Kitabı oku: «Everything Begins In Childhood», sayfa 12
Chapter 29. The New Nickname
An event was imminent in the Yuabov family: Robert, the youngest of Grandma’s sons, Yura’s and my uncle, was going to marry.
Robert lived in the part of the old house where my parents and I had lived before moving to Chirchik. At the time of the aforementioned event, Robert was a young man of about twenty-five, so he had decided to start a family. I was not aware if the older members of the family considered Robert ready and mature enough for family life, but I know for sure that Yura, who was one-third the age of his uncle, was sure he wasn’t, for he didn’t feel any respect for him. He addressed Robert as tou rather than vou, which was not permissible when addressing an older relative. He skillfully attached varying shades of familiarity and gibe to his tou. Sometimes, it seemed to me that Yura considered Robert a creature created especially for his entertainment, so it was clear why relations between uncle and nephew were so tense and complex. And it was definitely Yura who developed those relations, guided them, turning them into a game for himself and a torment for Uncle Robert.
We could say that a period of truce had arrived, in other words, a time when Yura stopped tormenting Robert for a short while. He even became benevolent and called his uncle “Chief.” Considering that up until that time the contemptuous nickname “Forelock” had always been on Yura’s lips, it was easy to understand that addressing his uncle as Chief sounded like a declaration of peace, maybe even a capitulation. What was Forelock? A common nickname for an unattractive lad with a ridiculous haircut. Robert, who wasn’t exactly tall and handsome, would become enraged about that nickname. But what could he do with Yura? However, when Uncle’s rage reached a dangerous limit, which was clear by the look in his eyes, Yura took a break and Forelock became Chief. Obviously, “chief” means leader or boss. In other words, Yura recognized his uncle’s seniority and showed him respect.
I thought that, in fact, my cunning cousin took particular delight in giving his victim a chance to relax, only to subject him unexpectedly to some new ordeal. Even a calf destined for slaughter is treated better. Unfortunately for him, Robert was simple-hearted and forgot about his nephew’s treachery. He perked up during those short happy moments of calm that were granted to him. The grimace of anger and tension disappeared from his face. It even brightened, his big eyes under their thick eyebrows looked kinder, his short moustache smoothed out.
Uncle Robert, who was, in general, very conscientious about his appearance, took special care of his little moustache. I watched that wonderful spectacle many times, and I always enjoyed it enormously.
Before beginning to trim his moustache, Robert would open his mouth in a special way, turning it into a long, narrow letter “O.” Then he would freeze as he unblinkingly scrutinized the moustache. He reminded me of an eagle soaring high in the sky, surveying a wooded landscape, trying to spot its prey.
Clip-clip, the scissors would begin to click, which meant that he had found his prey. It was a single little hair, which, like a lamb that had strayed from the flock, was grazing apart from its relatives. Clip-clip, another one… clip-clip. The scissors clicked unhurriedly, with pauses, as the little black moustache over Robert’s upper lip would become perfectly straight.
That impeccable straightness was especially visible during those happy moments when Yura wasn’t driving Robert crazy. His moustache, along with his nose, a Jewish nose that was quite long and broad at the end, formed an upside-down letter “T” on Robert’s face.
Just such a truce coincided with the preparations for Uncle’s wedding, which had distracted Yura.
Those who have never seen a family celebration in Central Asia don’t completely understand Central Asia. They’re held at home, without fail, and, if possible, in the yard. A yard is just as good as a spacious hall. Hundreds of guests can be accommodated there. Not only relatives and friends are invited. All acquaintances on both sides are also invited – and acquaintances of acquaintances, and so on. In a word, the guiding principle is not to forget to invite anyone. And, God forbid, you should disgrace yourself. Everything had to be perfect. They feast in grand style, sometimes several nights in a row. This custom, a very old one, had been adopted by the Bucharan Jews over their hundreds of years of living in Asia.
