Mergan thrust her long fingers into Abbas’ pocket and brought out handfuls of wheat grain. It wasn’t bad. There was about half a man all together. When his pockets were nearly empty, Abbas put his knees on the ground and rose calmly. He looked like a dignified mother cow standing over a milk bucket while being milked; his face was marked with a pleasure approaching arrogance. His face was measured. His eyes were lost in the flames of the fire. His lips were shut, covering his teeth. Abrau’s head was lowered while he glanced at his brother. Hajer, out of Abbas’ view, looked at her brother with an expression full of veneration. Mergan tried to conceal her happiness, but her quick hand gestures and racing heart made it difficult to hide. She scraped the depths of Abbas’ pockets with extraordinary care, extracting from their folds the last grains of wheat. Then she pulled each pocket out and shook it over the tray before neatly reinserting it. She wanted to grab her son’s arms out of happiness and clasp him, but held herself back. Instead, he gave him a little squeeze on his shoulder and said to Hajer, “Bring him a cup of tea.”
Now it was Abrau’s turn. He put his hand beneath his arm and took out a flat cut of bread, placing it on top of the wheat grains on the tray.
“This … is from Bibi Malek.”
After that, he removed a few small coins from the pouch he wore around his neck and said, “And her son Mirza Hassan gave me these.”
Abbas and Mergan both stretched their hands out to Abrau, who placed the coins in his mother’s palm. Abbas’ eyes sparked from the sight of the coins, then went dark. He brought his hand back and said, “I thought I was supposed to buy us molasses!”
Abrau said, “I’ll buy it myself!”
“With your shaking hands? Can’t you see your feet are as red as beet root from the cold?!”
Abbas didn’t continue arguing. He rose and took a container from a cupboard shelf. He put his shoes on and stood over his mother. Mergan couldn’t say no. She couldn’t look at him — he stood so firmly it was as if the coins were already in his pocket. Mergan, who was in the process of wrapping the coins in a piece of cloth, forlornly handed them to Abbas, saying, “Just promise me on your life that you won’t skim any of the money for yourself.”
Abbas walked out the door. The jingle jangle of the coins gave him light feet. Abrau had observed his brother’s exit and then looked at where he had been sitting, then said, “It’s impossible he won’t steal some of it! Abbas would even bite off his mother’s nipple to get a bit more milk!”
Mergan didn’t reply. What could she say? She poured a cup of tea for Abrau and went to bring some oleander seeds. Abrau took the cup of tea, and then looked at the snow that was still piled against the outside wall. He barked at Hajer, “Go clear up that snow from the wall!”
Abrau spit out his oleander seed into the fire and asked, “No news from him?”
Mergan looked at him and said, “No.”
Abrau wanted to ask something about his father, but Mergan cut him off before he could speak.
“Drink up your tea!”
He gulped the rest of the cup of tea and sat silently. It was obvious that Mergan didn’t want to speak of Soluch. She never would allow them to speak of him. Forget him! She made every effort to forget her husband. Soluch was gone, and Mergan had already wrestled with his absence and had vanquished it. Perhaps her feelings were different from those of her children. No matter what the context or what the reason, she was heartless on one matter: she refused to allow his name to be spoken. The children simply did not have the right to speak of their father before her. So Abrau bit his tongue and said no more.
Hajer brought some snow in a handkerchief, which her mother took from her. Mergan placed the snow in a pan and then returned to the hearth.
“Will Mother Genav die, Mama?”
Mergan answered her daughter’s question, “Everyone dies, my dear.”
Mergan remembered that she still had a bit of sheep’s lard in her stores, so she rose and brought it. She scraped some lard off into the pan, which she placed on the fire. Then she took the tray of wheat grain to the pantry to put it away. By the time she was finished, Abbas had returned. Mergan took the cup of molasses from Abbas’ hand and poured it into the pan and then asked Hajer to lay out the tablecloth. Hajer brought the cloth while Abbas sat down by the hearth.
“In Agha Sadegh’s shop, everyone was talking about Mother Genav. They say she’s going to die!”
Abrau asked, “Did the syrup cost you all the money you took?”
Abbas replied without looking at his brother. “How much money do you think there was?”
Abrau said, “May it be more dirty than dog’s shit if you skimmed even a penny of my money!”
Abbas carelessly answered, “Fine!”
It was clear to Abrau that the syrup hadn’t cost what Abbas took. He even could guess, or almost be certain, that Abbas had mixed the syrup with water. But he had no grounds on which to make his claim. And Agha Sadegh wasn’t the type to talk; he saw himself as everyone’s confidant. Since he himself traded in stolen goods, he kept everything a secret. Abrau knew that he’d not be able to get information from Agha Sadegh. Since he refused to speak about his business in general, it was inconceivable that he’d give himself any trouble about a matter concerning a few coins, and that for a child like Abrau. Abrau decided he would prove Abbas’ theft. He began to pay close attention to everything he did. One thing was that Abbas seemed nervous; he couldn’t hide his awkwardness. Another was that suddenly he was acting like a dead mouse, refusing to speak or answer Abrau. In addition, he was half hiding his face in his collar, as if he were protecting a secret. Once the food was laid out, Abbas quickly gulped down a few mouthfuls of food and grabbed a piece of bread. He then began putting his shoes on and left the house. It was as if he’d grown wings and flew away! There must be a reason for his wanting to leave so quickly; it was clear he was up to something.
Abrau said to himself, “I’ll get him eventually!”
Abrau licked the bowl clean, slid to one side, and leaned against the wall.
“Put down the fire a bit and let’s set up a Kurdish hearth!”
Hajer set up a covering over the fire and placed a heavy blanket over it. Abrau crawled to the edge of the blanket and then slid under it, pulling it up to his nose. If Abbas hadn’t worried him as he had, he would have been able to spend the rest of the day in bliss beneath the heated blanket. But his mind was racing. He couldn’t imagine that Abbas had just gone to Ali Genav’s house for a game. No matter what he thought of Ali Genav, Abrau couldn’t imagine that on such a day — with his wife beaten and broken, and his mother breathing her final breaths — he would sit down with the usual low-lifes to play cards. But Agha Sadegh wouldn’t give Abbas the time of day in his games; he wouldn’t even let him into the back storeroom. This was because Abbas didn’t have the money to play and wasn’t of the same level and standing as those who came to play in Agha Sadegh’s storeroom. His players were respectable people. One was the accountant for Hajj Ali’s affairs. Another was Murad Dashtban. Another was Agha Vaseghi, one of the respectable landowners of Zaminej. There were one or two others who had only recently joined this circle; Khodadad and Hamdullah, the latter of whom self-admittedly was involved in theft and rustling. So it was likely Abbas had gathered up a few people and was this moment in a stable or in the storeroom of some abandoned house busy with his bajal pieces! There was a reason for his sorting through his collection of game pieces in the morning; he’d been planning this all along. Who knows if he might not have sold half of the wheat grains he’d earned and was at Agha Sadegh’s shop on the way home? Anything was possible with him.