Kitabı oku: «Everything Begins In Childhood», sayfa 11

Chapter 27. The Best Place in the City of Tashkent

“Valery, get up, bachim.”

Oh, my. I had been dozing so nicely. It was still very early, but I had been waking up, then dozing off again since dawn.

I was sleeping on the convertible couch in the living room. When it was unfolded, the couch almost reached the TV set that was across from it. That’s why the room was crammed. Only a narrow passage was left. Grandpa, who got up at the crack of dawn, would make his trip from the bedroom to the kitchen along that passage. He would bump against the couch during each of his trips, and every collision was accompanied by a short yet loud exclamation, “Ekh!” Judging by the intonation, it meant, “He’s lying right in the middle of the path! People here are late for work, by the way…”

However, despite that insignificant inconvenience, I preferred sleeping alone in the living room rather than in the company of my snoring Grandpa.

“Get up, bachim! Pour water on my head,” Grandpa woke me up, shaking me by the shoulder.

The aroma of choyi kaimoki wafted out of the kitchen. Grandma, who was busy at the stove, gave me a kettle of warm water.

Grandpa undressed down to his waist, baring his torso, which always amazed me. His chest, shoulders, stomach, arms and even his back were covered in very thick, dark hair. Grandpa’s head, with its beard, was bare, shiny and hairless – a striking contrast to his torso.

Grandpa wasn’t bald. He had only a small bald spot, about ten centimeters across, on the top of his head. You would only notice it if you looked very closely. I think he managed to avoid going bald by shaving his head all the time. Grandpa deprived his hair of enjoying the light of day but at the same time rescued it from falling out.

As soon as Grandpa bent over the sink, the kitchen became lighter. At least, that was how it appeared to me. The shining, almost polished surface of Grandpa’s head reflected any light clearly. The shape of his head was either a good reflector of light or the barber shaved it too thoroughly, or perhaps it shined thanks to his daily washing. Every day! Just think! There wasn’t a speck of dust on it!

I actually had suspected that his special soap did the trick. Grandpa ordered special soap with varnish added to it. That was why his head was shiny. But I used that soap too. So where was the result? No matter how much I soaped my hands, they never became shiny. No, it wasn’t the soap but some special quality of his head.

In any event, I was proud of Grandpa’s head. Sometimes, when I was asked whose grandson I was, if when I answered they couldn’t figure out who Yoskhaim Yuabov was, I had to resist the temptation to say “The one with the shiny head.” They would definitely have remembered that. Tap-tap-tap – it was Grandpa patting the back of his head, as if to say, “Pour it here.”

Even his patting sound was unique, just like his belly scratching. I can’t say that Grandpa’s head was shallow. No, it was lucid and wise; he was brainy. But that joyful lively sound reminded me of the clear resounding thump of a ripe watermelon being tapped.

Grandpa was soaping his head thoroughly, the large bar of soap sliding over it like a skater around a skating rink. It would now and then slip out of his hands and fall into the sink with a clang, as if protesting, “All right, that’s enough!” I agreed. I was tired of standing next to Grandpa and listening to his commands, “Pour… more… right here… now wait.”

Grandma Lisa, who was busy at the stove, was glad deep down that her responsibility had been temporarily handed over to her grandson – that was me – but she watched closely to see if I served Grandpa diligently. To let me know that I was being monitored and to let Grandpa know of her unceasing care, Grandma would guide me now and then, “ValeRRy, you’re pouring past his head. You won’t have enough water… Don’t hurry, he’s still soaping.”

Finally, I poured water over Grandpa’s head for the last time. Then he would get busy on his ears. His index fingers entered the ears like moles digging borrows. I sometimes feared that those two diggers might meet in the middle of his head. What would happen then? But, fortunately, Grandpa would busy himself with one ear at a time.

After reaching a certain point, Grandpa’s finger would begin to shake in his ear like a vibrator. The finger, the ear and Grandpa’s beard would all shake very fast, just like Jack during his morning scratching. It was hilarious.

After washing and breakfast were over, I was free! I had the whole day ahead of me!