Robert’s wedding was a big event for the family. They planned to feast for two days, one day at the groom’s place and another at the bride’s. That meant dozens, possibly hundreds, of guests. Now, they had to decide how to accommodate so many guests. Yura and I were hanging around, listening to their conversations with interest.
Our spacious yard was very comfortable for entertaining guests. One could set up two long tables and seat guests on both sides of them in the big area between the apricot tree and Grandpa and Uncle Misha’s houses.
“I think about a hundred people can fit around the tables here,” Robert said, scrutinizing the ground and moving his fingers as if marking it out.
“Certainly, we can also put tables in the lane, up to the gate. That will accommodate another hundred people. We should begin arranging the tables and benches tomorrow.”
Robert looked around the yard like a military leader reviewing the battlefield before a battle. Then, he suddenly hailed Yura and me.
“It’s time to get down to business,” he said sternly. “Look how dusty the yard is. Sweep it thoroughly before we put the tables here. And don’t forget to sprinkle some water on the ground.”
Yura’s eyes shone. I understood he was not going to shirk this chore. How could he? He was to have a hose in his hands, in his own hands. I would have to be content with the modest role of assistant.
The rubber hose, neatly coiled in rings, lay in the vegetable garden near Yura’s house.
After dragging it to the faucet, Yura quickly and skillfully attached the end of the hose to the faucet, which gave a squeak. He turned the faucet on, and a spurt of water flew hissing out of the hose. Yura put his face to it and gulped down some water.
“Redhead, uncoil it little by little,” he commanded. “We’ll start at the gate.”
Fine, uncoil it I would. In general, it was useless to argue with Yura, especially under such circumstances.
It wasn’t easy to handle such a heavy hose, but the pleasure I derived from it was great. One could get the water to run in the most intricate ways – by putting a finger in the middle of a jet or pressing it to the end of the hose. As I uncoiled the cold hose, which felt like the body of a snake, my whole being anticipated the water tricks Yura had already begun to perform.
Here, water spurted like a thick twisted strand, there, like a fan, then like many thin little braids. It was splendid! A taut hose in one’s hands is not just a piece of rubber. It feels like a live snake. Putting a hand on it, a bit away from the end, you can feel the life beating inside it. And, oh, how it wriggles! It’s hard to hold it back – it seems determined to set itself free. Let it go, and it begins to hop about.
Meanwhile, the asphalt began to look like a zebra. Neither the fence, nor the door of the storage room, nor the roof had been ignored.
“Pull it!” Yura shouted from time to time. “Pull it more!”
I was uncoiling the cold, heavy, bouncing rings of the snake. My hands and shoulders already ached.
V-zh-zh-zhik! The stream lashed the clay fence, and a dark arc appeared on it. Trra-a-amb-mb-mb! sounded on the slate roof of the storage room. Took, took, took! It drummed on Jack’s kennel.
Jack had been standing by the fence, ready for battle, since the water began seething in the hose. Our yard dog considered the water jet his bitter enemy, and he began to fight with it the moment he was able to reach it. Now, that moment had arrived.
R-r-r-rrr! Jack bared his fangs after crouching to the ground, spreading his paws and raising his snout.
“Do you want to bite it? You’re welcome to,” Yura directed the stream at Jack’s snout, and Jack immediately took a bite of the stream of water. His fangs clicked. Yura and I began to laugh.
Poor Jack, who didn’t understand the humor of the situation, continued to bite the stream of water that beat against his snout. His eyes were bloodshot, he was furious. The poor thing was sneezing – water was getting in his nose – but the staunch dog didn’t stop the fight and obviously didn’t consider himself defeated. We were laughing so loudly that Robert at last noticed us.
“Why are you torturing the dog?” He yelled from the table where he and Tamara continued holding their meeting. Yura shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “We’re not torturing anyone” and directed the stream at the trunk of an apple tree. The space under it was filling with water, and Jack, who felt he had won, barked loudly and, spreading his paws, started shaking the water off. He did it so incredibly fast that his body looked like a spindle, spinning like mad, sending water flying in all directions like a solid silvery cloud. Yura and I found ourselves under that shower. Jack, after shaking off the remainder of the water, lay down, his long red tongue out, looking at us smugly.
