The Doleful Village by Amin Faqiri translated by Iraj Bashiri © copyright 1987, 2002

It was at dusk when Dadkhoda and his son entered my room. I was lighting the lantern. Dadkhoda sat down. His son, too, sprawled himself on the floor beside the father. I put more air in the lantern. It caused the kerosene to overflow and the lantern to be set aflame. Dadkhoda said, "You should have given the lantern more time to warm up."

I said, "You are right." Dadkhoda warmed his hands on the lantern. The child's eyes were glued to a picture that I had just finished pinning on the wall. The lantern, having warmed up, began its monotonous humming. Dadkhoda was under a lot of pressure. He pressed his teeth against each other so hard that I could hear them grind. He said, "The winters of this region are cold and dry." I did not answer. He undid his turban-like headgear. His ears were red, like the meat at the butcher shop. His short hair was bunched up in various spots on his head. He was one of my regular visitors. The dusks were short. Before you knew it, the night had taken over. Very short days. And he never came alone, His son always accompanied him. For a villager, he was an enlightened fellow. The villagers respected him. And, of course, this was a boon for a lonely fellow like me to have someone like him there to talk to. He was interested in the news that came over the radio. He even knew the names of the countries at war. He was very eager to know where Cyprus and Vietnam were located. At such times I spread my world map before us and pointed out those areas to him. He would ask, "Why are they fighting?" I would answer, "Because their bellies are full and because they have nothing better to do. They have to spend their energy somehow!"

The boy sat there without uttering a word. Often he fetched wood from the classroom and put in the stove. He was very pretty, like the pictures on the Nestle products exhibited in drugstore windows. Whenever Dadkhoda felt like it, he told me stories from his past. He was a good talker. There was one story, however, that he had told me over a hundred times. He never tired of telling it and, every time, he approached it like a new story; as if he were telling it for the first time. The story seemed to have been indelibly engraved in his memory. The key sentence for starting him on this story was, "Dadkhoda, why don't you marry?" He then would say, "Because whenever I think of marriage, Leyla's face comes to my mind." He would then continue. "Like the rest of the people of the world I, too, got married. The difference was that I had to wrest Leyla from her many other suitors; some of them were from the neighboring villages. She, however, loved me. She owned to it one day when we met near the spring. I, too, loved her. Our love for each other was not a secret."

"After marriage, there were two things going for me: my bull whose work put all other bulls to shame and Leyla, my wife. Then, two days after our marriage, my bull died. His death was such a shock to me. I felt as if a big chunk of my life had been taken away. The bull was worth a thousand tumans. My landlord was jealous. He put the jinx on me. Perhaps because my share of the yield that year had turned out larger than he had expected. Four donkeys carried my sacks of wheat. My landlord was flabbergasted.

"On the way home, the bull began to act funny. First the front legs folded and then the whole animal collapsed, the sacks of grain pressing on its belly. No matter how hard I tried, pulling its tail and all, I could not make it move. My father, Akhzar, came by and said, 'Don't hit the poor beast. Look at the eyes!' I squatted by the beast and looked into its large eyes. My bull was dead. He had died quietly. I did not see it suffer. It was then rumored in the village that Leyla's entrance into my home had been a bad omen. But both God and I knew that that was not true. Leyla was goodness itself. After that I quit working on other people's farms. I decided to go to town and work there for the winter months. I intended further to return at the beginning of the year and plant spring wheat and vegetables. Leyla disagreed with my plan. She argued that it would not be fair to leave her alone during the dark winter days and go. Day in and day out she said, "I am scared!" And she repeated the phrase every night. Whenever I caressed her hair, she said that. Whenever I looked into her eyes she said that. But I didn't know what she was afraid of. She was one of those scary types who refuse to disclose the source of their fear. Only the day when she whispered in my ear, 'I am pregnant,' did I realize what bothered her. The news made me blossom. But again, she wept and said, 'I am scared.' I realized then that she was afraid of childbirth. Often she brushed her hair on my face and said, 'We are very poor. Everyone believes that I killed your work bull. That I put the jinx on it. Fatemeh told me so. What do you say? I ruined you!' I told her, 'No, Leyla. You didn't ruin anyone. When you are given something, you are also expected to lose something. It is as simple as that.'

"Six or seven months passed. We planted the spring wheat and the potatoes. From dawn to dusk, Leyla worked at my side. She sliced the potatoes and buried them in the ground. At night she was so beat that no matter what spot on her body I touched, she moaned. Her belly had swelled. Then one night, midsummer, she went into labor. I ran and brought her sister, her mother, and a couple of other women to the tent to take care of her. I myself sat outside under the moonlight. The dog rested there next to me. Whenever Leyla screamed and the dog raised its ears, my heart sank. She was in great pain. I had never heard anyone scream that loud. Then Mahsaf came to me and said that Leyla had died in childbirth and that the child was all right. The women began to shriek and hit themselves. I left. I escaped to Mount Mohammad Hannafiyeh to be with the cattle. The shepherds asked, 'Dadkhoda, your wife is giving birth. Why are you here?' I began to cry. They were terrified. I said, 'Leyla died during the birth.' The shepherds cried. One of them was my brother. Another was my brother-in-law."

