In no time, a cold — the cold that he had, in his feverish state, forgotten — took hold of him, shaking him like an electric shock. Every part of his body shook. No one was there. No one was home: “Is there anybody here? Anybody?” His broken voice echoed back at him. He had to get up. He rose. With one hand on the wall, he stood, still shaking. Like a willow sapling in the wind. As if an earthquake was shaking him. His knees, shoulders, and waist all shook. It took a great effort to hold himself up against the wall. The house was dark, or … were his eyes going dark? He looked at the door. The night had filled the doorway. No, the house itself was dark. Nonetheless, he had to do something. The blankets were in a far corner. Staggering and groping, he made his way to them and, trembling, lifted one blanket over him. No, one wasn’t enough. Another. And one more. All of them, every blanket. But the sound of his chattering teeth continued. His teeth made the sound of hard candy shaking inside a tin. Something even he didn’t understand compelled him to let out a wail. A cry. Something to open the way for the pain. To open the narrow passage that any person in pain must keep open. Otherwise, if the pain cannot escape, it explodes. A cry, a drawn-out cry. As it ploughs through the heart. A cry that sounds as if it’s one hundred years of age, drawn from the veins and arteries, from the marrow of the bone. No, it is the veins and arteries, the marrow itself, that has transformed itself into this sound, this call, now pouring up through the throat. It is life itself. Life, pouring over the tongue, getting caught within the chattering teeth, seeking a way to ask for help, to seek succor.
“Oh … mother …”
These words, now being lost within the chattering teeth of this son, of Abrau, must be the first words a human ever uttered as a result of pain.
Abbas arrived. Bread in hand, a morsel in his mouth. As he chewed, his eyes were stretched open more than even usual for him. He took the empty bundle from his shoulder and tossed it to one corner. With the loud voice of a man bringing home bread, he shouted, “Isn’t anyone home in this ruin?”
Only Abrau’s trembling body shook the darkness of the room.
“Why didn’t you light the goddamned lamp?!”
Abrau couldn’t respond. Words lost their form beneath his teeth. Abbas grasped the wick of the lamp and a weak light broke the blackness of the room. Abbas still had the bread in his hand. He turned around and his eyes fell on his brother’s broken face that was visible wrapped among the blankets, and his sickly and fear-stricken eyes that were darting to and fro. Whatever blankets there were in the house were piled upon him, and with his small face and frightened eyes he looked like a vulnerable animal. Abbas, not thinking of what he was seeing, walked over to Abrau and, with a tone not bereft of violence, said, “So what’s happened? Why’d you go and dig yourself a grave like that?”
Abrau didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He didn’t try, either. Abbas wasn’t blind; he could figure it out. He came closer and asked, “Why are your lips bloody? Did Salar get his hands on you again?”
Abrau trembled and his teeth continued to chatter. Abbas indignantly fell to one knee in front of his brother and said, “So you’re deaf and dumb? What’s wrong with you?”
Abrau responded in fits, “Fever and chills. My bones are coming apart; my veins are being ripped apart. Help me!”
“What should I do? You’ve gone and thrown every rag and scrap on top of yourself already!”
“Yourself, yourself! I can’t stop shaking!”
Abbas stood and lay on top of the blankets, belly down. The motion of Abrau’s body also shook him.
“What’d you bring on yourself this time?”
“My belly, my insides …”
“What shit did you eat?”
Abrau didn’t respond. He only moaned. Abbas slid off the blankets and brought over the bread.
“Maybe because you’ve not eaten anything, huh? Here, here!”
He took a piece of the edge of the bread and fed Abrau.
“Chew it well. Chew it. I’ll give you some more. I’ll give you more. Chew it.”
“Cold. Cold. Warm me somehow. My bones are cracking. Cold!”
Abbas went straight to work. He tore his shoes from his feet, slid under the blankets, and grabbed his brother tightly. Abrau’s shaking body shook him as well. But Abbas, like a harness on a bouncing ball, kept Abrau snug in his arms.
“Eat some bread. Eat more; eat as much as you want! Your belly’s empty; that’s why you can’t shake this fever. Eat!”
Abrau swallowed piece after piece of the bread. Slowly, more and more of the bread was being consumed. Like a hedgehog that has grabbed onto the tail of a snake, slowly, slowly swallowing more of it. If Abbas had remained generous, the whole bread would have been eaten. But he came to all of a sudden, grabbing the last piece from Abrau’s teeth. “You two-timing bastard! I didn’t say eat the whole thing! You ate most of it already!”
Abrau wailed, “You’d eaten the larger part already!”
“Oh, so now you’re complaining, too! I shouldn’t have … Well, anyway, you seem better, no?”
“A little.”
Abbas’ shirt was soaked in the belly from Abrau’s sweat. He let go of his brother’s body and dragged himself out from under the blankets, saying, “Don’t let air get to you. You’re soaked with sweat.”
Fever. A moment later, Abrau’s body was in an oven. He was burning in his sweat. Sticky, slick sweat. He was in a bad way, and bit by bit felt more and more as if he was suffocating. As if he was trapped beneath a mountain’s weight.
“Take these old rags off me. I’m suffocating”
Abbas would not agree. “You’re having the sweats. The last thing you want now is air blowing on you.”
“Then lighten what’s on me. I can’t breathe!”
“No. Hold out a bit.”
Abrau began swearing before his brother. “I swear to God, to the Imam, on the life of anyone you love, I feel I’m going to die under all this. Please do something!”
Abbas stopped his restiveness, and he slid the last piece of bread into his shirt, swallowed the morsel he was chewing, and said, “Fine, very well, now that you’re swearing all over the place, I’ll take one of these off of you.”
He removed a sackcloth.
Abrau continued pleading. “Another, just take another. I beg you on Papa’s life!”
Abbas hesitated a moment.
“That reminds me; why has he not been around for the last few nights? What do you think, Abrau? Is he really, really gone, or is Mama just acting in front of that bastard, Salar Abdullah?”
Abrau kept pleading, “God, it’s like I’m in an oven! Take another off me.”
Abbas replied, “But where is she? I mean Mama. Don’t say she’s also taken off in a different direction.”
Abrau screamed, “Abbas … Abbas … Have mercy, I can’t breathe! Take the mattress off me!”
Abbas dragged the mattress that he had laid on Abrau off and placed the last piece of bread in his mouth. “Better? That’s the mattress.”
Abrau said no more. It was as if he was losing consciousness. He laid one side of his face on the ground, brought together his heavy eyelids, and emitted a plaintive cry, “My bundle … bring my bundle over here … leave it here by me.”
He was sleeptalking — Abbas had heard that feverish people sometimes hallucinate. So there was nothing to worry about. He wanted to go and take a look at the bundle of wood Abrau had gathered. He went outside and set the wood straight. The bundle seemed heavy to him. He became curious. He sat next to the bundle; it made him worried. He set his back against the bundle. He drew the rope over his shoulder and pulled it. The loop on the rope tightened against his chest. He tied the end of the rope back to the bundle. It was now set tightly against his back. He gathered strength and pulled. The bundle would not rise from the ground. The load was heavy, but Abbas couldn’t accept this. He convinced himself it was due to the wetness of the wood. Again he pulled with all his might. The bundle rose, but before falling into place on his back, it fell back on the ground.