Missing Soluch (40 page)

“So, Mr. Driver, when do these new lords of ours plan to bring their little water pump our way?”

Abrau didn’t answer Karbalai Doshanbeh’s question. In addition to harboring a deep dislike of the man, he feared opening himself to injury by his sharp tongue.

This sarcastic, biting delivery was just part of Karbalai Doshanbeh’s mould. In general, this delivery would become more acidic and poisonous when attacking something that was new or novel. It was as if he could not believe in anything that
didn’t fit his own desires. He acted as if the new instruments and tools were so many useless toys. This was why, although his own son Salar Abdullah was a major investor in the pump and tractor, he himself had avoided any involvement, and indeed was waiting for the day when the partners would show up at his doorstep—the day when they were too ashamed to go to the government for further loans. If Karbalai Doshanbeh had loaned the partners the same amount of money they had just borrowed, who knows how much interest they’d have to pay annually?! He didn’t have such a substantial amount on hand, and even if he did, they would never be able to offer a collateral that would be appropriate. Before all of this, before the emergence of what Karbalai Doshanbeh called “the new lords,” all the landowners borrowed from him. But now, new options were available to them, new paths. The system had changed. There was a new clique in charge. These new arrivals were now borrowing from the government itself and selling their harvest to the government as well. Of course, when they were unable to meet the terms of their loans, they had no choice but to sell their harvests off to the government. It was simple: the value of their yield would be used to compensate for the cost of the interest they owed. They accepted this and didn’t want Karbalai Doshanbeh to eye their debts. It hadn’t yet occurred to him to do as the government and to collect on his debts by buying the harvests of farmers at a price he would set. It was unlikely he could have pulled it off even if he had tried. In any case, his business had fallen off dramatically, since the petty landowners were now looking to the government’s coffers, and the only people dealing with Karbalai Doshanbeh were people who couldn’t even claim a single star
within the seven skies. The landless, homeless people. People like Molla Aman and a few others who didn’t have anything to offer for collateral. So the money that they would borrow from him was never enough to return him much of a profit. This made Karbalai Doshanbeh even more venomous in his treatment of others around him. He had hunkered down in a fort of arrogance and indignation, shooting arrows at whomever approached him, whether friend or foe.

Somewhat involuntarily, Karbalai Doshanbeh had actually given his son, Salar Abdullah, some assistance and help in becoming a major investor in Mirza Hassan’s project, thus allowing him to make a large claim in the tractor, the pump, and whatever harvest came of it. Despite this, his nature and character were clearly in conflict with his son’s. He would never confront his son, however, and in public he only would say to him, “You know best.” But in his heart, he did not approve of his son’s work. In any case, Karbalai Doshanbeh’s narrow mind and limited imagination were not of a quality to challenge what was happening in the village. The scorpion ends up trying to sting anything, from stone to iron to human bodies. He no longer even tried to assess the situation before attacking. What was worse, it was unlikely he would ever change; his mind had become thick and inflexible, and for a long time, it had been unable to accept anything new. When a new idea was voiced to him, he acted as if he hadn’t heard it. Many had made themselves hoarse by trying to tell him, “Don’t perform your ablutions in running water!” But he would still insist on doing this. Any time he had to perform his ablutions, he would stand right in the middle of a stream and would begin to wash himself in the water that was directed into people’s water jugs just a few
dozen steps downstream. And he would always spend half an hour performing his ablutions; he was incredibly finicky about the ritual. It was as if he considered himself to be inherently impure, and so a sense of religious purity came to him only with great difficulty.

But here, in Mergan’s home, Karbalai Doshanbeh began to feel as if he had been stung; he felt a burning sensation on the leathery surface of his heart. The sack of flour that had been sent to Mergan by the Sardar stung him. But he also felt stung by the partners that owned the water pump and tractor. At this point, this seemed even more important to him; it distracted him from the matter of the sack of flour.

“Eh? So you don’t have an answer for me, Mr. Driver? When is the water pump of these novices arriving? For two or three days now my Abdullah keeps talking of slaughtering a sheep in celebration. So I’d guess it’s coming soon, eh?”

Abrau uncomfortably answered, “Yes, I would think it’ll reach Zaminej any day now. Mirza Hassan’s gone to bring it here.”

It’s not necessary for someone to have killed your father for you to have a grudge against him. There are people whose walking, talking, or even their laughter incites hatred within others. Karbalai Doshanbeh was one of these people; at least that was how Abrau saw him. To begin with, on numerous occasions he had made insulting comments concerning Soluch. Even the bits of copper that Salar Abdullah had taken from their home as collateral, or the welts he’d had from the lashes that had him twisting in the cottonwood field like a snake, all led back to Karbalai Doshanbeh. Added to this was now his heavy, suffocating presence in their home—this had been going on for much more than
simply a day or two. It had now been some months since he first began finding excuses to come and sit in their house. Sometimes he would not even bother to invent an excuse, and he would just sit and make snide comments, or sit silently like a sentry to the gates of hell. To understand the psyche of Soluch’s younger son, one has only to place oneself into his shoes. In the folds of Karbalai Doshanbeh’s calm and unemotive face, a kind of impudence and cheekiness shone through. Something that was not easy to rub off and clean away. This shadow cast itself over Mergan’s entire life like a dark cloud. And perhaps Karbalai Doshanbeh’s self-confidence was overstated, as if he needed to feel confident regarding the Mergans of the world as a consequence of his own failures. Whatever the reason for it, his presence was an insolent insult for Abrau. He couldn’t stand seeing the old man. How many times had he imagined himself tearing off the old, stained kerchief from around his throat? His presence in the house was suffocating him. It was like a slap in the face. In the company of the old man, he’d been unable to hold his head up at all, or even to look directly at his mother. He was in torment, a life-sapping, constant torment. It wasn’t something that just stung him and let him be. It wasn’t just a kind of pain. It was something living, something that had been born within Abrau’s soul, and was always with him. Something he couldn’t shake, even if for a moment, even if just to have a breath of air. The constant jabs and insinuations only made the situation more intolerable.

“Ha! I’ve heard you’re packing away your daddy’s shoes!”

“I’ve heard you say, ‘Yes ma’am’ to a flea!”

“Abrau, my boy! When will I see you carrying my bath things and following me to the bath house?”

“Don’t worry. He’s bound to have found a place to lay his head down somewhere!”

“It’s not what you’ve heard! Karbalai Doshanbeh’s not one to give up a fight with the angel of death!”

“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.