“Troublemaker! Stirring up things?”
He left the room, tossed the shovel to one side, and handed Salar Abdullah his headscarf. Then he shouted at the crowd, “So what are you all standing here for? Is there something to see here?”
Salar Abdullah tied the scarf around his head. Agha Malak’s son-in-law grabbed him under the arms, and along with the others — Zabihollah, Karbalai Doshanbeh, and Kadkhoda Norouz — he left.
Mergan fell to her knees in the doorway of the house. She covered her face with her hands and, with a wail, let go of a cry that had been locked away inside of her heart until that moment.
2
The moist earth was frozen beneath the boys’ feet. The icy soil sent painful jabs through their bare soles, as if they were walking on crushed glass. For all their effort, they had little to show for it. The sun was already climbing into the sky but Abrau and Abbas had gathered less than a bushel of corkwood each. The roots of the plants had frozen in the soil, and the tendrils of the roots were thoroughly entwined in the earth, making it as if the plants were rooted in stone. Pulling out each root required more effort than it otherwise should have, straining and hurting their backs and shoulders. At times, it felt as if a snake had twisted itself around Abrau’s waist. His face was contorted — his eyes squinted, lines emerged in the corners of his eyes, and his eyelashes would press together — expressing his pain in a thousand different signs. But Abrau couldn’t dare to let even a quiet cry escape through his lips. This was because Abbas was heartless, always competing at work. Because of this, he would goad Abrau constantly and incessantly. He did so both for the excuse of driving him on as well as to ensure that Abrau didn’t manage to sneak off with a few of the roots that Abbas had himself collected and set aside.
While working, Abbas did his best to make Abrau jealous. If Abrau’s bundle of wood was smaller than Abbas’—which it always was — he would sting his brother with sharp and mocking jibes. He would do his best to poison his mood. Not infrequently, this would lead to pushing and shoving between them. Their argument would become a fight, and they’d go at each other. Abrau was the one who was always eventually hurt and would end the contest by crying. On this day, his pain came from the stubbornness of the earth, but also from Salar’s short-handled sickle, which was unfamiliar to his hands. This added to Abrau’s frustration, because if the blade of the sickle passed over a stalk of corkwood once without hooking it, then pulling it out afterward was a hundred times more difficult. This was because a first swing would scrape off the rough-hewn outer skin of the stalk, only exposing the smooth and moist inner core, which was much more difficult to hook with the blade of the instrument. And no self-respecting man would allow himself to just leave the uncut stalks standing there, surrounded by the others that had been cut. This is why the work required a sharp-edged sickle and strong upper arms — neither of which Abrau possessed — so that the stalks could be pulled right out of the heart of the compressed earth. Neither did he have a decent tool to work with, nor hands with strength to speak of. His bones hadn’t set yet. His muscles were loose, like water. Even though in his short life his fingers had grown thick and calloused, Abrau had still not achieved the high and proud station of being considered a young man. He was even short for his age. But in the work itself, he obtained a certain substance and depth. When he focused on the task he was given, he became as one with it. While stooped over a stalk of corkwood, he was like a bee sitting on a flower sucking out the flower’s nectar. He would suckle and suckle. He’d suck out the essence of the work as if it were the essence of a flower. The sickle became like a fingernail, and the stalk of corkwood felt like a thorn caught in his foot. Rather than pulling a stalk out from the earth, he felt as if he were pulling a thorn out of his heel. He moved quickly, strongly. He would not straighten his back, for fear of falling behind his brother. For fear that at the end of the day, his bundle would be smaller and less significant.
The fierce and nimble wind had left the boy’s hands raw; his fingers were as dry as a goat’s hoof. His nose was running and tears were streaming out of the corners of his eyes. His big ears felt frozen. The icy metal handle of the sickle burned in the palms of his hands. Still, he went from stalk to stalk, stooped over like a baby gazelle, following from one root to another.
Needing to warm his hands with his breath, Abrau paused from his work for a moment. He straightened his back, raised his hands to his mouth, exhaled a “ha” into his hands and rubbed them together angrily, as if the fault were his hands’ for freezing. He once again took the sickle in his palm, but before he stooped his body over the stalks, his eyes passed over the fields before him. Others like him, both younger and older, were scattered across them and were gathering corkwood here and there. A short way up and over, only about a shout’s distance away, four or five children had started a fire. Abrau watched them gather around the fire as they lifted their hands or feet to the flames to warm them. A single word passed through his lips.
“Fire!”
Abbas turned his head without straightening his body, fixing his large eyes on him. Under his brother’s glare, Abrau came to himself again. Abbas said, “Sooner or later the sun will come out from behind the clouds; keep working!”
He went right back to the task of pulling up the stalks. Abrau saw there was no point in him saying anything, so he bent over and went back to work, struggling with stalks and with himself. Abrau knew that his brother was aware of how he was doing. But there was an unspoken agreement between the brothers not to speak during work, as if they had both come to know from experience that what needed to be done would eventually be done. It could happen with crying and complaining, or it could happen quietly and stoically. And yet, the unspoken agreement between the two brothers would inevitably fall apart, because the pressure from their pain and hunger would seek a way to be let out. And neither of them could control this. When a calf is branded, it brays, stomps, scratches, and rubs its head on the ground. All that the boys could do was hold out for as long as they could. And when they lost the battle against their pain and hunger, a single gesture or sound would signal their defeat. And this signal indicated their loss of self-control.
Abbas planted the handle of his sickle inside his belt and turned to gather and arrange the loose stalks he had just pulled from the ground. He went to work picking up the stalks, one by one, two by two.
“Why are you taking my stalks?”
“Which stalks of yours?”
“Those with the thick roots — I sweat like a pig to get those out of the ground.”
“Look at your scrawny self. How can you claim you pulled out stalks with roots this thick from soil this heavy?”
“You’re blind if you think I can’t! Toss them over here. Those are my tracks anyway. Can’t you see my footprints over there? Hand them over to me!”
The thick and knotted root of the corkwood remained in Abbas’ hand. Abrau nimbly grabbed his brother’s wrist and Abbas tried in every way possible to free himself, in vain. He had no choice but to resort to insults and abuse. Exasperated, he said, “You’re such a liar, Abrau. I should smash you with this very stalk!”
Abrau knew Abbas’ nature and disposition. He couldn’t let the situation end in a fight, because he knew better than the back of his own hand how badly he would be beaten by Abbas. So instead he said, “Do you swear that you pulled up this stalk?”
“You, why don’t you swear?”
“Okay, I swear!”
“No sir! No need. I swear first — what do you want me to swear on?”