* * *

It was July. By noon, the terrible heat forced all the residents of the yard to hide in corners and cracks where the sultry sun couldn’t reach them, where the meager remains of morning coolness still lingered. No wonder, it got up to 104° F in the shade. The dry climate gave some relief – heat was easier to tolerate when the air was dry.

The heat gave Yura and me some advantages: who among the adults would want to keep an eye on children in that heat? Overcome with heat, they would all take a rest. While our Grandma and Valya, Yura’s mother, were hiding in the back of their houses, my cousin and I discussed our options.

“Let’s go to Anhor Swimming Pool. We can take a swim,” Yura was enticing me.

“We should let the adults know.”

“Oh, no, they’ll never allow us to go there alone.”

Yura was quite right, and I knew it just as well as he. But I was ten, and he wasn’t yet eight. It was nothing for him, but I got cold feet. If my deeds were reported to Father, the punishment could be terrible: immediate return to Chirchik, for the rest of my vacation.

But even so, my avid desire to go for a swim won out over my good sense. I made up my mind.

“Let’s go!”

“All right. You go first,” Yura ordered, “and I’ll distract Jack.”

We ran to the gate, casting glances at the windows and doors. Grandma’s tulle curtain didn’t stir, thank God. It was a good thing Grandma didn’t have an extra pair of eyes, and the ones she had were shut. Grandma must have been sniffling in her bed. Everything was also calm at Yura’s. Jack remained the only danger.

Jack acted as a guard. Besides, he was a devoted friend of Yura and me, and he couldn’t keep silent as he saw us leaving. It was clear that Jack would raise a fuss, shake his chain and bark. How could we explain to him that he was interfering in other people’s business, that he would be better off staying in his kennel lapping water?

Our countdown began when Yura approached Jack. I had fractions of a second to sneak over to the gate. Yura patted Jack as the dog wagged his tail, flattened his ears and licked Yura’s hand. But at that moment, our old wooden gate squeaked treacherously, and Jack squinted.

“Jack, my friend,” Yura said in a phony tender voice. “C’mon, Redhead, hurry up! Jack, good boy, don’t bark.”

Ah, that damned gate! I failed to hold it, and the gate slammed loudly, but I managed to sneak through. What about Yura? I squatted and looked through the crack. Yura was still petting Jack, as he kept up his heartfelt conversation.

“You’re a good dog, my shaggy dog. Forgive me for throwing stones at you. Do you want me to give you sausage?”

Jack took those words very well. Wagging his tail, he began sniffing Yura’s pockets. Unfortunately, they were empty. But Yura raised his fist and began waving it around to signify “You’re looking in the wrong place.” Jack stretched his neck, ready to jump and snatch the treat.

“Who do you want to tell on us to? Grandma? She only gives you bare bones. If you don’t bark, I’ll give you sausage when I come back,” Yura finished his pompous lying and rushed to the gate. On his way there, he waved his hand as if throwing something to Jack. That simpleton believed him and began looking for it near his kennel. Yura rushed outside. Before we could run a few steps down the lane, we heard Jack’s loud barking. He had come to his senses and realized he’d been cheated.

We exchanged glances: what was going on in the yard? Ah, it didn’t matter. The sooner we got far away from here the better.

* * *

Here we were on Herman Lopatin Street. The wide, shady street with water babbling merrily in ariks on both sides had recently been rebuilt and renamed, in 1969. It was named Shelkovichnaya (Mulberry) before, and everyone knew why. Now, it bore the name of some revolutionary who hardly anyone had ever heard of. But everyone quickly got used to its new name. At the corner of the street, where our Korotky Lane ran into it, a new four-story building made of pre-fabs with balconies stood out. It was no common building. The locals called it tsekovsky (Centcom). Only officials of the Central Committee of the Party could reside there and, perhaps, a few who were members of the government. There was a grocery store on the right side of the building for the convenience of those honored people.

So, Herman Lopatin Street, formerly Shelkovichnaya Street, was greatly admired by our “bosses.” A bit further along, on the left-hand side was the dacha of the President of the Republic himself, Comrade Rashidov. The locals knew when the “big boss” was in his residence. When a line of long black ZILs came rustling by, it would mean that Rashidov had arrived, either by himself or to entertain guests.