Yura’s soul craved revenge for the unexpected shower, for the dog’s smirk and, naturally, for Uncle’s order to leave the dog alone. He directed the water at the windows, at the laundry hung to dry in the yard, at the henhouse where scared hens began to cackle.
“What are you doing?” Robert asked irritably.
We moved toward him. Yura smiled radiantly and, as if by accident, hit the ground at Uncle’s feet with a spurt.
Robert jumped up.
“You’re going to get it!”
“Yura, stop it! Leave the hose alone!” That was Tamara, trying to stop the conflict from developing further.
When quarrels would begin, Tamara looked like Grandma Lisa – her eyebrows raised, her eyes open wide, her voice high and sharp like her mother’s. And she waved her hands in the same imperious way.
But Yura was out of his senses.
“Ee-ee-yi!” Yura answered his aunt’s admonitions in that strange way. The indescribable squeal, ranging from low to high notes, could easily serve as a war cry in the jungle. You may remember its description in Kipling’s book, Mowgli, in the part where the animal nation takes up arms against the inhabitants of the village. It wasn’t clear how Yura could reproduce that squeal, for he certainly hadn’t read Kipling’s book.
So, Yura was out of his senses. When Yura was out of his senses, this friendly, pleasant child could instantly turn into a dangerous creature, capable of any prank. “Something is going to happen,” I thought, both curious and scared, looking at my cousin, whose face was lit with a smile that didn’t augur well for either Robert or Tamara. Still smiling as he watered the yard not far from the table where his uncle and aunt were sitting, he suddenly turned the jet into a fan and doused Robert with water.
“Oh, Forelock, I’m sorry!”
His apology was pointedly derisive – Chief had been demoted to Forelock.
Robert leaped to his feet.
“Misha! Valya!” He yelled. “Take him away!” And he took a step toward Yura. At that very moment, he was doused with water from head to toe.
“I’ll kill you!” Robert roared. It was scary to look at him. His face was distorted: his long nose veered to the side; his teeth were bared; his noble little moustache wasn’t lying in a neat line but rather sticking out; and his thin hair was stuck together, disheveled, plastered to his forehead. He rushed toward Yura, but Yura continued dousing him with water as he retreated with the hose in his hands and a smile on his face. Robert suddenly dashed to the duval, grabbed a piece of rubber hose from near the trestle bed and, brandishing it like a battle club, chased after Yura. The latter at last dropped the hose and ran away. The wet and disheveled uncle looked like an Indian warrior who had just swum across a river.
“I’ll kill you!” He kept yelling.
And Yura laughed loudly. What was going on in the yard resembled a Roman spectacle. Excited spectators squealed, chirped, cackled and barked from the buildings, porches, attics, the henhouse and the kennel.
“He’s out of his mind!” Tamara yelled, throwing up her hands.
Grandma Lisa, who ran out of the house, attracted by the commotion, waved her hands and shouted something. Their voices were drowned in the general hubbub, merging with the barking, chirping and cackling.
The participants in that show continued their ridiculous battle in the middle of the yard, ignoring the audience.
Perhaps, throughout our lifetime, the principal events that stick out in our minds are those that strike us with their unnaturalness and abnormality but at the same time are full of vivid details that spark our imagination. They include sounds, smells, scenes – instantaneous, like snapshots, feelings we experience – fear, pity, a realization of the ridiculousness of a scene that can hit us at the most tragic moments… And all that, blended together, remains in memory as a powerful and unforgettable impression.
That was how two seemingly incompatible scenes became intertwined, engraved in my memory. The first was the old yard at sunset: the intricate shadows of the trees, the wonderful aroma of flowers, the fresh smell of leaves after watering, the blissful tranquility, stillness and cool of the evening. And the other was the same yard, seized by madness: squealing, noise, shouts, faces contorted in fury, figures dashing around the yard.
