! It’s mine!”

Abbas started walking away with his back to Salar Abdullah, saying, “Get it from him. What’s it to me? I didn’t borrow it from you!”

He spoke quietly, and walked quickly.

The man set out after him, saying, “Don’t make me angrier than I already am today, you bastard’s child! Hand over the sickle and go back to whatever hell you’re from!”

Abbas picked up his pace and threw a quick look over his shoulder. Salar Abdullah’s strides grew longer. Abbas sped up, just waiting for the right moment to begin running. Salar Abdullah bent over and picked up a stone. Abbas began running. Salar Abdullah began to run after him and threw the stone in his direction. The stone hit Abbas in the buttocks, but despite the pain he showed no reaction. He ran. Faster and faster. Abbas was light on his feet, while Salar Abdullah lumbered. Abbas outran him for a distance. Salar Abdullah stopped and let out a stream of insults. Abbas also stopped. They were now far from each other. Each insult that Salar Abdullah shouted landed squarely on Abbas’ heart, so Abbas let his own tongue loose, eventually adding invectives involving the man’s wife and children as well. Hearing his wife being named, and by a nobody who wasn’t mature enough to have had a woman, made the insults a hundred times more denigrating for Salar Abdullah. Even in a passing joke it would be impossible for a young, inexperienced man to assume the right to speak of women to a man with a wife. And of course, that was quite apart from the other kinds of insults about his ancestors and so on.

Salar Abdullah began running again. Only a beating could even the score now. But Abbas was still faster on his feet, and quicker. He ran farther away, with fear giving him an extra incentive to run even faster than before. Running from one field to another, leaping from one ditch to another. Hopeless, Salar Abdullah stopped once again. He stood for a moment and suddenly turned around. Abrau was just placing the last stalk onto his bundle. Salar Abdullah began undoing the buckle of his belt as he strode quickly toward him. He had to undo all of the humiliation he’d seen that day. Abrau did his best to tie up the bundle before Salar Abdullah reached him, but he was too late. Just as he had lifted the bundle to his back and was beginning to escape, Salar Abdullah reached him and threw him to the ground.

“And you’re from the same stuff as that other son-of-a-whore!”

Abrau’s cries and pleading had no effect. Salar Abdullah, lost in the long folds of his cloak, circled around him like a hawk, landing blows from the left and right. His belt was thick and heavy, and Abrau’s small and emaciated body was only covered by his pants, a shirt, and a loose jacket. Salar had lost his mind, and he clearly had forgotten that Abrau was not even fifteen years old. He bruised the boy with an endless rain of blows from his belt, kicks, and punches. When he finally stopped, as he was buckling his belt back up, he said, “Now get up. Get up and take the good news to your mama, so she knows whom she’s dealing with! And tell that rat brother of yours to keep his eyes open until we settle accounts. I’ll see him again unless he leaves this village for good. So get out of here!”

Abrau, whose old shirt and pants had been torn in different places under Salar’s blows, picked up his bundle. Sobbing with a sound like a calf’s braying, he left, limping unevenly.

Exhausted, his face and hands smeared with dirt, Abrau reached the refuge of the old fort. Abbas had gone behind the ruins to rest. The sound of uneven steps, and Abrau’s last vestiges of sobbing and sniffling, drew Abbas out from behind the ruins. Ignoring his brother, Abrau continued on his way back to the house. He only wanted to find some corner to crawl into and to burrow his head inside an old quilt. He’d taken a beating unjustly, and he was angry with Abbas. He didn’t want to see his ugly face. It always ended this way. When it came to pay the price for something, Abbas was first to run away. He’d set the fire, and then disappear. Despite all of this, Abbas could be even more impudent than his brother had realized. He stode alongside Abrau and began asking him, “Is he gone? Where’s Salar Abdullah? Which way did he go? Hey are you deaf? I’m with you, stupid!”