But we, after going around the Centcom building, walked in a different direction. First, we crossed a shady grove of fruit trees. You could see a cylindrical stone tower in the grove. They said it was part of a partially destroyed nineteenth-century military fort. Then the path, winding among adobes and gardens, led us to the clay fence I knew so well: Firefly Kindergarten.

“Remember when Emma and I used to go there?” I asked Yura. Then I suddenly realized that he couldn’t possibly remember that. I had been a little kid, and he was still in diapers.

However, my cousin knew how to get to the swimming pool, and he also knew the neighborhood quite well.

After we passed by the kindergarten, we reached a more open space, the embankment of the Anhor.

The Anhor was the short wide canal that flowed through our part of Tashkent. It was one of the smaller canals flowing out of the big city canal, the Bozsu. The Anhor, in turn, split downstream into two smaller canals that flowed beyond Tashkent.

All of these many arteries of the city existed thanks to mountain rivers flowing from the spurs of the Tian Shan. That’s why their water was ice cold, even in summer. It’s difficult to imagine how the city would have survived without them. For almost half the year the city is in the grip of summer heat that burns the soil, the vegetation, and the leaves on the trees. It’s water, and water alone, that rescues the city. Thanks to the water, Tashkent is very green and beautiful. It’s dotted with parks, small and large. Almost all the streets are treelined. The planting of trees and sowing of lawns accompany the construction of practically every building. The city’s residents, no matter what part of the city they live in, cultivate any small plot of land they have at their disposal.

* * *

Yura and I were walking along the shady green embankment of the Anhor. Mighty oaks, tall poplars, cherry, apple and apricot trees, weeping willows with their branches hanging almost in the Anhor’s waters – all that green beauty that alternated with the golden flashes of the sun’s rays was reflected on the smooth surface of the canal.

The Anhor’s embankment had been reconstructed recently, after the earthquake. That was when the trees, playgrounds, tennis courts, cafes, and the swimming pool, where we were heading now, had appeared.

The rectangular cement blocks grew so hot during the day that we could feel the heat through the soles of our sandals.

“Let’s walk barefoot. Let’s see who can stand it the longest.” Yura took off his sandals.

He always came up with different ideas. It was easy for him since he spent days running barefoot around Grandpa’s yard, but I had the soft feet of a city boy who wasn’t used to walking around without shoes. Yet I couldn’t admit I was a weakling.

I felt an unbearable burning sensation as soon as my soles touched the red-hot cement blocks. Yura’s soles must have felt hot too, but we walked side by side without saying a word, winking and looking at each other. Each of us thought, “If you can tolerate it, I can too.” However, without realizing it, we began walking faster and faster. Then I began to hop, trying not to touch the blocks with my feet any longer than necessary. I saw a look of suffering on Yura’s face. His eyes were about to pop out of their sockets, and his mouth was wide open… But I didn’t think it was funny. I knew that I must not look any better.

We took off… and dashed forward like two sprinters. Our feet were on fire, and the hot wind also felt fiery.

“A-a-ah!!!” I yelled non-stop as I ran with all my might, leaving Yura behind.

“Re-e-dhead, you’re such a louse!” I could hear Yura’s piercing cry.

When Yura loses, he needs to let out his feelings.

At last we had made it. There was Gagarin Park and the swimming pool in front of us. Hurry, hurry down the steps! And running at top speed, we jumped into the water. Its blissful coolness enveloped my body. My soul also felt blissful. What a miracle water could be! With my eyes half-closed, in this state of bliss, I heard Yura snort slightly beside me. He was also in a state of bliss.

After we rested, we began swimming, splashing and having a good time, not missing out on any of the pleasures that could be enjoyed in a swimming pool. We raced one another through the water; we dived, trying either to grab each other by the legs or to saddle our opponent, staying above the water while not allowing him to come to the surface.

I had just grabbed Yura’s leg when I heard his blood-curdling wail, “Ouch!” and felt that he was being pulled out of the water. I came to the surface, but, since the sun was shining right in my eyes, I could only see a dark silhouette holding Yura tightly by the ear. The next minute my ear was also grabbed so hard that I followed the hand holding it and leaped out of the pool.

Yura and I stood at its edge. Water was streaming down our bodies. Our wet shorts hugged our legs. And Valya, Yura’s mother, kept hold of our ears and shook them energetically, repeating the same question:

“Have you been taught to ask permission? Have you been taught? Have you been taught?”

