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  • Night of the Red Mood*
  • Ali Morad (bio)
    Translated by Salar Abdoh (bio)

Our mother thought that the take-home pay would see us through for a good two weeks. As for our father, he was out of the loop; he had no idea about anything anymore.

“Three times eight equals twenty-four,” came from our kid brother who’d been doing his multiplication tables.

So the three of us ended up going. Ebram, the oldest, was strong and had done daylabor ever since our chickens died and there were no more eggs for our mother to sell. Ebram could go on working all day and night. But Nabi and I, we were another story. We hadn’t passed the test yet.

But our mother said, “Nabi and Naser are old enough now.”

Just then I saw Nabi’s lips tremble and his face turn red with anticipation, “That’s right, I’m coming too,” he said quickly, “I want to work.”

Even if our mother really thought that an eleven year old kid couldn’t handle that kind of work, she didn’t let on. Truth was, we weren’t going to get another chance like this and it was all right if it got tough on Nabi a little. It was just this one time. Us three boys would put in a night’s work and make enough money to last the family two whole weeks.

Our father, like I said, didn’t know anything about anything.

So we went. And as soon as we started, Nabi began imitating Ebram’s walk. The kid was out to prove he was old enough for the job. He kept running up the hills, losing himself among those other boys from the Naftun and Bibiyan neighborhoods.

“Whoever wants to work, be at the oil well in the afternoon or in the morning.”

That’s what they’d said to us. They needed laborers and their foremen had come around town letting us know about it. The well they’d dug hadn’t hit oil and now they had to fill it back up. Every one of the school kids headed straight for the hills.

We formed lines. The foreign boss came over and looked us up and down, taking everybody except Nabi.

“Too small, too small,” he said. “No can. No want.”

Nabi hung his head. If we’d been in town, he would have riddled the man with stones. [End Page 1127]

But all the other boys spoke up for him, “He no go, we no go!”

The man was angry. “You come. All!”

The heavy sacks had something cement-like in them. Thirty five kilos each. They called the stuff Prentis. Ebram could lift the bags with ease. I struggled with them but somehow managed. Nabi, he could barely move them. Some of the Bibiyan boys came over and gave him a hand. First the bags had to be cut open on the cutter machine and then the Prentis went down the well.

The line of boys changed color as it moved back and forth. Our sweat turned black and our eyes looked bloodshot red. The only time we could rest was when the car came to take the bags from us. Ebram pointed to the dry well, “You know what they say: if the food on the stove is not yours, let the dog stick its snout in it.”

There was gas, though, in that well. And the flames shooting out of it made the heat that much worse for us. Meanwhile the oil jacks spread their shadows everywhere and watching the moon through the dust and smoke was like watching a slug hang by a thread from the night’s strange reddish hue.

Our tired arms took the cement bags and hauled them back and forth from the car. On the other end, more boys took the bags and put them up against the cutter before dumping them in the well.

Dust had settled inside our eyes. The boys dragged the heavy sacks slowly along. Nabi was out of breath by now. You could see the veins just about popping out of his neck. His knees buckled...

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