Hajer shut her eyes and lifted her small hands to protect her face, still crying. Abbas bellowed, “I swear to Imam Abbas I’ll make you sorry! Have some mercy on your own skin and bones and start speaking!”
Hajer just kept crying. She was crying from her heart. Not only from fear, but from everything. Everything she’d seen and heard weighed upon her heart, and since she had no other way of relieving herself, she could only cry and cry. And perhaps if Abbas hadn’t also jumped on her, she would have still had plenty to cry about. But now that Abbas had set into her, her tears flowed from her heart. It was like a boil ready to be lanced, as if it were ready to burst. She had to cry, so as to loosen the knot around her heart. Even if she did not want to, she had to. These tears were ready to flow. These tears only made Abbas angrier, these tears and her locked lips. And the suspicion that Hajer was hiding something beneath her tears only made him angrier. He began to lose control. Perhaps he was looking for an excuse as well. He raised the belt above his head and brought it down. Hajer flickered like a lantern. Abbas showed no mercy. He brought it down again. And again.
The sound of the belt falling on Hajer’s body brought Abrau around. He opened his eyes with difficulty and saw his sister backed into a corner while Abbas’ merciless blows fell upon her. He leapt up, throwing aside the blanket. He did it unselfconsciously. Still hot with fever. From behind, he was able to throw his hands around Abbas’ throat and pull him back. They both fell over backward. Hajer ran. She escaped through the door shrieking. But she didn’t go far. A moment later, she returned to watch her brothers grappling from the doorway. Like a mongoose and a snake. They twisted and struggled in the dust. Hajer didn’t dare come closer. With one movement, Abbas was able to release himself from Abrau’s grip and to position himself on his chest. Now he placed his hands around Abrau’s throat.
“So, you little rat, should I suffocate you? You’re too weak to even stand on your feet, so why are you throwing yourself into the arena? Now go get lost!”
Abbas rose from Abrau’s chest, threw a blanket over him, and then turned toward Hajer. She ran and reached the alley. She screamed and ran toward the house of Ali Genav’s mother. Abbas decided not to start a commotion in the night. He turned back and sat in the doorway.
Now it was Abrau who had disappeared. He wasn’t to be found anywhere. Maybe he had slid away, ashamed of himself. That is what Abbas presumed. He wanted to find him to explain why he hadn’t whipped Hajer unjustifiably.
He said, “Mother and daughter, they’re working together. Just when our attention was elsewhere, they went and hid the copper somewhere. Do you see? Are you listening? They took four pieces of good copper work and have lost them somewhere. Somewhere only they know. Just themselves! The little one is working with Mama. She won’t open her lips for a second. But you …”
Abrau didn’t respond. He didn’t have the heart. He didn’t want to show his face. He hid himself under a blanket. But Abbas was worked up. He couldn’t let go. He rose, stuck his head outside the door, and shouted, “Hey … if you don’t want me to give you a beating, come back to the house yourself. Get up and come back. I won’t do anything … Where the hell are you? Hey … I’m speaking to you. Come on, where are you?”
There was no reply from Hajer. Abbas left the house. He investigated the bread oven and the stables. Hajer was nowhere. He went to the alley. The alley was dark. She was like a cricket, lost in the night; she could be hidden in any corner. So Abbas decided to try to use sweet talk.
“Hey, you little devil! You think I don’t know where you’ve hidden yourself? I can find you, but I’d rather you came out yourself. So come on! I was just kidding around with you, girl! Don’t you know what a joke is? So come on out … Hajer … Hajer … Where are you? Eh? I’m with you, girl!”
Abbas began to worry again. Hajer was stoking his anger. Her sudden silence in the dark night struck his heart with a kind of fear. There was no clear reason for him to worry; nonetheless, for some reason his heart was filled with dread. Something unclear frightened him. Something like the image of Hajer falling into a ditch or a well. So Abbas began to zigzag the cold, hard soil of the alleyway, in bare feet, winding up and then loosening the belt that was still in his hand.
“Where are you, you foolish girl? You want to drive me mad tonight? Come out from whatever hellhole you’ve hidden in. Come out! Why are you all trying to torment me like this? Come out, you daughter of a beast! Hajer … Hajer!”
Hajer was nowhere to be found. It was as if she’d melted into the earth. Abbas, tired and angry, like an injured dog, returned to the room and sat by the stove. Abrau had still not emerged from beneath the blanket. Disconsolate and irritated, Abbas shouted, “Now you’re pretending to be a dead mouse! Get up and let’s see where the hell this girl’s gone off to! Get up!”
Abrau didn’t respond. He didn’t want to reply to his brother. Abbas cut short his fury, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and left the house again, saying, “Damn you all. You can all go to hell. Go to hell!”
He went straight toward the bread oven and climbed onto the roof of the structure. He slid over to the edge of the wall and leaned against it. He propped his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, and he sat there. He felt like crying. But it was as if his penetrating eyes could only cry blood. So silent and despondent, with sorrow in his throat, he remained in his place with the blanket wrapped tightly around himself.
The dark night and its cold cut like a double-edged knife. He tucked his feet in and wrapped them with the blanket, wiping his nose with the palm of his hand. Pointless anger. Why was he so wound up? He felt something deeper than this commotion was bothering him. Something voiceless had softly pricked his heart. Like a thorn, slowly it cut in, opening a wound more and more as it went. It wasn’t painful; it irritated. He knew it wasn’t deadly, but it was wearing down on him. He could see very clearly that it had made him out of sorts. He’d become rabid, like a dog. His father always used to call him a flame, and said that if he was left in a forest, he’d set the place afire. His father had put all of his efforts into raising Abbas as a mud-plasterer for bread ovens, but Abbas refused to learn. He would always escape. He’d escape and get a beating when he came back at night. Abbas’ grandfather was a reputable mud-plasterer who, in his later years, suffered from a bad back. He couldn’t stand straight. When he walked, he had to keep himself steady by holding onto his knees. He walked in a way that made Abbas think he was just about hit the ground with his face. He wobbled like a broken wheel on a cart.
Abbas didn’t want to follow in his father’s steps. The crooked back of his grandfather — Samad the Plasterer, as he was called — was always in his mind. But he’d thrown himself more into the work of well digging. When Soluch would pick up his spade and pick and go to dig a well in someone’s house, or if he went to open a blocked canal, Abbas would tag along. This work was more interesting to him. Soluch would position Abbas at the top of the well and would descend to the pit of the well himself. Abbas would send down the tools Soluch needed in a bucket. He’d also send down the tallow-burning lantern, the water jug, and bread when the time came. Abbas would lie on an incline of dirt around the well and watch the birds flying in the sky, waiting for Soluch to fill a bucket with dirt. He would sing songs to himself, or toss stones at the reeds. He could stare at the distant wastelands, or watch the road that traversed the surface of the highlands.
“Hooooy …”
This was Soluch’s call rising up from the well. Abbas had to grab the rope and slowly raise the bucket of earth to the surface, empty it, and send it back down to the bottom.