This was what was tearing Mergan apart inside. This was the division within her. The fabric of her soul was torn. A fabric that before had only been marked by work and pain had now taken on a new color. This new color that tinted the fabric of her soul had cast a shadow over her actions and thoughts, over her face. An unspoken color, however new it was.
Abrau could not understand any of this, other than to note it.
She’s different now; somehow she’s changed!
Yes, she had changed. She was uneasy and often lost in her thoughts. But not thoughts about a decision. Clearly, something must have happened to her. But what? One could surmise almost anything, anything but the truth, which only Mergan knew!
“See what it’s doing?!”
This was Abbas. He had risen and, like an insect, was trying to pull the sack of flour toward his corner in the room. It was as if he wanted to spend a night in peace, sleeping beside the sack of flour. However difficult it was, he dragged the sack to the edge of the wall under the eyes of his mother and brother. His forehead was covered in sweat. He knelt beside it. Weak, he fell to panting. He set his elbows on the sack of flour and held up his forehead in the palms of his hands. It looked as if his head was spinning and his eyes had gone to black. His hands shook and it seemed as if his neck was holding his head up only with difficulty. His fingers scampered like little crabs through the mass of his hair, scraping at his scalp.
Abrau was sitting across from his brother, leaning on the opposite wall. The two brothers had not spoken a word to each other after that night. Abbas had fallen into his own silence, and Abrau didn’t know what to say to him. He was hindered by the question of whether or not he could speak to him at all. He felt he couldn’t. The wall that had gone up between them was growing taller and stronger day by day. So much so that it would seem that soon they would be unable to see one another over it. This had driven Abrau to take his own course in life, to some extent. It was the sense one has when one has lost something and wants to make up for it in another part of one’s life. So he became more and more committed to his work. He would spend more and more time working with the tractor of Mirza Hassan and his partners. He had become a part of its nuts and bolts. Eventually, riding on the tractor’s running board, he’d seen all the farmlands of Zaminej from the machine. Along with the driver from Gonbad, they would plough sections of the land and take the money they’d be paid and hand it to Mirza Hassan. Although the farmlands of Zaminej were owned by different landowners and weren’t all the same, still Mirza Hassan’s tractor had ruined the market for ploughbearing cows in the village. Farmers who had been able to secure a loan that would simply cover the rental of the tractor had thrown away their old yokes and ploughs. So it became rare to see cows, donkeys, or camels that were pulling a plough with an old man walking behind. The slicing blades of the tractor cut the heart and belly of the earth out, transforming wild grassland into a field of rubble. Even the strongest cows from Sistan would never be able to do this. In Abrau’s estimation, Mirza Hassan’s tractor was omnipotent.
Eventually, Abrau was allowed to sit behind the wheel of the tractor on his own. For different lengths of time, sometimes for half an hour, sometimes even an hour. At least long enough for the Gonbadi driver to smoke a cigarette or wet his mouth with water. Sometimes long enough to drive the tractor to and from somewhere. Mirza Hassan had also given Abrau the hope that he might give him the job of driving the tractor sooner rather than later. He told him it could happen as soon as the water pump was installed. This would give enough time for Abrau to be trained. Mirza Hassan didn’t want to lose the Gonbadi driver just yet, but it was clear that his time in Zaminej would be temporary. He was already homesick for his own town and area. He didn’t have the heart for the weather in Gorgon and the desert here; someday he would be leaving. So Abrau was an asset for Mirza Hassan. He would do the same work for less pay, and he would be less likely to complain or make demands. In fact, he loved the work. The only thing was, he lacked experience. The tractor wasn’t just a hulk of dry metal that could be driven by one’s fancy — it needed expertise. While he learned, Abrau kept his eyes open for any sign of the water pump’s arrival.
“So, Mr. Driver, when do these new lords of ours plan to bring their little water pump our way?”
Abrau didn’t answer Karbalai Doshanbeh’s question. In addition to harboring a deep dislike of the man, he feared opening himself to injury by his sharp tongue.
This sarcastic, biting delivery was just part of Karbalai Doshanbeh’s mould. In general, this delivery would become more acidic and poisonous when attacking something that was new or novel. It was as if he could not believe in anything that didn’t fit his own desires. He acted as if the new instruments and tools were so many useless toys. This was why, although his own son Salar Abdullah was a major investor in the pump and tractor, he himself had avoided any involvement, and indeed was waiting for the day when the partners would show up at his doorstep — the day when they were too ashamed to go to the government for further loans. If Karbalai Doshanbeh had loaned the partners the same amount of money they had just borrowed, who knows how much interest they’d have to pay annually?! He didn’t have such a substantial amount on hand, and even if he did, they would never be able to offer a collateral that would be appropriate. Before all of this, before the emergence of what Karbalai Doshanbeh called “the new lords,” all the landowners borrowed from him. But now, new options were available to them, new paths. The system had changed. There was a new clique in charge. These new arrivals were now borrowing from the government itself and selling their harvest to the government as well. Of course, when they were unable to meet the terms of their loans, they had no choice but to sell their harvests off to the government. It was simple: the value of their yield would be used to compensate for the cost of the interest they owed. They accepted this and didn’t want Karbalai Doshanbeh to eye their debts. It hadn’t yet occurred to him to do as the government and to collect on his debts by buying the harvests of farmers at a price he would set. It was unlikely he could have pulled it off even if he had tried. In any case, his business had fallen off dramatically, since the petty landowners were now looking to the government’s coffers, and the only people dealing with Karbalai Doshanbeh were people who couldn’t even claim a single star within the seven skies. The landless, homeless people. People like Molla Aman and a few others who didn’t have anything to offer for collateral. So the money that they would borrow from him was never enough to return him much of a profit. This made Karbalai Doshanbeh even more venomous in his treatment of others around him. He had hunkered down in a fort of arrogance and indignation, shooting arrows at whomever approached him, whether friend or foe.