Missing Soluch (27 page)

“But I don’t own any of God’s Land!”

“But no one does, Hajj Salem. It’s intended to be a petition for the whole village. Everyone has rights here and we want to respect them. So anyone can sign this, or put a fingerprint on it. Moslem, you come here, too!”

Mergan was focused on her own work, but she was monitoring the sounds outside. She could sense the quality of each sound: demanding, unsatisfied, flattering, browbeaten, noncommittal,
or indifferent. All the smaller farmers had spread the word that Salar Abdullah and his partners were interested in paying for the land. So everyone was coming; those who worked on God’s Land, as well as those who farmed elsewhere. They were practically begging. Others were lying, but they thought they could snap their fingers and get something. They had nothing to give, save the fingerprints they left on the petition. Shortly, only a few were left haggling with Salar Abdullah and his partners. But there was a solution for this, too. Mirza Hassan had the skills of a diplomat; he could sweet-talk almost anyone. So most, eventually, left satisfied.

Mirza Hassan’s voice was strong and clear.

“What we’re doing is different from when you see ten or twelve half-dying people who don’t even have a shovel between them to dig up the land to try to farm. You can’t even call that farming. It’s more like keeping themselves busy. I’ve seen it; you all know what I’m talking about. Ten people without an ounce of energy or life. Scrambling like ants in different corners of God’s Land, working the scrub for a few days each year, and eventually harvesting a handful of watermelons. And only watermelons! Why only watermelons? Because for a hundred years it hadn’t even occurred to you to try to plant something other than watermelons. And so you’ll go on teaching your children the same things you learned from your fathers. Have you ever thought for a minute that you can plant something other than watermelons on God’s Land? Clearly, no! In any case … even if one of you had thought of it, where are the tools you’d need? How would you prepare the land for planting? You can’t just use your bare hands. You need to spend money on the land! Without investment, it’s useless. I’m saying this for
everyone here. But I’m saying this especially to those of you here who have thought that they were sitting on a pot of gold! It’d be good if you listen carefully; land that has no legal deed is the property of whoever makes it bloom. Am I exhausting my voice for no good reason here? Those three or four who are still holding out had better know they have nothing to stand on. We want to move ahead with this in a way that makes everyone happy and satisfied. We have to live as neighbors, so it’s best we’re all in agreement and at peace. I don’t want the outside authorities to be dragged into Zaminej. But I’m afraid some of my partners may be a little inflexible. And those who have deeds to other lands around here should really stop playing the beggar! How long are they expecting to graze donkeys or camels on their bits of land? They really either have to sell up or join our group and have their own part in the partnership. I’m not too polite to say this; my plans for the land have already been accepted by the authorities. Which means the government wants this to go ahead …”

Mergan hadn’t noticed that she had stopped working and was frozen in her place listening closely to Mirza Hassan’s speech. But now she couldn’t make out what was being said. There was a muttering so quiet it was almost inaudible. Softly, the sound of one or two sets of feet leaving could be heard. Then Mirza Hassan said, “Say hello to those who didn’t come to this meeting! Tell them that after the third time, I’ll stop trying to make contact with them!”

Mergan sensed that the gist of what Mirza Hassan was saying was addressed to her and those like her. She began her work again. It was as if this issue rubbed her the wrong way and there was no chance to accommodate her. She had already
developed a grudge over this issue, a grudge that came from the pain in her life. It was as if her entire life now depended on this one little bit of land. She didn’t want to yield an inch, even though she wouldn’t admit to herself that her steadfastness was at root a purely emotional response. If she was honest to herself, she knew better than anyone else that God’s Land was no more than scrubland that couldn’t provide much for her and her children’s sustenance. But she felt her only choice was to stand her ground.

“Did you hear what was said, Mergan?”

Mergan turned. Ali Genav was standing by the door. “What do you think?”

Mergan said, “I have no intention of selling off my children’s inheritance!”

Ali Genav said, “You think you can stand up to them on this? Mostly everyone else has taken what’s been offered and has left. You know as well as I that that land isn’t much for farming!”

“Everyone has to make their own choice.”

“What shall I do?”

“That’s up to you.”

