Somewhat involuntarily, Karbalai Doshanbeh had actually given his son, Salar Abdullah, some assistance and help in becoming a major investor in Mirza Hassan’s project, thus allowing him to make a large claim in the tractor, the pump, and whatever harvest came of it. Despite this, his nature and character were clearly in conflict with his son’s. He would never confront his son, however, and in public he only would say to him, “You know best.” But in his heart, he did not approve of his son’s work. In any case, Karbalai Doshanbeh’s narrow mind and limited imagination were not of a quality to challenge what was happening in the village. The scorpion ends up trying to sting anything, from stone to iron to human bodies. He no longer even tried to assess the situation before attacking. What was worse, it was unlikely he would ever change; his mind had become thick and inflexible, and for a long time, it had been unable to accept anything new. When a new idea was voiced to him, he acted as if he hadn’t heard it. Many had made themselves hoarse by trying to tell him, “Don’t perform your ablutions in running water!” But he would still insist on doing this. Any time he had to perform his ablutions, he would stand right in the middle of a stream and would begin to wash himself in the water that was directed into people’s water jugs just a few dozen steps downstream. And he would always spend half an hour performing his ablutions; he was incredibly finicky about the ritual. It was as if he considered himself to be inherently impure, and so a sense of religious purity came to him only with great difficulty.
But here, in Mergan’s home, Karbalai Doshanbeh began to feel as if he had been stung; he felt a burning sensation on the leathery surface of his heart. The sack of flour that had been sent to Mergan by the Sardar stung him. But he also felt stung by the partners that owned the water pump and tractor. At this point, this seemed even more important to him; it distracted him from the matter of the sack of flour.
“Eh? So you don’t have an answer for me, Mr. Driver? When is the water pump of these novices arriving? For two or three days now my Abdullah keeps talking of slaughtering a sheep in celebration. So I’d guess it’s coming soon, eh?”
Abrau uncomfortably answered, “Yes, I would think it’ll reach Zaminej any day now. Mirza Hassan’s gone to bring it here.”
It’s not necessary for someone to have killed your father for you to have a grudge against him. There are people whose walking, talking, or even their laughter incites hatred within others. Karbalai Doshanbeh was one of these people; at least that was how Abrau saw him. To begin with, on numerous occasions he had made insulting comments concerning Soluch. Even the bits of copper that Salar Abdullah had taken from their home as collateral, or the welts he’d had from the lashes that had him twisting in the cottonwood field like a snake, all led back to Karbalai Doshanbeh. Added to this was now his heavy, suffocating presence in their home — this had been going on for much more than simply a day or two. It had now been some months since he first began finding excuses to come and sit in their house. Sometimes he would not even bother to invent an excuse, and he would just sit and make snide comments, or sit silently like a sentry to the gates of hell. To understand the psyche of Soluch’s younger son, one has only to place oneself into his shoes. In the folds of Karbalai Doshanbeh’s calm and unemotive face, a kind of impudence and cheekiness shone through. Something that was not easy to rub off and clean away. This shadow cast itself over Mergan’s entire life like a dark cloud. And perhaps Karbalai Doshanbeh’s self-confidence was overstated, as if he needed to feel confident regarding the Mergans of the world as a consequence of his own failures. Whatever the reason for it, his presence was an insolent insult for Abrau. He couldn’t stand seeing the old man. How many times had he imagined himself tearing off the old, stained kerchief from around his throat? His presence in the house was suffocating him. It was like a slap in the face. In the company of the old man, he’d been unable to hold his head up at all, or even to look directly at his mother. He was in torment, a life-sapping, constant torment. It wasn’t something that just stung him and let him be. It wasn’t just a kind of pain. It was something living, something that had been born within Abrau’s soul, and was always with him. Something he couldn’t shake, even if for a moment, even if just to have a breath of air. The constant jabs and insinuations only made the situation more intolerable.
“Ha! I’ve heard you’re packing away your daddy’s shoes!”
“I’ve heard you say, ‘Yes ma’am’ to a flea!”
“Abrau, my boy! When will I see you carrying my bath things and following me to the bath house?”
“Don’t worry. He’s bound to have found a place to lay his head down somewhere!”
“It’s not what you’ve heard! Karbalai Doshanbeh’s not one to give up a fight with the angel of death!”
“Look, it seems Mergan’s appetite is increasing!”
“Mergan was never really one to skip a meal, even back when she’d eat thirty-five seer in a sitting!”
These barbs were always followed by laughter. Laughter that brought spittle to Karbalai Doshanbeh’s mouth, with his long tongue, his bulging unkind eyes, his terrible teeth. And worse, no one else knew what Abrau was enduring. It felt as if he was confronted with a barrage of insinuations and insults as soon as he lifted himself from his bed in the morning. What could he do? Once, he had stopped Salar Abdullah and said, “Salar! You have to tell Karbalai not to come to our house like he does. It’s not right.”
Salar Abdullah had replied, “He’s my father, not my son! How can I prevent him from doing what he wants to do? He’s his own boss.”
And he had stepped aside and walked away.
What more could Abrau do? Their house didn’t have doors or rooms to be able to find a bit of privacy from visitors. Karbalai Doshanbeh would just tuck his head down, cough at the door, and then walk in and sit in a corner of the house. It didn’t matter when or what time of day it was, either breakfast or dinner. Once there, he would drink their tea and eat their bread. He would even pick at the bottom of a bowl and lick it, before sitting back and saying, “Thank you, God! You have the goodness. You have our thanks!”