One can’t be certain if this was what led Abbas to separate himself from the household, but it may well have been. What other hidden power could have led him to leave the house and to build a den for himself out by the clay oven?
Perhaps it’s not right to say that everything about a person is mutable.
Abbas was sitting in his usual place by the clay oven, and as was his habit, he was looking at the night sky. This habit had followed his injury, from his experience seeing that sky from the bottom of the well. From then on, he looked at the night sky in such a way that it seemed he was looking for footprints that were imprinted there. Forgotten footprints. Abbas’ solitude was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps out in the alleyway. These footsteps were not familiar — he was now most used to Raghiyeh’s soft footsteps that were always accompanied by her broken lament. There were other sounds that he heard in the alley, but Abbas mostly listened out for her footsteps, and these were not hers. The sound stopped.
“Abbas! Abbas … Are you asleep?”
He looked where the sound came from. There was a shadow against the wall. Abbas coughed to indicate that he was awake. The shadow approached him. It was Abrau; he stood facing Abbas. Abbas looked at the cigarette burning between his own fingers. Abrau stood beside the wall of the oven. Abbas couldn’t imagine what he wanted, so he waited to see what Abrau would say. But his brother remained silent. A moment later, he came over and sat down. The wide mouth of the oven separated the two brothers.
“Here! I’d heard you picked up smoking, so I brought you a pack.”
Abrau fit the pack of cigarettes into the heap of stones beside Abbas’ hand. Abbas watched his brother’s movements, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say.
Abrau continued, “I know I should have come a long time ago. Too long has passed. But I couldn’t come back here after that day. And now … I waited until night fell to stop by. It’s better in the dark. I can’t show my face around here in daylight. I really lost my mind that day. What a cursed day that was! It was as if I wasn’t myself when I did those things. I’ve not seen our mother since then. I couldn’t see her after all of that. I did try to send her some money, but she sent it back. How is she?”
Abbas tossed the butt of his cigarette into the oven, and quietly, with a muffled sound that had become his particular voice, said, “I don’t know. I don’t see much of her! She’s probably in the house right now.”
“How is she for food and water?”
“I don’t know! I split the sack of flour with her. But I don’t know more than that!”
“I really was bad on that day; it was really bad. How terrible! What son acts that way toward his own mother? But what can I do now? I’ve been sleeping out beside the tractor this entire time. But it’s getting really cold now. That dry winter cold is setting in! This evening, the Gonbadi driver shut down the tractor for the season. When he shut off the motor, he took it out and took it with him. I don’t think he’ll ever bring it back. He may just try to sell the motor in the open market, to make up for the back wages they never paid him. God’s Land is all ploughed, and we planted the pistachio saplings. But we have to wait seven years for the first fruit. And the major work of the tractor is done. All that we can do now is rent it out, which isn’t really worth it. The expenses of the tractor kept getting higher, day-by-day. Mirza Hassan might have no choice but to sell the tractor off. They’re saying that it costs more than it brings in. And you can’t work the tractor all year round …! By the way, Abbas, do you know how pistachios come to bear?”
Abbas didn’t know. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have had the heart or interest to reply to Abrau’s question. Abrau understood this, but had no choice but to keep talking. These words had become a burden on his heart, and the only person he could unload them onto was his older brother. Abbas’ reaction wasn’t of great concern to Abrau; loneliness had taken its toll on him. He felt like an outcast, separated as he was from his home and family. This made him anxious, and so he’d come to pour his heart out to his silent brother in the depths of the night.
“I had thought that Mirza Hassan was planning to plant wheat as well as pistachios and cotton. But he didn’t sow a single seed of wheat. When someone mentioned this to him, he’d say, ‘You think I have a donkey’s brain to want to plant wheat? What on earth for? How much will I have to pay the gleaners? And who is here to glean, anyway? Once I harvest it, how much can I sell it for? How much do you think the company will pay me for it? They’ll pay less than three tomans for each man of wheat! If you do the math, you’ll see it won’t pay for even half of its costs. What sensible person would do such a thing?’ If I think about it now, I have to admit he wasn’t wrong. Planting wheat and barley these days isn’t even close to being profitable. Mirza Hassan also used to say, ‘The government is importing tons and tons of it from abroad!’ But that’s why I’m worried that the tractor won’t be put back to work. The planting land here is all in bits and scraps. This cursed tractor is made to work on digging up big tracts of land. Here, if the land is really a large plot, you’re still done before nightfall. Then you have to drive three farsakhs to go find another plot of land to lower the blades on and plough. Just getting around wastes all of your time. You start to figure out the costs of these things slowly. There were many times when we didn’t have more than one hour’s work on a person’s plot of land. How much to you think we could charge for one hour’s work? And then think of how long it took to get there and back! That’s why I’m worried this tractor might end up being passed on and sent to some other province. Somewhere like Gorgon Valley. That’s where it was before. Or who knows, maybe Neyshabur Valley. And that’s if the Gonbadi driver actually repairs the motor and returns with it! You see, he set up the water pump and drove the tractor, but now the tractor’s out of service. And Mirza Hassan’s up and disappeared. They’re looking for him from the government’s Office of Agriculture. I don’t know! What should I try to do? I can’t go back to doing odd jobs. But there’s no other tractor for me to find work on. What a fool I was to have raised my hopes as much as I did!”
Abbas said, “How much does a pack of playing cards cost, anyway? Do you know?”
“Abbas, you’re still awake!”
It was Morad’s voice. Abbas turned to look where the sound came from. Morad peeked over the wall.
“Oh, you’re here as well?”
There was a hint of shame in his voice. He walked around and into the yard.
“Come on up next to us. There’s plenty of room.”
“I’m fine here.”
“Come on! Come here!”
Morad could sense clearly that Abrau was desperate for someone to talk to. He sat at the edge of the oven and asked, “So what’s new? I hear the Gonbadi driver’s up and left? I saw the tractor over by the graveyard, gathering dust! They say the driver took the motor on the excuse of repairing it and he’s disappeared! Ha! You must know all about this; was the motor really in need of repairs?”
Abrau said, “I don’t know. I don’t know! However it is, it looks like the tractor’s a goner!”
“You don’t think the Gonbadi driver took the motor to make up for the pay they owe him?”
“Who knows? Maybe.”