“No, depending on you … no! If you won’t sell, then I won’t. And if you want, I’ll give the land to Hajer in our marriage contract.”

Hajer had hidden herself in the corner. Ali Genav continued, “Will you have time today to go to the baths?”

Mergan replied, “If I have a chance to I’ll come by and pick up the keys from you.”

Ali Genav turned to go, but found Mirza Hassan face-to-face with him. He was stretching and strutting as he ascended the stairs to the room.

“So what do you say, Ali?”

Ali Genav looked at Mirza Hassan and said, “I think I need to sleep on it.”

“So go and sleep on it then!”

At the door, Mirza Hassan greeted Mergan. “So now your Hajer’s all grown up, Mergan! Now it’s her time, and hopefully it’s all for the best!”

Mergan didn’t stop working and she mumbled something under her breath in response to his greeting. Mirza Hassan leaned against the doorway; he stretched his long neck and looked into the room. Mergan was covered from head to foot in muddy water from her work. Ali Genav exclaimed, “God give you strength in your work!”

Mergan tied an old shirt to a broomstick and plunged it into a bucket of whitewash. She straightened her back and said, “Thank you for coming by!”

Mirza Hassan pleasantly enquired about Mergan’s health, to which she replied in dry monosyllables.

“So, are your sons thinking of leaving Zaminej for work, Mergan? Do they plan on going elsewhere?”

“What should I know?”

“I can give one of them work right here. Your Abrau is a clever boy, but the other one’s not good for much.”

“That’s how it goes.”

Mirza continued, “If I were in your shoes, I’d send Abbas off with the other young men who are leaving Zaminej; let him work in other areas and grow up a bit.”

“We’ll see.”

“If you do want to send him off to work, I would be happy to pay for his travel for you.”

“Should he want to go, I’ll find the money for his travel from somewhere myself!”

“Yes, of course, you’ll find it somewhere. But let me give you the money to settle my debt to you.”

“What debt, Mirza?”

“I’m talking about God’s Land. It wouldn’t be proper for me to just evict everyone from the land and tell them to go. God wouldn’t approve.”

“Where would you want us to go, Mirza? Where?”

“Mergan, don’t play games with me. We’ve already registered God’s Land to our own names. We intend to work it and to plant pistachios on it. That’s a suitable crop for this land. You know, if pistachios are a yielding crop, what benefits can it bring not just to Zaminej but to this entire area? The engineers say that the pistachios that grow here can be more valuable than the famous pistachios of Rafasanjan! We want to make this area bloom. How long can we keep on just planting watermelons?”

“So what will I gain from all of this?”

“What will you gain? This is good for everyone. And why should you be only thinking about what you get from it?”

“So why should I want to give up my land?”

“Your land? Ha! What land? God’s Land! That’s land that belongs to God!”

“If it belongs to God, well, I’m one of His servants. What difference does it make? His servants work His land. Are you saying I’m not His servant?”

“Of course you are. Why shouldn’t you be? Who is a better servant than you? But in the end, we need to make God’s Land bloom!”

“Yes, let’s make it bloom. Am I saying anything other than that? But if you’re going to evict me from this land, who will ensure my rights and those of my children? You think the three or four bills you want to put in the palm of my sons’ hands will be enough?”

“What would you prefer? That I bequeath all my property to you?”

“When did I say that?”

“Well, in effect, that’s what you’re saying! What else are you saying?”

“I’m saying that in a few months when you’ve harvested the land, are you planning on sharing the profits with me? Of course not!”

“But why should you expect me to? In any case, by then, who knows who will still be here and who will be gone? Pistachios take seven years to yield; so it’s seven years before anything will be harvested.”

“But what will be my portion of this?”

“Your portion? That’s brighter than day! I’m offering to hire one of your sons. What more could you want?”

“That’s it?”

“What more do you expect?”

“Nothing!”

“Fine! Why am I even wasting my time with you, foolish woman?”

Zabihollah came to Mirza’s side and said, “Mergan’s stubborn as a mule, eh?”

Mirza Hassan said, “Let her play the mule. She’ll be the loser because of it!”

Zabihollah went down from the porch, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Mirza Hassan.

“It’s better to try to come to terms with her son Abbas. If he sees the color of money, his mouth starts to water.”

