In the empty alleyways of Zaminej, Abbas walked slowly, without shoes, his gray shirt torn and his head overflowing with white hair; he looked like a strange creature. He was headed to the house of the Sardar, out on the edge of the village. The wall behind his house divided the barren wastelands from the village proper. Although the Sardar’s house was not very distant, it seemed to Abbas to take forever to reach it. In truth, it was well before noon when he arrived; the sun was still shining at an angle.
The camel’s gate was the only entrance into the Sardar’s home. Abbas entered the vestibule. The camels were scattered around the yard. He walked straight ahead to the Sardar’s room, the door to which was open. The Sardar lived alone with his camels. A half-finished bowl of buttermilk and some leftover dry bread was scattered beside the wall. Flies covered the bowl and the bread. The Sardar himself was asleep, using his shoes as a pillow. Abbas entered the room, walked quietly over, and knelt beside the man’s sleeping body. He sat there, like a statue. He was silent except for the sound of his breathing, inhaling and exhaling.
How long he was sitting there, he couldn’t say. But eventually the Sardar seemed to sense the sound of another’s breathing. He lifted his forearm from his eyes and opened his eyelids, seeing Abbas sitting beside him. In normal circumstances, the huge Sardar was not the kind to be frightened by the appearance of someone like Abbas, but the time and manner of the boy’s appearance beside him clearly brought a shadow of fear around his heart.
Unconsciously, the old man pulled his limbs together and pushed himself back against the wall, staring at Abbas’ eyes for a moment. Abbas did not react, other than to continue looking back at the Sardar. The man slowly began to emerge from his confusion between sleep and wakefulness. He eventually regained his composure, and with a cough that seemed unlike him, he glared sharply at Abbas with jet-black eyes.
“Well, what do you want? In the state you’re in, and under this hellish sun, what’ve you come here for?”
Abbas responded in a broken and sad voice, “My pay. I want my pay.”
When the Sardar comprehended Abbas’ request, he leapt from his place, saying, “Your pay? Fine, if you want that, go bring your mother and I’ll deal with her myself!”
A moment later, Abbas rose and limped out the door, heading toward the vestibule. There was a jug of water by the wall. Abbas knelt and struggled to lift the jug, then raised it to his lips and drank deeply. Then he set the jug back down with a struggle — the same jug he once could raise with one hand. As he rose, he saw the old mare camel stretching its neck toward him with a look of warm familiarity in its eyes. Abbas suddenly felt the pain in his shoulder and leg return. There was something about the look of the camel and the feeling of standing in the sun. The sun, the camel, the fields, the well. The snakes … A tremble passed through Abbas’ battered body. Despite the fact that Abbas had overcome his terrifying memories enough to walk all the way to the Sardar’s house, the sight of the old mare had rekindled the pain still caught within his body.
He held to the wall as he stood. The sun and the long walk had exhausted him. It was exactly noon, and the empty paths of the village at midday were burning his feet. Sweat, both from the heat and the effort it took to walk, was pouring down his face. His large head was too heavy for his thin neck. He couldn’t control his head; it swung from side to side, making him dizzy, and his vision would go black. His eyes were lost in the dust, in the dusty sunlight. He felt weak, but he had to return home somehow. Even if the sun was not very hot, it felt as if it was sucking the blood from him. He began walking, but with great difficulty. He dragged his body, hunched and broken as it was. His legs had lost their strength, his heart felt weak, and his eyes were covered with dust. No, he couldn’t go on. He simply couldn’t go on. He felt his strength wane, so he leaned his back against a wall in the alley. His knees gave way. His body folded, crumbled, and fell onto the ground. He lay in the sun. The sun was hot; the earth was hot. It had never seemed so hot before. But perhaps it’d always been like this. Abbas had no further strength to draw upon; he felt like he was nothing. He felt he was evaporating. Little by little. He seemed like light; he seemed like dust.
Oh no, Mergan. Your son has fainted in an alley somewhere while you were grinding herbs in your pestle to use as an ointment.
Hollow, Abbas’ body was hollow. Light, lighter than it should have been. His bones seemed to have become crumbled. Mergan may have exhausted herself running in the sun-drenched alleys, but she did not falter in raising Abbas’ body. She lifted him and leaned him against a wall. Then she put her back to him and pulled his arms over her shoulders. She knelt with one knee in the dirt; then, like a man lifting a bundle of wood, she rose while pulling Abbas over her back. She slipped her long, bony arms under his dried-out legs and stood. It was difficult to run with this load on her back, but she took her steps with care and determination. As she walked, she could hear water sloshing to and fro inside Abbas’ belly.
Abbas himself felt numb. Even the shaking of his bones as they went left very little, if any, impression on him. He only felt something distant and hazy, something fleeting and indistinct. It felt like riding on Gabriel’s wings. The movement was regular and soothing. His hands had fallen over Mergan’s shoulders and against her chest. His head was like the head of a dead bird, rolling against her back. His eyelids, like dried leaves, were still half-open.
Mergan placed her son on the ground and lifted off his shirt. She ran to get water. Abbas had crumpled on the dirt floor of the room. His head was to one side, his arms to the other. A bit of spittle was dripping from one side of his mouth, and his heart beat an uneven drumbeat within his ribcage. Mergan returned with a bowl of water, and then took off her headscarf and wet it in the water. She wet Abbas’ face, forehead, and lips with the wet scarf, then rubbed the dripping cloth against his chest and belly. It had an effect on him. Abbas’ bedding was set out by the wall, and Mergan dragged him over to it. Abbas placed his head on the pillow and struggled to open his eyes. But before he was able to look around or see anything, his eyelids fell shut again.
No, Abbas was no longer Abbas, and he would never be him again. He was now a broken corpse, as broken as if he were an old man, left fallen beside the wall. Mergan slid to one side and leaned against the wall, staring at him in this sorry state. What should she do? What could she do? Abbas had been transformed into a misfortune. A misfortune dear to her. If your heart is injured, you can neither erase the injury from your heart, nor can you throw it away. The injury becomes a part of your heart. If you lose the injury, it means you have lost your heart. And if you truly wish to be rid of the injury, you are in fact willing yourself to lose your heart. And how can you lose your heart? So you go on, with the injury and your heart as one. Abbas and heartache were now one. They had become as one. Would it be possible to separate them? Abbas was himself the pain in her, and vice versa. The two were united and were indistinguishable. They were an injury on Mergan’s heart. An aching in her heart. And she had no choice but to love the injury and the pain. She went to Abbas. She had to hold him, this very moment. She wanted to kiss his eyes. She knelt beside him. But no. She couldn’t. Abbas was not the child he had once been, nor was he the young man he had become. He was now a man, an old man. An old man with wrinkles covering his face — where did they come from?