One of them was my cousin Yura. He zigzagged among the trunks, disappearing under bushes and tables. Robert was destined not to catch up with him. He ran with all his might. Sometimes he seemed about to catch Yura, and then, waving the hose, Robert cried out a strange word, an expletive, perhaps formed of two words, “Su… Su-ka… Sukatina!” (Bi… Bi-tch… Bitch-itina) and tried to hit Yura.
But no, he couldn’t catch up with him, and the laughing Yura was already at the gate. Before disappearing behind the gate, he waved to his uncle with his fingers, which he held in front of his nose, his thumb pressed to its tip.
Panting, the enraged Robert yelled after him one last time:
“Bitchitina!”
The way he looked, it was good that he didn’t run out into the lane in pursuit of Yura. The poor fellow didn’t yet know that the strange swearword he had invented, “bitchitina," would become another of his nicknames.
Chapter 30. Kosher Chickens
The day that followed Yura’s unruly behavior was far from happy for him. The stricken groom, along with all the witnesses to the scandal, complained to Misha, Yura’s father, and Yura was given a good beating. Uncle Misha had a very heavy hand.
On top of that, the slighted party and his witnesses emphasized that it was Misha’s duty to bring up his son properly and that Yura must apologize to his uncle.
It was Aunt Tamara who was particularly indignant about her nephew’s behavior and demanded strict methods of upbringing. The whole family knew Tamara, a moralist who had neither the time nor desire to take care of her own children. They were raised by the street.
But this was not a question of Tamara’s children. In a word, Misha gave Yura an ultimatum – under pressure from the Yuabov family – and Yura had to make a public apology.
The ceremony was arranged with great solemnity. All the members of the family gathered in the yard: Grandma Lisa on the porch, Misha and Valya at their door, Robert, pointedly gloomy, on the trestle bed, and I on a chair not far from him.
Very attentive and with necks outstretched, we all watched “the protagonist of this drama,” who, shuffling his feet, crossed the yard toward Robert. Would he play another trick? I’m sure that was what each of us was thinking.
But Yura didn’t play any tricks this time. He knew how to control himself when necessary. On top of that, the apology ceremony fit well into the usual cat-and-mouse game he played with Uncle. He didn’t mind letting his uncle feel like a winner for a short period.
Pretending to be somewhat embarrassed, but leering at the same time, Yura came up to his uncle and mumbled something not quite comprehensible. “If you don’t bother me, I won’t bother you,” I thought I heard.
“Louder, so that everyone can hear!” Misha demanded.
“Chief, forgive me, all right?” my cousin said loudly.
Robert’s gloomy face brightened up. He smiled like a warrior who had managed to gain the upper hand in tough hand-to-hand combat. Winning an apology from Yura was an unprecedented feat.
As soon as that moralizing ceremony was over, the adults resumed preparations for the wedding.
A few relatives arrived to help with the cooking. A kaivonu, a cook who specializes in serving family celebrations involving many guests, stopped by. Somebody had already gone to the market to carry out the difficult task of buying and delivering the great quantities of groceries.
However, Grandma Lisa, to maintain her reputation as a good hostess, had decided to add her own poultry to the store-bought provisions. It should be mentioned that on that day Grandma Lisa was kinder and merrier than usual. Preparations for the wedding, the general bustle, the presence of outsiders – all that livened her up. She felt she was the head of a big family, and that definitely enhanced her feeling of her own importance. Standing near the henhouse, Grandma called to Yura and me cheerfully:
“Valery, Yura, bring the baby carriage. It’s near the pantry. Hurry up! Hurry up!”
The old baby carriage, its big wheels large enough to accommodate twins, used to be Yura’s. Now, it served as a cart. We rolled it to the henhouse and were given another assignment.
“Let’s catch five hens. No, four hens and a rooster. Take them to the synagogue to get their throats cut. Yura, do you remember how to get to the synagogue?”