Mirza said, “She can go to hell. Who does she think I am?”

* * *

Mirza Hassan’s yard was now empty. Zabihollah and Mirza began to leave, and Kadkhoda Nourouz accompanied them. Salar Abdullah caught up with them at the gate. Kadkhoda Norouz said, “She has no one to protect her, the poor woman. We have to come to terms with her somehow. Thirty, forty
tomans
here or there isn’t much to spend. It’s as if we’re fulfilling our religious duty to charity with it.”

Mirza sat on a bench silently and took out a cigarette. “It’s just that she’s stubborn and doesn’t know what’s good for her, the bitch; otherwise I agree. I want to come to terms with her, because among the villagers she has the aura of victimhood and righteousness. But you see how she is!”

Kadkhoda Norouz began walking and said, “I’ll go and convince her.”

Abrau arrived, short of breath. Salar Abdullah asked, “So, what did you find out?”

“The driver says the tractor’s been delayed for tonight. They need to change its light. He says he’ll bring it tomorrow.”

Salar said, “Be ready and on the road at the break of dawn. Did you settle your accounts with Ali Genav yet?”

Abrau said, “I didn’t really have any accounts with him.”

Salar looked at his partners and said acidly, “They call minding the bath a job? Anyway … the weather’s getting warm. No one will be using the baths for another six or seven months. Anyone can just go down to the stream and wash there.”

Kadkhoda Norouz returned. Mergan and Hajer were with him. It seemed she had finished her work; the sack with her tools was on Hajer’s back. As she passed by the men, she said to Zabihollah, “You can give Abrau what you owe me for the whitewashing of your house to bring with himself!”

Mirza looked at the Kadkhoda, who shook his head.

“No … she won’t reconsider!”

Mirza rose from the bench. “I’ll make her reconsider! You, boy, go tell Abbas to come to Zabihollah’s house tonight. We need to discuss something with him!”

Abrau said, “Okay.”

Mirza, Zabihollah, and Salar Abdullah left as Abrau stood watching them. Haj Salem and Moslem came out from behind a wall and set out following the partners. The Kadkhoda walked out as well, but before he shut the gate he looked at Abrau.

“Your mother is truly impossible, you know?”

Abbas felt rejuvenated as he left Zabihollah’s house. He felt satisfaction mixed with anxiety. The fatigue had left his body, or was lost inside his body. He grasped the bills of money he had received from Mirza Hassan, knowing just what he intended to do with them. He didn’t want to keep them at hand nearby. He never wanted his money to be in eyeshot. He never wished for his affairs to be out in the open. There was always subterfuge to his plans. He always wanted things to be partially hidden, especially his winnings or losses in gambling. If not all of it, at least a few
qerans
of money. He loved to keep secrets. Even if the secret was meaningless. The feeling of insecurity and his lack of trust in others had taken such a root in him that he sometimes tried to keep hidden the most obvious of things. Most of his lies
were exposed in the light of day, but he didn’t care if others thought of him as a liar, or called him one. What was important to him was that others not know what he was really up to. Put simply, Abbas didn’t want anyone to know what he was doing with even a single
qeran
of his money, or where he had stashed it. Of course, this inclination was not particular to Abbas but is shared by many others in similar circumstances.

Abbas’ present problem was to figure out how he could cut short the inevitable argument he would have with his mother. He wanted to think of a way to keep a hold of half of the money and to avoid a fight by giving half of it to her for the house. He had just decided to look for a place to hide the other half that he would keep. He entered a deserted and ruined home and undid the tie on his pants. The hem of his pants was the safest spot on him. Shortly, he returned to the alley and tightened the tie on his pants. Now only two bills remained in his hand from what he’d been paid for his portion of the family’s plot in God’s Land. He had just handed over two
dang
of the six
dang
that had been Soluch’s plot.

In the alley he encountered Ali Genav’s wife, who was creeping along like a shadow in the dark. She moved very slowly, holding onto the wall with one hand and grasping her walking stick with the other. Her soft moaning sounded like the flutter of a moth’s wings. Abbas was saved from himself for a moment—Raghiyeh distracted him from the troubled thoughts filling his mind.