Moslem exited, still holding the tie-string of his pants in one hand, saying, “It won’t, Papa! It won’t … I can’t, Papa!”
Hajj Salem, with a curse on his lips, knelt at the large bare feet of his son. He took the string from Moslem’s hands, and while he tied the pants, began to swear. “God give me compensation for how you torment me! May his hands be crippled, my little animal. He’s spent thirty springs on the earth like an ass, and still can’t tie his pants up … I swear to God! Get moving! Come on, let’s go!”
Moslem set out behind his father and bellowed, “Very … Papa! Papa! Very …”
Hajj Salem turned. “God damn your ‘Papa’! Very what?”
Moslem said, “Very … very … tight. Very tight … knot … knot …”
Hajj Salem set out again, saying, “Come on! It’ll let itself out slowly. Haircloth string doesn’t hold a knot well. Come on!”
“Yes! Okay, I’m coming. I’m coming!”
Father and son left the ruins, and Abbas, who was still stuck against the wall, had no choice but to follow them. It could have been possible for him to sneak into the old crypt and to warm himself in a nook or corner inside. But he was somehow drawn to follow them instead. In Abbas’ estimation, Hajj Salem must have smelled a treat of some kind if he had dragged Moslem out tonight.
Hajj Salem and Moslem spent their days in their destitute crypt, under the collapsed roof of a half-destroyed stable just behind Kadkhoda Norouz — and Moslemeh’s — house. They eked out a daily pittance from this and that person, with the kind of work that was preoccupying Hajj Salem right now.
No one had seen it, but it was rumored that Hajj Salem possessed a huge quantity of old books. Until quite recently, he would take a volume of the Shahnameh epic written in a large script, sit at the edge of the mosque, lean his old walking stick against the wall, and begin to read out for the villagers of Zaminej. But lately, his failing eyes were no longer of use for trying to read the Shahnameh or any other book. Because of this, his books were most likely gathering dust in the back of his hovel.
“Take my walking stick!”
“I’m taking it, Papa! Give me … give me …”
“Okay! Now help me from the edge of this wall. This night’s so dark. God forbid I fall into a pit!”
“Yes, Papa. Okay!”
“Tonight, the night’s like a ghost that has washed its face with tar!”
“Yes, Papa, dear. Okay! I’ll take you. Where should I go?”
“Zabihollah’s house. The new lords of the village should be gathered there!”
“Yes, Papa, dear. Zabihollah Khan’s house. Zabihollah Khan’s house.”
Moslem was always with his father. Hajj Salem was also stuck to his fool of a son like a worn-out shirt. Each morning, when Hajj Salem would put on his worn, long robes, take his twisted old walking stick, and leave their crypt of a home, Moslem was like his shadow. The father and son would set out in Zaminej’s alleys, chewing on a bit of bread — if there was one to be had — all the while bantering and bickering. Everyone’s ears were drawn to this banter, because it was part of the fabric of the lives of all who heard it. And in the end, the bickering was always resolved peacefully.
When two people have no choice but to live with one another, a special kind of conflict binds them to one another. And after this, under no circumstances can they live without this conflict, whether they acknowledge it or not. It’s as if a thread has been tied around their hands, their shoulders, their legs, and their necks, and each end of the thread is in the other’s hands. They become each other’s binding. In this inevitable conflict, if they draw too near, they will both choke, and if they draw apart, fear will bring them back together. If they both don’t let go of the thread together, the conflict inevitably continues.
For Hajj Salem and his son, even walking together was fraught with conflict. The thread that bound them together, wove them to each other, was the conflict itself. In eating, sleeping, walking, and falling, they were perpetually at odds. Moslem always wanted to be seen by others as walking shoulder to shoulder with his father, their shadows falling beside one another. But Hajj Salem never wanted this. Moslem would try to stick himself to his father’s shoulder, and Hajj Salem would use his walking stick to deliver a blow to his son’s legs, driving him away from his side. Moslem would grab his legs with his large hands and furrow his brows, pursing his lips. His father, speaking in a contrived voice — that voice that he chose to speak in all the time — would order his son, “Two steps back, you fool!”
Moslem, trying to protest for the thousandth time, would say, “D … d … d …!”
And for the thousandth time, he would take two steps back, falling into step behind his father.
“So now you’ve done your deed, you son of a whore! You finally delivered your blow! You delivered your poison, you beast! Ah … my back!”
Just shy of Zabihollah’s house, Hajj Salem had slipped and fallen into a ditch beside the wall. His walking stick was in Moslem’s hand, and the old man was flailing around at the bottom of the ditch. Moslem extended the stick toward his father and was saying, “Papa … Papa … take it! Grab the end. Grab the end of the stick. Grab it.”
“I can’t see, you fool! I can’t see! Are you blind that you can’t see that I can’t see?”
“Take it! It’s here. The stick … stick … here … here …”
“Ah … Oh … You son of a whore … Why are you mixing me up with that stick? Don’t hit me! Don’t hit me, my son!”
Moslem began laughing out loud. The old man was at the bottom of the ditch grabbing at nothing and turning around in circles, swearing at the top of his voice. Moslem would tap the top of his father’s head with the stick, occasionally grazing his beard and neck with it, laughing as he did. Hajj Salem was at the end of his wits, and began pleading, “Don’t torture me, my son! Don’t torture me! God won’t forgive your sins. Don’t torture me. I pray to you. I’ll breathe my last breath in this ditch. Don’t torture me. You’ll become an orphan, Moslem! Ah … now you’ve lost your father, Moslem. You’re fatherless!”
Hajj Salem sat at the edge of the wall on the edge of the ditch and covered his face with his hands, breaking into loud sobs. Moslem also sat at the top of the ditch and began crying along with his father, hitting his head with his hands. As the walking stick had fallen into the middle of the ditch, Abbas conjured the courage to jump down, handed the stick to the old man, and helped him climb out and shake the dirt off his clothes.
Hajj Salem said, “God did not forget me. An angel! God sent me a Gabriel! Gabriel! Who are you, boy? Who are you at this hour of this dark night? Who are you? And that foolish son of a bitch, that torturing degenerate, where did he go?”
“He’s there sir; he’s over there.”
“I can’t see him! I’ve been stuck with the night blindness, oh no! I’m night blind! Aren’t you the son of Mergan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I recognize you from your voice. From your voice. May you have a perfect life. God sent you to rescue me, I know it. You … you’re … Gabriel. But that son of a whore, where is he? Moslem!”
Moslem came forward crying and pleading.
“Don’t punish me, Papa. Don’t punish me. I beg you on your life, don’t punish me.”
“I won’t punish you. Stop it. I just don’t want you to embarrass me where we’re going. Just stop it!”