On the way, she saw Hajj Salem and his son, Moslem, as they walked toward her. Hajj Salem had still preserved his mind and sanity enough to expect a greeting from anyone of a lesser standing than him. Mergan, her head bowed, offered a salutation, and Hajj Salem responded with a grunt from the depths of his throat. Meanwhile, Moslem fixed his wide white eyes on Mergan and said to his father, “Water. Water! Papa, I want water!”
Mergan did not falter. She had no patience to tarry with the father and son. She turned a corner and moved away, while Hajj Salem’s old voice echoed around the wall, saying, “Manners! Learn your manners, boy! You haven’t even eaten your morning bread, so how are you thirsty? Whatever you happen to see, you want, foolish boy! Even if it was on the shoulder of a stranger, you’d still want it? Manners!”
Moslem responded, “So, I’m hungry. Bread, bread! I want some. I’m hungry!”
Hajj Salem said, “Manners! You beast, learn some manners!”
They moved out of Mergan’s range of hearing. She arrived at the house and placed the jug on the porch. The Kadkhoda had just washed his hands and was walking up the steps. Mergan adjusted the jug’s position, then turned and said hello. The Kadkhoda raised the edge of his cloak, mumbled a greeting to her, and stepped into the room. Then he said, “Come on in. Let me hear what your business is, Mergan.”
Mergan followed the Kadkhoda inside, standing by the door. Kadkhoda Norouz dried his wooly hands on the edge of the curtain, then went over to the hearth and sat down, covering his legs with a blanket. He called out to one of his sons, who was still sleeping beside the hearth, “Wake up and get yourself out of the way! Come sit and warm your hands, Mergan. Come, you’re shaking.”
Mergan approached and sat by the feet of his son. She placed her own feet beside the hearth and warmed her face with the blanket. Her back was bent over, and her spinal column was clearly visible through her shirt. Just bones — you could count each vertebra. She couldn’t stop the shaking in her shoulders and her back. The soothing and pleasant warmth of the hearth spread through her body and began to calm her. Now her shaking came only in spells. The Kadkhoda’s middle son came in bearing the tea samovar.
Mergan knew her role. She rose and took the tray from the wall, placing it beside the hearth. She chose a cup and saucer, washed them, and brought them over. She knew that Moslemeh rarely ate breakfast or supper with her husband and children. She would prepare bread and stew and then sit in another room to eat her bread and tea alone. Didn’t they say she was mad? Moslemeh handed yogurt and bread to Mergan to set out by the tray for the Kadkhoda. Then Moslemeh saw Safiullah, her oldest son, setting a saddle on their white donkey in the yard. She said, “Where are you going to? You can’t plow frozen land now — at least let the sun rise!”
The Kadkhoda’s sons usually didn’t bother responding to their mother. Safiullah tied the saddle while Mergan took the bread and yogurt into the room and set it before the Kadkhoda. He placed one foot on his sleeping son’s hand and leaned on it. The boy, Nasrullah, half-asleep, screamed out, and father said, “Get up and get going; go wash your hands and your mug!”
Nasrullah held his hand, got up from under the blanket, and left the room, dizzy and staggering. Kadkhoda Norouz reached for the bread and took a piece. Mergan dropped her head. She didn’t want to look at the bread or the Kadkhoda’s hairy hands. She swallowed, but didn’t want to pay mind to her stomach. She was afraid of looking at the bread; she didn’t want to be drawn to it. She busied herself with the samovar, pouring tea for Kadkhoda Norouz, washing the cups, pouring hot water, and then diluting the tea.
“Pour a cup for yourself; let it warm your bones. You must be freezing.”
“I’ve had my bread and tea. Thank you.”
Kadkhoda Norouz knew Mergan was lying. Mergan also knew; she knew that he knew she was lying. Despite this, the Kadkhoda didn’t insist. Mergan was waiting for the Kadkhoda to begin by saying something. Something that might untie the knot around her heart. Even if just to loosen it a little. Despite this, just as she was waiting for him to say something, she began to lose hope in this path. She felt a hopelessness that was descending upon her like night and enveloping her. This spurred questions in Mergan’s mind. Why had she come at all? What did she expect them to do? Why seek useless consultations? A man who spent untold nights beside the bread oven alone and quiet, why would he tell anyone where he was going?! And others weren’t blessed with powers of foresight to be able to tell her something she didn’t know but wanted to know. What for? To gain useless sympathy? Even if heartfelt, what could sympathy change? Who could lift such a burden from her heart simply with empathy and talking? So why had she hurried from the house and headed straight for Kadkhoda Norouz’s home? Why had she not held out a bit longer? Why? Habit! This was simply a habit, to seek out those in a higher standing to discuss her problems with. Also, worrying; this too was a habit.
So she rose and exited the room. As she was about to descend the front stairs, she took a look into Moslemeh’s room and asked if she could do anything else for her. Again, habit! Moslemeh, who was so often wordless, signaled no with a silent motion of her head. As Mergan reached the courtyard, she heard Norouz asking Moslemeh, “So what did that woman want?”
Mergan didn’t wait to hear her the reply. She left quickly and turned up the alley.
Three men — Zabihollah, Mirza Hassan, and Salar Abdullah’s father, Karbalai Doshanbeh — were walking toward the Kadkhoda’s house. Mergan moved to the side, lowered her head, and said hello. Zabihollah replied and continued what he had been saying. “Some things just stick you in the eye like a thorn. No matter what you do, they just stick in your eye like a thorn. Now say what you want, but I say this canal system is on its last legs. I’ve said so to both Salar Abdullah and Kadkhoda Norouz. We need to think of something before we’re left helpless when the water dries up. I’ve put all my hopes in God’s Land.”
When Mergan reached her house, Abbas was awake and was looking for his belt. At just over fifteen, Abbas was already a young man. Large ears, a lank and drawn face, wide dark eyes, and an overall coloring that ranged from light to bruised. When his father was around, he insisted that the boy have his hair cut close to the scalp. But, by struggling and putting his foot down, Abbas had been able to convince Soluch to let him grow a foppish tuft of hair on the front of his head. So it was that now a thick and curly tuft of hair stuck out from under his cloth cap. He was wearing a jacket that was too small for him, wornout at the elbows and shoulders. A rope was tied around his waist; his pants legs were hemmed up. He had removed the heels from his cloth shoes and had tied the shoes up with a bit of string. If he hadn’t done so, the shoes wouldn’t stay on his feet; the shoes were tattered and falling apart.
Mergan pulled the sheet from her daughter, Hajer, and nudged Abrau with her foot, saying, “Don’t you want to get up? You were up at dawn already. And you, my daughter, wake up! You’ve drowned yourselves in sleep!”
Mergan ignored the groans and grumbling of the children. She left and was about to step into the alley when Abbas emerged from behind the stable. Wiping his nose and upper lip with his jacket sleeve, he said to his mother, “Mama, bread!”
Mergan didn’t want to hear this. She left through the space in the wall. But Abbas insisted. He stretched himself over the wall and said, “Didn’t you hear me? Bread! I want to go gather some wood.”
Mergan turned around and said, “There was some bread left in the bread basket!”