Mergan said, “Abbas isn’t home, and Abrau is asleep. You know yourself …”
Ali Genav said, “They can go with my donkey. They’ll ride it there both together, and on the way back, they can have the man from Dah-Bidi ride on it. I’ll give them sticks and bats in case they run across some beast on the way.”
Mergan half-heartedly turned and looked at Abrau.
“I don’t know! Which one do you want to go?”
Ali Genav said, “Abbas is more experienced, but Abrau is more reliable. But whichever wants to go, it makes no difference to me. Whoever brings the man will get five toman from me. I need to watch the two women, otherwise I’d go myself. The weather’s becoming sunny. Coming and going can’t take more than three, four hours. If they set out now, they’ll be back before the next prayer. And these days, five toman isn’t a little bit of money, you know!”
Mergan didn’t want to wake Abrau, but she couldn’t ignore the five toman offer by Ali Genav. That money would feed her children with bread for several days. Where could a job like this be found these days? It was just luck. Something like this comes up once a year or so. So Mergan couldn’t let Ali Genav pass this task on to someone else. But which one should go? Mergan’s heart leaned toward Abbas. Abbas was stronger, bigger-boned. In addition to being smaller, Abrau had been affected by the vicissitudes of winter. Mergan was uncertain whether to allow Abrau to go out of the village on a day like this, in the middle of the snow. She was afraid he’d not be able to take care of himself. Abbas wasn’t around, though. And if he were, she would expect him not to give the household all of his pay. So Mergan remained torn.
“You won’t pay more than five tomans, Ali?”
It was Abrau, who had raised his bony head and chest from beneath the blanket. As he looked at him, Ali Genav stepped into the house.
“So you’re awake?”
Abrau pulled himself out from beneath the blankets and said, “Your voice woke me. Do I have to go alone?”
“No! Gholi Jahromi will come with you, and I’ll give you my donkey to ride on.”
Abrau said, “If you lend me your boots and your leggings, and your winter cloak, I’ll go.”
Ali Genav said, “My boots are too big for you!”
“What do you care? I’ll wrap my feet first.”
“So get up and come to my house, then. I’ll put a piece of bread for you in a bundle. Come to my house and have a tea before going.”
Ali Genav then stepped out the door and left. Abrau rose and told his mother, “I’m going to keep five qeran from the pay.”
Mergan said nothing. Abrau put on his shoes. Ali Genav’s voice could be heard from behind the wall.
“But Abrau is already putting on shoes and getting ready to go.”
Abbas responded, “What shoes? With those torn and ripped-up foot covers, you think he’s going to make it far in the snow?”
Ali Genav said, “He’s going to borrow my boots and leggings. I’ll give him a cloak to pull over his head as well.”
Abbas said, “In that case, I’d go myself!”
“I would have liked for you to go, but I already spoke to Abrau. If you go and make some arrangement with him, you can go in his place. What are you doing gathering all of these kids?”
Ali Genav was pointing to one of the Kadkhoda’s sons, the only son of Salar Abdullah, and two others of the older boys of Zaminej, who were standing with Abbas.
“They can go home! They don’t have to play! I’ll go and bring back that doctor even if he’s in the Black Hills! But how does that pip-squeak brother of mine think he’s going to convince that old opium addict to leave his hearth in this snow to come all the way here?”
Abrau had by now come out to the alley and was standing by his mother. He said, “You’ll see when I bring him here! Let’s go, Ali, sir!”
Abrau set off, but Ali Genav remained behind. He had sensed a game in the offing. He looked at the kids and said, “Are you playing bajal or cards?”
Abbas looked at the boys and said, “Who here has cards? Would you lend us yours?”
Ali Genav turned to follow Abrau, saying, “Perhaps I’ll bring them with me.”
This was the final confirmation that he would send Abrau to go bring the bonesetter. If he were to send Abbas, the gambling circle would not be held, and that wasn’t what Ali Genav wanted. Abbas led the other boys toward the house and shouted after Ali Genav, “So you’re coming?”
Ali Genav said, “Ah … maybe!”
Abbas led the boys toward the house, but Mergan said, “No, not in the house. You can do what you want to in the stable.”
To enter the stable meant they had to clear the snow in front of the door first. Abbas ran into the house, grabbed a shovel, and ran back to clear a path. Salar Abdullah’s son, Jalil, and the Kadkhoda’s son, Hamdullah, just stood there, shifting their weight from foot to foot and chewing on their lips. It was clear they were uneasy, uneasy because they didn’t want to be seen there. But they didn’t want their opponents, Abbas, Ghodrat, and Morad, to sense their anxiety. It would be humiliating if it were known how afraid they were of their fathers. Abbas had told them that no one was home, but so far they’d run into three people. Although they weren’t strangers, it was very odd that they were there. On the other hand, Morad and Ghodrat had no worries. Ghodrat had learned how to play from his own father, Mohammad Gharib. He was a serious gambler himself and had no problems with his son also gambling; it was only if he lost that he would have to worry. If he came home empty-handed, Mohammad Gharib would pick up whatever was close to hand and run after him, chasing him even to the outskirts of the village. Eventually, with his sweat pouring from his head beneath his felt cap, onto his dry eyelashes and his thin beard, between his forced wheezing he would begin to lay out a set of curses that made Ghodrat responsible for all that was bad.
“… You reek of foot-sweat! Who told you to take my dear money and toss it down a well! So you had bad luck gambling? You tossed snake eyes? What good are you? When you set foot in the world, was it me who made your mother stop breathing? You’ve made me old before my time! My life is black because of you! You want to gamble but you keep playing the fool!”
On such occasions, which were not infrequent, it mattered little to Mohammad Gharib that his son Ghodrat was following behind him close enough to hear his curses, or that others might hear them as well. For him, in those moments, all that mattered was to say what he needed to say to lighten the weight on his heart, as if not saying them would lead to his heart exploding. Although this would lead to a shaking across his body that would only be quelled with his smoking three more seeds of opium than his usual ration. All this naturally meant that Ghodrat would rarely admit his gambling losses to his father.
Morad was a different case. He was his own boss. His mother and his older brother ran an opium den, and only Morad didn’t help in running it. He was free to tell his mother and brother what he thought, without fear. His strength, his disposition were of a sort that led his older brother to conclude that it was not in his own interest to try to let things lead to fighting between them. Morad worked, and he paid for his own bread, thus he held his head high and — if he so chose — could gamble without having to answer to anyone for it.
“Give me that shovel! It’s as if you’ve never eaten bread, you weakling!”
Morad grabbed the shovel from Abbas’ hand and pointed at him, laughing.