Missing Soluch by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi

close to the heater as well. Then she blew out the lamp and lay down in her own place.
    Beneath the arched ceiling of the room, the night was pitch black. Since during the winters they covered the opening in the roof, there were neither doors nor windows to allow the eye to pass through the darkness to catch a glimpse of the open and starry night.
    Under the weight of the night, Mergan was trembling. Her feet, her hands, and her heart, all trembling. She could not calm herself. She ran her fingers through the smooth hair of her daughter and cooed, “Did he hit you hard?”
    Hajer answered, “I didn’t say. I didn’t tell him anything!”
    Mergan pressed the girl’s face to her chest and felt something like smoke escaping from her heart and passing through her entire body, eventually escaping through her eyes and throat. Her lips and eyelids began to shake, but Mergan held back the clamorous wave. She didn’t want to worry her daughter by sobbing. She herself hated mourning ceremonies. So she let Hajer go and she rose, took a handful of wheat grain from the pantry, and put half of it into her daughter’s hand.
    “Tomorrow we’ll get flour. We’ll light the bread oven.”
    She was left to calm herself. But peace of mind escaped from her. Her heart beat. Her thoughts went in a thousand directions. More than anything, Abbas was the object of her irritation. It was cold outside, the dry cold of the desert. A wolf could hardly survive in this climate. So what could that babygrasshopper do? There was no sign from him! Mergan was waiting for Abbas to let out a cry. To scream. To swear and throw himself against the door. But Abbas had not done this. What would he do? Why was there no sign of him? Mergan wanted to get up and go out, grab his wrist, and bring him home. But something unclear prevented her from doing this. Perhaps because she didn’t want to go against herself? She didn’t want what she had said to be worthless. She didn’t want her threats to seem without substance. She was stuck. She had trapped herself. Pangs shot through her heart. She didn’t want to torment her son, but she did. She couldn’t bear the pain of this, but she did. This itself was the worst. That she was able to bear something that her heart did not want to bear. So she was hurting herself twice. Once, from her son’s pain; second, from the pain of bearing this pain. She didn’t know what she could do. If she called out and told him to come home, Abbas would never again pay mind to her instructions or threats, and would never take her seriously again. But this way, she would have to stay up worried about him until the dawn, grinding her teeth and feeling vinegar boil inside her. If she sent Hajer out to him, she knew he was clever enough to see that this would be a ruse arranged by their mother. Then the only outcome would be a fruitless mendacity. So Mergan was confused. Her heart was on fire, and she couldn’t lie still. She kept moving her weight from shoulder to shoulder, and she chewed on the blanket and pillow.
    How could she stand it?
    Mergan rose and tiptoed to the door. She opened the latch quietly and waited a second. There was no sign of Abbas. No footsteps. No breathing. She wanted to shout the boy’s name out, but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to be able to. The cry wastied up inside her throat. She returned to her place, lay down, and fixed her eyes more intently than before upon the door. At this moment, Mergan had no other wish other than for the door to open and for Abbas to return. To return. To return swearing at her. To return and to turn the house upside down. To return and to set fire to the house. To return and to beat his mother. To give a beating. Return; just that he return!
    Hajer asked, “Mama, where did you get the embers?”
    “From hell!”

4 .
    On the domed roofs of Zaminej, the dry cold wind shook Abbas. The wind flapped his trousers as he stood straight as a skewer, his hands thrust beneath his