Free Missing Soluch by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi

ofwater. Sometimes it sparkled, as if the sun was shining on it. Other times it was dark, as if a sandstorm was brewing. Sometimes it was frozen over, as if winter had set in. Sometimes it was gray, as if clouds were accumulating. If on this night she seemed dark and sullen, it was because the house was dark and sullen. Hajer reflected her surroundings.
    “Girl, go put the kettle on.”
    Following her mother’s instructions, Hajer went to light the stove.
    Disturbed and upset by her son’s moaning, steadfast and unbending in the face of what had been happening, anger coursing through her, Mergan was in turmoil, yet struggling to control herself. She had to do something. The only release was to take a step forward. She took a lantern from the cupboard and went to the pantry, rummaging in the corners of the house that only a mother would know of. She returned with two or three dried herbs, which she crumbled up into the kettle to boil and to give to Abrau. She replaced the lantern and unconsciously walked around herself in a circle, returning to kneel beside Abrau.
    For Mergan, illness was nothing new, nothing that could be cleansed from life and forgotten. She had grown up with it, and she believed she would grow old with it as well, stepping into her grave hand-in-hand with it. She had already seen untold numbers of young and old who at one time or another had entered death’s embrace. She had also seen many who had returned from the edge of the grave and had once again rejoined the living, who walked step-by-step with the march of the days. Mergan’s memories, seen and heard—her mind wasfilled with these memories. But who can calmly set aside her motherly instincts when her own child is burning with a fever, even a simple fever?
    Mergan appeared calm, but was in turmoil inside. Abrau’s sleeptalking hallucinations elicited such waves of sorrow in her that pain rose from her heart like smoke, burning the lining of her nostrils. The extent of what she must do in this situation was simply to give him boiled herbs, which she was already in the process of doing. What else? She consoled herself by the fact that he was sweating, which was a good sign. Now she only needed to keep watch over him so that the cold would not do him in. She had to keep watch so that after improving he wouldn’t relapse. But this was all she could do.
    “Has it started boiling?”
    Hajer didn’t say no. She said, “Almost.”
    Mergan, speaking to herself as well as Hajer, said, “When was the oven lit today?”
    Hajer had spent all day with her mother, so the question wasn’t one she could answer. But by giving voice to this, Mergan was seeking a degree of healing. Just to say this warmed her heart. Somehow, it was meant to convince both her and the children that she was looking to the issue of heating that night. With a few words, she was showing her children that her duty every night—to find a bit of kindling from other ovens—was still on her mind. Somehow she would bring a little hope to Abrau’s hallucinations, Hajer’s worried eyes, and her own troubled heart.
    Hajer brought the kettle and cups and then returned to the side of the oven, sitting at the edge of the wall. Mergan filled a cup with the boiled herbs and told Abrau to sit up straight.Abrau struggled to lift himself, using his arms like pillars, sitting up like a cat. Mergan had heard that heavy nausea brings on a fever. She had also heard that these herbs, when boiled, relieve nausea. So she let the boiled herbs cool a little, then poured some in Abrau’s mouth. She did just what she knew to do. No less, no more. With her heart and soul, and hopes for his better health, she poured a mix of boiled herbs, with violets and cassia herbs, into her son’s mouth, when her arm brushed against his injured ear, causing him to cry out in pain. Mergan had only just noticed that someone had bitten his ear.
    “Who? What son of a bitch? Who? Well? Now I see why my son has a fever!