Chapter 28. Kupik

“Valery, let’s go take out the garbage!”

That’s how my grandpa was. I was sitting on the trestle bed near the duval (fence). I wasn’t bothering anyone. So why was he bothering me? I was on vacation. Perhaps, all grandmothers and grandfathers think that vacations exist for their benefit, at least the ones who have houses with fruit and vegetable gardens. Though I wasn’t angry at Grandpa, I understood him. Grandpa had never had school vacations or rest. His whole life had always been work, with the exception of Saturdays and during the night’s sleep, naturally. That was all he needed. After all, how long could one be idle? I wasn’t even playing. I was just sitting there.

I understood Grandpa and loved him. I had noticed long before that he could win people over, and not just us, his favorite grandsons, but many other people, even those who didn’t know him very well. And he did it without any special effort, under any circumstances.

Let’s say he met someone on the street or in a store or at a bus stop, and the person didn’t even look at him, didn’t recognize him. He would still go up to that person and smile, his face beaming – his beard, naturally, participating – and strike up a conversation:

“Shumo nagzed? Whose grandchild are you?”

Just like that, without any prelude. And when the person answered, Grandpa would almost always figure out who his great-grandfather and great-grandmother were. Besides, it sometimes turned out that they were Grandpa’s relatives several times removed. Grandpa knew almost all of the Jews in Tashkent. He had an amazing memory.

I’m very sorry now that I heard so little from Grandpa Yoskhaim about his family, his childhood, his life in general. I only know that his grandpa who, as a thirteen-year-old lad, crossed the border from Iran to Turkmenistan on camelback to become the first of the Yuabov family on this side of the border.

I also know that Grandpa Yoskhaim had three brothers and a sister, that one of the brothers had died, and two other brothers lived not far from us. One of them was a mathematician, and he taught at the university. But Grandpa, for some reason, didn’t get an education and chose the modest occupation of a cobbler.

Why did the destinies of the children in his family develop so differently? I can’t even begin to guess. To be precise, I thought, though I wasn’t at all sure, that Grandpa, unlike his brother the mathematician, had been very religious since childhood. Had he been so absorbed in religion that it prevented him from developing any interest in science?

The garbage pails, eight of them, were placed right by the gate. Those rusted, battered, sometimes holey, garbage receptacles were covered with boards to keep small animals out. But garbage, after a few days in the Tashkent heat, emitted such an aroma that…

In a word, struggling along with two pails behind Grandpa, I was sorry I didn’t have a third hand to hold my nose.

After making our way down the alley to the corner of Korotky Lane, we set the pails down. Grandpa, after reminding me that all the pails had to be in full view of the garbage collector, said good-bye and left for work. And I ran back to get the rest of them. I ran, brushing away the green flies for whom garbage day was a holiday and a blessing. They hung over the pails put out at the corner of each house like clouds.

At last, I was back on the trestle bed. Leisure was especially sweet after that unpleasant work.

Ko-ko-koo-k-ooo could be heard from the henhouse. Hens could talk like that the whole day. It would be interesting to know what they talked about. Old women on benches in front of the entrances to buildings also talked non-stop. They gossiped, argued and discussed news. Perhaps hens did that too? It was a pity I couldn’t understand their language. It seemed to me that it was a language. Only inattentive people would think of it as monotonous cackling. If you listen closely, you can hear differing intonations, changes of speed, even different moods. Once, as I was listening to them, I heard the following conversation:

Ko-o-o-ko-ko-o. Look at it! (That was referring to a sparrow that sat on a branch near the henhouse, chirping and primping). Ko-o-k! He’s not bad! Ko-o-k-o-o-o. What a handsome guy! Koo-ko-k-o-o. It’s a pity he’s so small. Ko-ko-k-o-o-o-, ko-ko-ko-k-o-o-o-o! Who cares, he’s still cheerful and agile!

And what an uproar would break out in the henhouse when a cat appeared on its roof. Its every movement was discussed. There were disputes on the issue of whether it would get into the henhouse or not.

