“Hayyu ala al-salat … Hayyu ala al-salat …”
The glassy air of the dawn was broken by the call to prayer by the Molla of Zaminej.
Ali Genav’s kettle had begun to boil. Abrau didn’t know where the tea was. Ali Genav turned over in his place, grumbling and swearing under his breath. He directed his anger at the Molla for waking him, despite the fact that it was clear that the call to prayer was to mark the death of Ali Genav’s mother, calling the people to join a funerary prayer that morning. They had agreed to this the night before; it was the Molla himself who had suggested they leave the body in the mosque overnight. He had no choice; Ali Genav had to get up. He turned over again, scratched his side, and then opened his heavy, tired eyelids.
Abrau asked, “Where is your bag of tea?”
“It’s hanging on that nail. Just look there, you’ll see it.”
Abrau busied himself with making tea. Ali Genav stretched, pounded his chest with his fists, and yawned like a camel, bringing himself over to the fire. Abrau poured tea and he quickly downed four cups before saying, “I have to go and tend to the burial, God have mercy on her soul.”
He rose and placed his cloak over his shoulders. He handed the long key to the door of the public baths to Abrau, saying, “Open your eyes and ears! Other than the farmers, who pay me by barter, everyone else pays in cash. Adults pay three qerans; the children pay thirty shahis. Don’t let anyone try to fool you! Let’s see how you do today. And when you leave, latch and chain the door. Those sons of bitches, as soon as they see I’m gone, they try to get in here to set up a gambling session. Since the water boiler’s warm, they like it here.”
Abrau listened idly to what Ali Genav was saying, but he wasn’t following him closely. He knew more or less what he was saying. But his thoughts were far from this place and these matters. They were lost in other places. Places that were alien to him. He just knew that they were far from here. Confusing, confounding places that pulled Abrau in like a tiny speck lost in a vast sea. Abrau’s mind had been brought to a standstill; he had no power over it. He stared intensely at the ashes in the fireplace, his thoughts fixed on something that words could not express. For a moment, it was as if he had retreated from the world entirely. He was light, empty, free of burden.
Ali Genav threw a quick glance at the bony shoulders of the child and then bent over to exit the room.
The morning air was freezing. Ali Genav tied the ends of his scarf around his chin and then climbed up the steep hill in front of him. The pool was frozen over. The call to prayer still echoed in the air. A streak of smoke tainted the pure dawn sky. “What does he want to prove? It’s enough! God damn your prayers — everyone’s heard you by now. They’ll come out of their homes in small groups shortly, of course they will! Ha! See how he drags out the call!”
“Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Who’s to open the bathhouse then?”
It was Karbalai-Safi, the father of the Kadkhoda. He had his bath supplies under one arm and was leaving his house with some difficulty. Ali Genav greeted him and said, “Mergan’s son will be there, Karbalai. He has the key.”
Karbalai-Safi tucked his chin in and headed for the baths. Ali Genav turned the corner and went straight to Mergan’s house. The stove in her house was already lit and a pillar of smoke filled the house’s doorway. He looked inside and said, “Where is that son of yours, Abbas?”
She looked up from the oven and looked at him with watery eyes. She lifted the edge of her scarf before her nostrils and asked, “What do you want him for?”
“I want to take him to help me dig the grave.”
“He’s had an upset stomach since last night. I don’t know. He’s still in the stable right now.”
Ali Genav turned to look at the stable door. The door swung open on its hinges with a dry and old-sounding creak, and Abbas stood in the doorway. He had one hand on the wall and the other propped up against the door. He looked as if he would collapse if he let go of either. His eyes were sunken into their sockets, looking like two watermelon seeds. His cheeks were puffed and his skin was as yellow as hay.
Ali Genav went to him and said, “So what happened to you? I was going to take you to the graveyard with me!”
Abbas could hardly make a sound. He whispered with great difficulty, “I’m sick … Really, I’m in a bad way … I’m really sick.”
“So why have you locked yourself into the stable then?”
Abbas began to slowly shut the door and said, “I can’t … I can’t stand up …”
Ali Genav kept looking at the door after it was shut, as Abbas’ voice faded away. He didn’t have a moment to spare. He didn’t need to think about the situation, as he more or less understood what had happened. He’d seen how Abbas had stuffed the coins, along with the dirt, into his mouth. He was about to walk into the alley when Mergan’s voice stopped him.
“Just a second. I’m coming.”
Ali Genav waited until Mergan came out. She had Soluch’s small well-digging shovel in one hand. She gave the shovel to Ali Genav and busied herself with tying the edges of her chador around her neck. Once she was ready, she took the shovel from him and set out following behind him. First, they went to his house. She wanted to check in on Raghiyeh. Ali Genav lowered his head, entered the room, and passed by Raghiyeh and pushed back the curtain to the pantry. Then he disappeared behind the curtain. Mergan stood by the door, on the steps, and asked Raghiyeh how she was doing. Raghiyeh cried out deeper than before, “I’m a goner too! Mergan, dear, I’m also dying, my sister!”
Ali Genav came out of the pantry with his pick and shovel and answered his wife.
“You’re not going to die, don’t worry. You won’t die till you cause the end of me!”
He walked out the door, not listening to Raghiyeh’s cries and curses. In the alley he told Mergan, “She won’t let herself die before she’s dragged me to the edge of death myself!”
The Molla of Zaminej was still standing on the broken wall of the mosque chanting the call to prayer. Mergan and Ali Genav stood before him. The Molla stopped for a minute.
Ali Genav said, “Why are you shouting yourself hoarse, Molla dear! Who wants to leave their homes on such a day with such weather? And just for poor Mother Genav? Come down. Come down and go have a cup of tea while I go and dig the grave. See how you’re suffering in this cold! Give me your hand and come on down.”
Ali Genav took his hand and brought him down off the wall. The old man was shaking and his lips were nearly frozen. Ali Genav again told him to go and warm himself by the hearth. Just then the sound of Qur’anic recitation was heard. “By God! Who is this now?” Ali Genav put his shovel and pick beside the wall and entered the mosque. The place in the middle of the courtyard where Mother Genav’s casket had been placed was now empty. Where did they take the casket, then? Who had taken it? The sound of recitation was coming from the night-prayers niche. He entered the niche, trying to see in the darkness. There were dark shapes at the back of the room. He entered, and as he stepped forward the sound became louder. He kept going. It was Hajj Salem; he was sitting cross-legged above the casket and was reciting from the Qur’an. His son was lying at the other end of the casket, snoring as he slumbered.