Dadkhoda stopped speaking. He had no more to say. Tea was ready. He poured a cup for me and one for himself. I asked him to pour a cup for his son, too. He did. Sorrow filled the room which was already feverish with the heat from the stove. Dadkhoda looked at his son. He was somber and melancholy. Then, suddenly he asked me, "Can he become educated?"

I said, "Yes, he can. But he is a year under age."

He said, "He is five and a half."

Then he addressed the boy and said, "I told you, son. Don't you keep pestering me at home about this any more. Mr. Headmaster says 'you are under age!'"

The boy lifted his eyes and, pleadingly, stared me in the eyes. I could not resist his wish. I said, "That's however, all right. He can come to class tomorrow morning as an audit. The only thing is that he will not receive a certificate!

In the boy's eyes I saw Leyla dying in childbirth.

The next morning the boy accompanied the regular students to the classroom. Since all the seats in the room were already taken, I had him sit on an empty tin can and I gave him a notebook and a pencil. That made him extremely happy. I could see that in his eyes. Now when at night Dadkhoda came to see me, the boy, too, came, carrying his notebook and pencil wrapped in a piece of cloth. Although with difficulty, after four or five days he could write! He learned how to write baba (dad) and maman (mom). Dadkhoda said, "The boy has asked me four times now, 'Who is mom?' I told him ask Mr. Headmaster."

"He hasn't asked me yet," I said.

Dadkhoda's face showed sorrow. The child played with his pencil.

It was a Thursday morning when the Malaria Prevention vehicle was, after a week of work in the village, returning to town. Its crew had not been in town for three months. The car was ready and the crew, being from my town, insisted that I should accompany them. I, too, was willing. In town I could take a nice shower, go to a movie, and refresh myself.

As the car began to roll, I saw someone running, trying to catch up to it. A small child ran after him. I recognized the man. It was Dadkhoda. I asked the driver to stop for a moment. Dadkhoda reached us, panting. I could feel his breath on my face. He said, "Mr. Headmaster," and pointed to his son. "Can you buy him a briefcase. A small one, just like himself."

I said, "Of course, no problem."

The boy jumped with joy.

On Saturday morning, when I returned to school, I found it empty. It surprised me. The sun was just getting up in the sky. I scanned the village before me. In the corner of the village, on the hillside, a large crowd had gathered. That corner was the village graveyard below which a river flowed. I should add here that villagers do not use tombstones. They make a sort of mound on the new grave, one that is easily washed away by the rains. The smooth ground of the cemetery then gives one the illusion that nobody dies in the village. It also prevents the villagers from being able to identify the graves of their loved ones. Only those who can afford it bring tombstones from the city.

When I approached the crowd, Dadkhoda ran to me. He looked much older. He had changed. He scanned the horizon as if searching for some one or some thing. His look was piercing as if he could look right through people and affect their feelings. He said, "Mr. Headmaster, my son is dead." I was stunned by the unexpected news. I sat down in the place where I was. Dadkhoda could not control himself. He began to cry hard. Then he left me and sat on the rocks by the river. The lingering snow on the mountain hurt my eyes. The river passed by noiselessly. People gathered around me. They had made a small tomb. Children walked among the graves. They did not know whether to laugh or to cry. And they were quite unsure how the rest of the day would shape up; whether they should go to school and wait for me or whether they should go home. I told them to go home. Then I asked Didarqoli, "What is Dadkhoda talking about? I don't believe what he told me. What is going on?"

Didarqoli said, "The boy was stricken with diphtheria on Friday night. He could not breath. By morning he had suffocated. Of course, if you were around you would have taken him to the Health Corps."

I did not say anything more. I felt that I, too, had lost a child. I entered my room, placed the small briefcase which I had bought in town on the niche and stared at it.

The sun was setting but still there was no sign of Dadkhoda. It became dark and still he did not show. He did not come. I felt grieved. I thought of Leyla and of her child. I still expected Dadkhoda to come and the child to be following him. I picked up the lantern, threw my overcoat on my shoulder, and went to Dadkhoda's house. The room was full of men and women. They rose before me. Sadness was written all over their faces. They put four or five pillows down for me. I sat down. Words were stuck in my throat; tears were frozen at the bottom of my eyes. But still I managed to speak and give the mourners courage. They expected Mr. Headmaster to be strong. I coughed a couple of times to mask my inability to look them in the eyes. I could feel their piercing looks on my face. Gradually my thoughts guided me to the rowzehs at our house in town. I began to talk like preachers. I talked about the noon of the 'Ashura, and about Imam Hossein and Ali Asghar who had received an arrow shot in his throat. They began to quietly cry and feel lighter. Tear drops were playing in my own eyes. I wanted to cry as hard as I could. Then my eyes met Dadkhoda's eyes. I could no longer control myself. I joined in and quietly cried.

Winter 1965
Sardu'iyeh, Kerman