I had long been interested in the language of hens. Could I learn their language? Could I enter into a conversation with them? If they understood at least some of what I said, or rather cackled, it would mean that I was on the right track. Making myself comfortable on the trestle bed closer to the henhouse, I began:

“Ko-o-o-o-o-ko-ko…”

No one paid any attention to me. None of the hens looked in my direction. Was my voice hoarse? I cleared my throat and tried again, “K-o-o-ko-o-o-o-ko-ko-k-o-o-o!”

One of the hens cocked an eye toward me. So again, I spoke the hens’ language as tenderly as I could. And – word of honor – they answered me from the henhouse.

Genuine hen sounds began to flow from my throat. And soon, I and almost all the hens were exchanging remarks and calling to each other. I was beside myself with pride and delight. I had been recognized as one of them!

Only the rooster remained silent. He wasn’t talkative. He didn’t cackle and gossip together with the hens. His cock-a-doodle-do was associated with a certain part of the day. And it was done not just for the sake of talking, but for self-expression, to make his presence felt.

Though I wouldn’t say that the rooster disregarded me completely. He walked back and forth in the cage, casting glances in my direction. Then he stopped and began to scrutinize me with his round unblinking eyes, tilting his head now and then.

I was even a little scared: could he possibly be visualizing me as a white hen instead of a boy? Was it possible that he thought this new white hen was calling him?

As if to answer my thought, the rooster spread his wings, flapped and then crowed. I jumped onto the trestle bed, formed a megaphone with my hands and crowed in return. “No,” I meant to say, “I’m not a hen, I’m a rooster.”

I don’t know how my relationship with the rooster would have developed if it had not been cut short in a most unceremonious manner.

“ValeRY! How many times do I have to call you? What’s going on?”

It was Grandma shouting. Her face expressed puzzlement. Even though I was close to her porch, I had heard neither the squeaking of the door nor her calling me. That door was known as Grandma’s door, not only because it was the entrance to her house, but because the door seemed to be Grandma’s relative. That old wooden door, in the upper part of which there was a small window with a tulle curtain, just like the one in the bedroom, had a squeak that was exactly like Grandma’s voice during family quarrels. Maybe any old door with rusted hinges would squeak the same way. Maybe… I don’t know.

I was convinced that the squeak of Grandma’s door almost turned into her voice, and the other way around. At some moments, Grandma’s voice sounded to me like the continuous squeak of the old door.

“Have you turned into a hen?” Grandma asked me scornfully in Tadjik, for she had quite understood the essence of my exercises. Without waiting for my reply, she ordered, “Let’s go, we’re going to make preserves.”

My question was: for whom were vacations created?

There was a bucket filled to the brim with cherries on the kitchen table. Grandma gave me a syringe-like device for removing pits.

“Do you remember how to do it?”

I nodded. A whole year had passed since we had done it, but removing pits was a simple thing. You placed a cherry onto the thin lower rim of the device, then pushed down a rod that pierced the cherry and the pit popped out. At the beginning, it was even interesting to do, but after squeezing out three or four dozen pits it became boring. Tik-tik, a muted sound accompanied the piercing of cherries. That sound made the feeling of boredom even worse. The pits fell into a bucket, and I tossed the cherries into a big bowl. My hands, as if stained with blood, looked like the hands of a butcher.

How slowly the pile of cherries in the bucket decreased. That problem could be solved to some extent if I sent cherries to my mouth, since Grandma was not in the kitchen. But they were so sour that my face twisted unwittingly. Some pleasure it was! They were much sweeter when eaten straight from the tree.

“Are you out of your mind? What are you doing here?”

I hadn’t seen how Yura appeared. The door was wide open. He assessed the situation right from the doorway. By that time, Yura had already had enough conflicts with Grandma. Unlike me, he knew how to fight off her assignments and requests for help. He did it openly and rudely, without any formalities or excuses:

“Do I have to?”

At that, he lowered his head like a young bull ready to charge, glowered at her, and pursed his lips: in a word, he looked like someone not to be meddled with.

It was his father Misha who could make Yura help Grandma, and only under compulsion. And here he had caught me, working like a slave. Anything, in his opinion, was more useful and reasonable then making preserves. I myself was already half dead from this ridiculous occupation. The trouble was that I didn’t have either Yura’s directness or his determination to stop doing it and run away.

