Missing Soluch by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi Page B

and backed up against its wall. If the father and son were about to leave, how could he make himself their guest?
    Hajj Salem’s voice kept up. “Tie it! Tie it, animal! That’s enough, enough! And tomorrow is God’s day. Let’s go. We’ll head toward a reward. Tonight, the big men are all gathering, and you have to collect a week’s worth of bread from them all. Eh, I said tie it, you beast!”
    “Okay … Okay … Don’t hit me, Papa. Okay!”
    Hajj Salem emerged from the crypt hunched over and covered by his tattered quilt, holding his crooked walking stick. He looked to the sky and said, “Dear God, my hopes are with you. If you’ve made me destitute, then bless others with your blessings! If you’ve tied my hands, then grant joy to the hearts of others … Come on out, you beast of God!”
    Moslem exited, still holding the tie-string of his pants in one hand, saying, “It won’t, Papa! It won’t … I can’t, Papa!”
    Hajj Salem, with a curse on his lips, knelt at the large bare feet of his son. He took the string from Moslem’s hands, and while he tied the pants, began to swear. “God give me compensation for how you torment me! May his hands be crippled, my little animal. He’s spent thirty springs on the earth like an ass, and still can’t tie his pants up … I swear to God! Get moving! Come on, let’s go!”
    Moslem set out behind his father and bellowed, “Very … Papa! Papa! Very …”
    Hajj Salem turned. “God damn your ‘Papa’! Very what?”
    Moslem said, “Very … very … tight. Very tight … knot … knot …”
    Hajj Salem set out again, saying, “Come on! It’ll let itself out slowly. Haircloth string doesn’t hold a knot well. Come on!”
    “Yes! Okay, I’m coming. I’m coming!”
    Father and son left the ruins, and Abbas, who was still stuck against the wall, had no choice but to follow them. It could have been possible for him to sneak into the old crypt and to warm himself in a nook or corner inside. But he was somehow drawn to follow them instead. In Abbas’ estimation, Hajj Salem must have smelled a treat of some kind if he had dragged Moslem out tonight.
    Hajj Salem and Moslem spent their days in their destitute crypt, under the collapsed roof of a half-destroyed stable just behind Kadkhoda Norouz—and Moslemeh’s—house. They eked out a daily pittance from this and that person, with the kind of work that was preoccupying Hajj Salem right now.
    No one had seen it, but it was rumored that Hajj Salem possessed a huge quantity of old books. Until quite recently, he would take a volume of the
Shahnameh
epic written in a large script, sit at the edge of the mosque, lean his old walking stick against the wall, and begin to read out for the villagers of Zaminej. But lately, his failing eyes were no longer of use for trying to read the
Shahnameh
or any other book. Because of this, his books were most likely gathering dust in the back of his hovel.
    “Take my walking stick!”
    “I’m taking it, Papa! Give me … give me …”
    “Okay! Now help me from the edge of this wall. This night’s so dark. God forbid I fall into a pit!”
    “Yes, Papa. Okay!”
    “Tonight, the night’s like a ghost that has washed its face with tar!”
    “Yes, Papa, dear. Okay! I’ll take you. Where should I go?”
    “Zabihollah’s house. The new lords of the village should be gathered there!”
    “Yes, Papa, dear. Zabihollah Khan’s house. Zabihollah Khan’s house.”
    Moslem was always with his father. Hajj Salem was also stuck to his fool of a son like a worn-out shirt. Each morning, when Hajj Salem would put on his worn, long robes, take his twisted old walking stick, and leave their crypt of a home, Moslem was like his shadow. The father and son would set out in Zaminej’s alleys, chewing on a bit of bread—if there was one to be had—all the while bantering and bickering. Everyone’s ears were drawn to this banter, because it was part of the