Mergan didn’t really understand the details of what Morad was saying. But she comprehended the overall message. Despite this, she couldn’t answer. She couldn’t align her yesterday and today the way that Morad did. She felt she had chains around her feet, such as Hajer and Abbas. How could she tear herself from her children so easily? Her children were the same as her. So she remained silent and hesitant. There were many things that could compel her to leave the village, but there were many things that bound her to stay. This tug-of-war went on inside Mergan. It was not just a consequence of Morad’s discussion, but he had taken root in her from the very moment that Soluch disappeared, when half of her wanted to just pick up and leave. But why should Mergan speak of something that she has no confidence in? Uncertainty appeared in her heart that was already split in two — no, in many — different directions. She couldn’t lie to herself, could she? Did she not sometimes have a desire to fill the jug of water at the Sardar’s house again and bring it to him? Yes, she did. Are there not many things that blossom within a person that will be taken by them to the grave? As a woman, this was clear to her. It was clear that her desires as a woman would be going with her to her grave; her baneful, seductive desires. It was something that would be lost in the dirt, in the earth. Despite this, could she deny its existence? No, it is and is and will be! Is it possible to forget the most colorful flower that you were ever given, even if hatefully, and drive the memory from the house of your soul? It is something that is left within you. You take it with you wherever you go. You take the good and evil of it with you and leave it in you. It’s there, wherever you go. You try to expel it from your memory, if you don’t actually gain strength from the memory! It’s not just you who are trying to overcome it; it also has its own presence. It sometimes tickles you. Sometimes it stings. Sometimes it makes you ashamed. And sometimes in overthrowing all of these feelings, it boils up within you. You’re still a woman, even if you’re Mergan!
“We don’t have anything to lose. We’ve never had anything to lose, mother. What do we have? I’ve been thinking about it for a while. We were born naked and we’re still naked. We don’t even have clothes on our bodies that someone can’t take from us! I’ve got a skill. I will use it for work. Mirza Hassan’s tractor has broken down, but even if that’s broken down, the world’s not broken down. My body’s still healthy. That’s enough for me. I’ll go with the others and leave the village.”
Abrau said this and tried to stop the trembling in his trumpet-shaped lips.
Mergan looked at her son. She looked at him openly. She felt that from her roots she wanted to once again understand him; she wanted to understand her own son Abrau, to believe in him. But was this the same Abrau? Was this the same boy who used to speak openly and honestly? Was this the same boy she had given birth to? That she had washed and dried as a child?
My son, my boy!
The sound of Abbas’ crutch turned Mergan’s head to the door. Abbas was standing there — he put the empty teacup by the door and turned and left. The sound of the crutch receded, died out, faded.
Morad rose, picked up the cup that was left by door, and said, “Don’t worry about Abbas, Auntie Mergan. He’ll take care of himself.”
Mergan was all eyes, ears, and imagination: that’s right. He’s able to take care of himself! That’s easy enough to say. But others like Abbas have been worn down, become dispirited, become listless, and have died. The distance between these stages, from being worn down, to becoming dispirited, and from that to listlessness and death can be quite short. Abbas could take care of himself, true, but how? What kind of work could he do? What skills did he have? Work! Work was the key to keeping all of Mergan’s children on their feet, even if it had been forced or cruel work. They always had to first lift a hand before they were able to put food in their mouths. So yes, Abbas could take care of himself, but she didn’t know how he would. Perhaps Abbas himself would know!
All of a sudden Hajer threw herself into the room, quickly, violently. She was trembling; she had run all the way. She was upset and her voice cracked in her throat. She hadn’t noticed Morad.
“Mother, uncle’s come! I’ve seen him!”
So what? Why should Mergan care?
“Mother, Karbalai Doshanbeh stopped uncle’s donkey in the alley and took the animal to his own house!”
Again, so what! So what if he took it?
“He’s keeping it there until someone comes and vouches for uncle. No matter what people say to him, Karbalai Doshanbeh’s not listening!”
Mergan looked at her daughter and a faint smile began to take shape on her lips.
Abrau shifted and Morad coughed. Hajer sensed Morad and so left the house awkwardly. At the same time, Morad noticed that Hajer was pregnant, and only just caught himself from saying something under his breath.
The sound of Molla Aman’s steps and his cursing voice echoed in the alley.
He and his kind can go to hell; let him take what’s mine! It’s more of a sin than for him to have eaten dog meat! He thinks he’ll live another hundred years! How much does he think I owe him, anyway? It’s just theft, that’s what it is! What else can you call it?”
The edges of his cloak were wrapped around his legs; his collar was open and disheveled as he entered the room. Once inside, his voice rose even louder. His cursing increased. Without looking at anyone, he made several circles around the room before sitting angrily against one wall. He took his cigarette out of his pocket and struck a match with his shaking hands. A moment later he breathed out a pillar of smoke.
“The miserly fool! He finally poured out his poison; he finally struck! Oh God …! He took my donkey and my goods as collateral. He tore the edge of my cloak! He ripped the cuffs from my sleeves. It’s just evil to do that, no!?”
No one seemed to be listening, or at least, no one responded. Molla Aman spat and began addressing an absent Karbalai Doshanbeh.
“You want a woman for nothing? Come on! You’re not worthy to sleep beside her. Aha! You shameless man!”
Mergan rose, went beside the stove, and sat down again.
Molla Aman continued, “May your hovel burn down, you pathetic man! I finally will tell her the truth. Soluch! Soluch is alive! I’ve found him. He’s not dead. Our man is alive!”
Mergan looked at her brother’s face. She knew that lying, to him, was as simple as drinking water. But why would he lie about this? And if Soluch were still alive, where was he?
“He’s near Shahroud, in the mines!”
What? Mines? In the mines?