“Be quiet! She’ll hear us,” I answered, looking around. “You’d better help me. It will go faster.”

Yura didn’t say anything, rotated the finger pressed to his temple, and withdrew.

Tik-tik, the cherries resumed their cheerless, monotonous splashing.

Grandma appeared and, seeing that the basin was almost full, praised me for my work:

“Joni bivesh!”

Her face softened. She even smiled a bit, and the hand placed on her lower back stopped rubbing the sore spot, as if explaining to me, “When you help me, my ailment recedes.”

The first part of the work was finished. I planted the basin on the gas stove. Grandma covered the bloody cherries with sugar. The pile, white as a mountain top, began to turn pink and then red, starting at the bottom. The cherries had to sit for a few hours to let the sugar get well saturated with their juice and form a syrup.

“That’s fine,” Grandma Lisa said cheerfully. “Now we have time to clean.”

What? Cleaning on top of that? And I thought I was finished and free. Yura would have said, “I’m not your cleaning woman.” But Grandma knew perfectly well that I wouldn’t dare to say anything like that. No cleaning woman was summoned to the house during my vacations. I think Grandma was absolutely convinced that she was doing it for my benefit – that I would become neater and acquire important life skills.

Perhaps it was true, to some extent.

As I grabbed a broom made of twigs, I thought with indignation that this sweeping wasn’t necessary – the wooden floor, finished with brown oil paint, looked clean without a speck of dust. Everybody walked around the house without their shoes on; footwear was left at the front door. Grandma Lisa had the eyesight of a hawk. She would point to a far corner with her finger, “Who dropped that?” It seemed there was nothing there. But if you leaned down, you would see a small button. And now, as I began to sweep the bedroom floor with the wet broom, waving it from wall to wall, I saw that there was a lot of dust there. Grandma, from her seat on the bed, was an observer and supervisor, giving me instructions:

“You raise too much dust! Don’t do it fast! Do it slowly.”

Grandma was an experienced supervisor. She understood perfectly well that before the beginning of a job she needed to say, “Now we’ll wash… we’ll cook… we’ll clean,” and then it was sufficient just to be around and provide instructions, though Grandma herself was industrious. She had had four children, and endless chores in the yard and house. She always had many chores.

Finished with sweeping the floor, I took up the mop. The floors in Grandma’s rooms were scrubbed like the deck of a ship. If you rubbed them with a handkerchief after mopping, the handkerchief had to be clean. To tell the truth, when I rinsed the mop, the water in the pail turned dark.

“You see?” Grandma said. “The water is black, right? Change it. Ah, how dusty it is here!”

Tashkent was a dusty city, just like Chirchik. The heat, arid climate, winds – dust was blown around the streets and yards, came in through windows, filled every corner and crack.

“Don’t twist the mop! Don’t smear dust around!” Grandma’s attention didn’t slacken for a second.

That was it. The floors were mopped, and they shone; the house smelled fresh. I received more praise. May I go? Oh, no. I had to help Grandma make the preserves – I had to shake the basin now and then, among other things.

I have to admit that it’s rather interesting to watch preserves being made. The cherries, immersed in the red syrup, come to life as the syrup simmers. On the surface, near the center, a pinkish-white foam appears and bubbles. And the cherries begin to rotate slowly, as if dancing a waltz. They jump and tremble slightly from time to time. A thick aroma of cherry preserves rises from the basin and spreads through the kitchen.

Grandma would remove the foam, which was called kupik in our parts, with a spoon. That’s when it was time to shake the basin so the foam would go to the center.

At last it was done. As a reward, Grandma gave me a treat, a slice of bread generously covered with warm kupik.

“At last!” Yura, tired of waiting, greeted me in the yard. “What are you having?”

A grimace of disgust appeared on Yura’s face.

“Phooey! Kupik! It’s filthy from the cherries. You worked the whole day, and all Grandma’s treated you to is kupik!” Yura laughed.

I believed him then, and the pleasure of the tasty bread with the foam was spoiled.

I don’t think I have ever again eaten the foam from preserve making.

I still don’t know who cheated my poor cousin, and me, or why. Whoever did it might have wanted to keep him from eating too many sweets.