More voices of the neighbors. A voice of a girl, perhaps Zabihollah’s sister: “Are you surprised, Mergan?”
Again, more voices. This one of a woman, perhaps Mergan’s mother from the grave: “You’ll never see good come in your life, Mergan!”
Now just the sound of a woman, the sound of Mergan. Sitting by the door with her hands on her head. Something inside her was exploding. The silence of the alley swallowed her sobs. Her sound was no longer that of crying, but rather that of mourning. Her voice echoed in the alley until the dawn. Raghiyeh had fallen asleep. In the dawn’s light, Ali Genav opened the door. He had his bath supplies under one arm. He didn’t speak, just passed them by with his head lowered. Mergan attributed this to his shame; she hoped he was overtaken by shame. But it was unlikely. The gesture could just as well have been a sign of his lack of concern for her. Isn’t a husband a king for himself? Mergan rose and came to his side.
“How is she, Ali dear? Ali!”
“She’s fine!”
He walked on. Mergan ran back to the house. Raghiyeh was sitting, readying herself for her prayers. She said, “She’s asleep!”
Mergan lifted the curtain to the pantry. A body resembling a small fish lay upon the dried blood of the mattress. She’s weak, very weak; her skin, the pallor of death. Is she dead? Poor small fish, fallen onto the earth! No, her heart was still beating. Her eyes were closed; her eyelids had the hue of a shadow. Her eyelashes were clinging together. Just over night, her cheeks had become sunken and hollow. Her hands, thin and fragile, were like two harmless snakes moving this way and that. Her shirt was bloody; her hair was matted together. A piece of cloth was still tied around her feet. This was a clear indication of what had happened, but Mergan couldn’t accept it, despite its simplicity. She crept into the pantry quietly, like a strange cat, not wanting to awaken her daughter from sleep. She made out the marks of blows on Hajer’s neck, scrapes and scratches. They were the marks left from slaps or punches. Or perhaps not; even her hands had the same marks, red and swollen. The blood was either from the scratches or from the cuts on her skin. Cuts like the mark of a yolk on a sheep’s neck. Mergan suddenly realized her daughter had been tied up, like an animal.
My daughter … Oh! My little girl, who couldn’t move. Like a turtle turned over on its back. But she struggled. She must have struggled. Her head must have hit the pillow so many times that her cheeks were bruised. Her neck is scraped from the friction of the shawl around it. Her fingers have lost their color beneath her fingernails. Her fingers had been grasping at the mattress, at the ground, my daughter.
Hajer, your mother should die for you!
Mergan rose. She had to go find ointment, the same ointment she had procured for Abbas’ shoulders and his legs.
Raghiyeh was sitting by the wall, saying her prayers. Mergan passed her and left the house. It was as if there was no alley, as if she simply didn’t see it. She reached home and saw Molla Aman putting the saddle on his donkey. He was preparing himself to leave. Abrau had already gone. In the middle of the night, he had just gotten up and left the house. Abbas was still in his usual place, staring into space. Mergan couldn’t bear to look either of them in the face. Her tongue was dry in her mouth, like a piece of sod. She was anxious and couldn’t stay still. She flew to and fro, like a pigeon caught in a well. Molla Aman, when he was younger, used to go to the mouth of a well and sleep in a tent there over night. In the morning, he’d crawl to the mouth of the well from the tent and would catch pigeons in the well. On returning, he liked to describe to Mergan how the pigeons would flutter their wings. She didn’t know why the memory of these pigeons, and how Molla Aman would catch them, had just now come back to her. Molla Aman was oblivious to what Mergan was thinking and readied himself to leave. Mergan didn’t know what to do. She would sit down and then stand up and walk in circles. She gripped her own hand with her fingernails and swallowed with difficulty. It was as if her throat had become narrow and was closed up. Or as if something like a handful of hay was blocking her throat. At the edges of her lips, white spittle had dried up. She was lost, confused. Why had she come to the house, anyway? And why wouldn’t the sun rise, damn it!
* * *
“So, Mergan, I’m leaving now. Goodbye.”
“Thanks for coming. You’re always welcome here.”
Mergan came outside. Molla Aman had the tether for his donkey in one hand. He pulled and led the animal into the alley. Mergan walked with him to the alley. He hadn’t gone very far before he turned and gently spoke to his sister.
“I’m considering heading over to Shahrud this trip, and maybe I’ll buy some sheep oil there. I’ll also stop by the mines there and see if I can’t find out something about Soluch for you. Don’t worry yourself too much! You’ll just end up sick from it, and that’s no good! Say goodbye to Ali from me as well.”
He raised one leg up and pulled himself onto the donkey, riding it down the road. His long legs were not far from the ground. It looked as if the tips of his shoes were scraping against the dirt. One last time, he called out, “Goodbye!”
“God protect you.”
Then he disappeared down in the alleys, all but the tip of his hat, and then that too fell out of view.
Mergan returned to the house.
Abbas was sitting on his feet now, and he spoke up suddenly, “May God forgive the Sardar for his mistakes. Amen!”
Abbas sounded like a yelping dog. Mergan waited, looking and listening in the hope that Abbas might continue and say something more. But he fell silent. He leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes. Mergan stayed there staring at her son, wondering what he was thinking, how he was feeling. Where did his thoughts take him, her suddenly aged son?
Oh, if only it had been your mother and not you, Abbas!
What was the wall that had arisen between mother and her son, between their hearts? It was impossible to relate to him, to speak to him, to listen to him. An ancient fortification had arisen around Abbas, an old, ancient rampart. What had happened to him?
Oh God! My son left the house a boy and returned an old man. I don’t understand it. Why won’t he speak?
He was silent. Abbas said nothing, as if he were locked shut. On the rare occasions that he did speak, the sound of his voice and what he said were so strange that they only increased her confusion. Some people came on the first day or two, staring at Abbas before leaving. Some of the older villagers suggested he was in shock, but they too left right away. They left, everyone left, and Abbas remained behind, in the house. Silent, like an owl. He stayed there with Mergan, a burden to her, but also lodged in her heart. Quiet, old Abbas, sitting in the corner. Isn’t this what they mean by being homebound? Abbas was now homebound. He would hardly ever even stand up. Isn’t this what they mean by being an invalid?
The spring had passed and summer was coming on. The time for cotton ginning and harvesting. And so Mergan always had one foot inside the house and one foot outside. She couldn’t leave Abbas to himself. But she had to work as well. Harvesting and picking work was available. She had to go to the fields for gleaning. She couldn’t just leave the land fallow, but she had no hopes that Abbas would suddenly stand up and take care of himself!
Mergan, you fool! You were going to go and find medicine for your daughter. Why are you just sitting here instead?
“May God overlook your faults, Sardar!”
Abbas rose in the dark room, taking his cane and leaving the house. He walked slowly, step by step, down the alley, leaning from time to time against a wall for support. The sun was peeking into the alley, over the walls, and onto the rooftops. There was no sound to be heard, and no sign of life to be seen. Abbas continued, walking with his back hunched and knees bent. He held himself up with one hand against the wall, moving slowly, like a turtle. He looked ghostly. His hair had grown long and curly and was matted like a piece of felt. Mergan had once tried to cut his hair, but was scared away by the look in Abbas’ eyes. So the hair had grown longer and longer. And the longer his hair grew, the larger his head seemed and the smaller his face appeared within it. His face had seemed to shrink smaller, giving his eyes and nose a resemblance to those of a field mouse. Within their sockets, his eyes looked dry, wider — profound but also disturbing. His hunched back, prominent nose, and his eyes — which were both frightened and frightening — all made him look more and more like some manner of rodent.