Missing Soluch by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi Page A

arms. His teeth chattered from the trembling that had taken over his body. Tears were beginning to stream from the corners of his eyes.
    He sat with his back to the wind in the sheltering area between two roof domes and gathered his composure. He had to do something; even this somewhat sheltered spot did not afford enough protection from the wind for him to spend the night there. He had to find somewhere else, somewhere warm. But whose door could someone like him knock on? Who would open their house to Abbas, the son of Mergan? He had to think of someone like himself. Aunt Sanam’s house! But no. Therewas nowhere to sleep there. And more important, the people who came and went from Aunt Sanam’s house were all either inveterate gamblers or opium addicts. It was no place for a boy like Abbas, especially on a night like this. If he could hold out until morning, perhaps then he could go to Ali Genav’s bathhouse to warm up a bit. But Ali Genav didn’t open the baths until the dawn prayers—even if he was a stray dog, he wouldn’t last outside that long. He then thought about finding a stable and warming himself with the heat of a cow’s breath, or by lying among some sheep. But in this season of the year, and in a year like this, it was possible that someone could accuse someone like Abbas of stealing livestock at the drop of a hat. Was it worth the risk? No—that would be foolish as well. He could only think of one place to go: Hajj Salem’s old crypt of a house, behind Ali Genav’s house, adjoining Kadkhoda Norouz’s stables.
    Abbas half stood and climbed across the roofs on all fours, like a black cat. He tried to crawl quietly as he went. God forbid that someone below hear him on the roof, as that would surely end with a commotion: “What are you doing on my roof at this hour of the night, you son of a bitch! Don’t you have any respect?”
    Someone could raise a commotion just because of where he was. So he had to go as quietly as a cat, and he did. He paused on the roof of Ali Genav’s house and looked around. Hajj Salem’s tallow-burning lamp was still lit. Abbas knew the old man was up late most nights. And it wasn’t that late, in any case.
    As Abbas watched, the door latch of Kadkhoda Norouz’s sitting room sounded, and a moment later the Kadkhoda exited, walking down the steps with a lantern in one hand and a walking stick set over his shoulder. Abbas heard Moslemeh’s voicecomplaining, “Where to, at this hour of the night? Again, you’ve put on your overcoat and hat and are going? Where to?”
    The Kadkhoda answered right away, “I’m going to Mirza Hassan’s house, the son-in-law of Agha Malak.”
    Speaking now to the yard rather than to Moslemeh, he went on. “My voice’s hoarse from bargaining with that woman … and in the end …”
    The sound of the heavy outer doors of the house clanging drowned out Kadkhoda Norouz’s grumbling. Abbas turned his head from the Kadkhoda’s house and looked to the hovel of Hajj Salem, Moslemeh’s father. The dying emanation from Hajj Salem’s lamp flickered through the cracks of the door. Abbas looked directly down; at the bottom of the wall he was standing on, ash and dirt was collected in a pile. Abbas leapt onto the ash pile, half rolled, and then rose. He shook the ashes from his clothes and crouched by the wall.
    The sound of Hajj Salem berating his son rose from inside the house.
    “Beast! Tie up those pants of yours! Showing yourself nude is bad in the eyes of God, you oaf! Tie up that pants string! We have work tonight. Didn’t you hear the gate of your sister’s husband’s house? The Kadkhoda’s left. I have a premonition that he’s going to the house of one of his partners. Tie up those pants, you bastard! How many hundreds of lice are hiding in the lining of your pants anyway?”
    The unhappy sound of Moslem rose. “D … d … d …!”
    Abbas moved himself from the edge of the wall where he was to the shelter of the crypt