Sure, Yura remembered. A trip to the synagogue with chickens sounded like a pleasant entertainment to him. Unlike me, he was glad to take on the task of catching the chickens. I felt disgusted. I was sorry for the snow-white cacklers, my interlocutors. Yura entered the henhouse alone. Some excited, cackling chickens were caught, one after another, and we helped Grandma tie up their legs and put them in the carriage.
It took forty minutes to walk to the synagogue. From Korotky Lane we reached Severnaya Street and, from there, Shpilkov Street. It was wide and shady, like Shedovaya Street.
There were a few stores there, as well as the Museum of Applied Arts, famous throughout the republic, where amazingly beautiful jewelry, embossed design products, embroidery, carpets and other works by old and new Uzbek craftsmen were exhibited. An Intourist bus was parked in front of the museum. Foreign tourists were brought here all the time; a visit to the museum forming a part of many a tourist’s itinerary. That’s why there were always kids around the museum entrance, shamelessly trying to coax chewing gum and souvenirs out of foreign visitors. “Please, gum! You have gum?” These English words were familiar to school and kindergarten children.
However, the police often drove the kids away, for it was assumed that foreigners would take pictures of boys with outstretched hands and then publish them in the West: “Soviet boys beg!”
The baby carriage was swaying smoothly. The big wheels creaked slightly. The chickens, almost lulled to sleep, mumbled something mournful: Pok, pok, Po-o-ok. Noon, with its heat, had arrived. Even though the hood of the carriage was up, protecting our prisoners from the sun’s rays, the chickens were hot and ill at ease. They lay with their beaks open, revealing their small, straight, bright-red tongues.
Passersby probably thought that we were two caring siblings pushing a baby carriage containing our brother or sister. It actually looked like that if you didn’t listen closely to the sounds coming from the carriage. They were babies all right, just not swaddled. And, by the way, it would be necessary to clean the carriage thoroughly later.
We walked, chuckling and chatting, and Yura had just begun to tell me about the wonderful knives for sale at the hardware store nearby when everything went head over heels.
The rooster began emitting strange shrill sounds, flapped his wings and shot up, hit the roof of the carriage, then fell on top of the hens, shot up again and flew out of the carriage. He came tumbling down onto the asphalt and began hopping around on his bound-up legs, flapping his wings violently, and then fell into a dry arik. Right after that, the white hens began flying out of the carriage, cackling frightfully, flapping their wings and losing feathers.
The noise was terrible. The carriage was shaking and rocking in all directions. It seemed to be ruled by a mystical force. Feathers floated around like snowflakes. We didn’t even have time to get scared. We simply froze. I came to my senses when the last hen, which flew higher than the others, rushed past my face and – pakh-pakh – swatted me twice in the face with its wings.
Curious passersby began to gather around us, some of them laughing, others giving advice.
At that point, Yura and I came to our senses.
“Catch them! First the rooster!” Yura yelled.
We began to steal up to the fugitive from two sides down in the dry clay arik, trying not to scare him away. But the rooster didn’t have escape on his mind. On the contrary, he was eager for a fight. With tattered wings and tied-up legs, he still looked like an enraged eagle. Hopping up, he scratched the earth with his claws, which were sharp as knives. His eyes sparkled, the beak on his head with its outstretched neck was ready to inflict blows.
I stopped. The rooster and I were looking at each other intently when I saw Yura closing in on him from the other side of the arik, his arms outstretched.
At that moment, the rooster lunged at me. Wild sounds reminiscent of a crow cawing issued from his mighty beak. He was coming at me at very high speed, hopping springily. He seemed like the devil incarnate to me, like a monstrous, fantastic one-eyed bird, ready to kill me.
I was a very fast runner, and now, the wind hissed in my ears, my body felt weightless but, at the same time, acquired unusual sensitivity. It seemed to me that the rooster’s beak was about to pierce my lean bottom… or my spine… and break through it. I would fall down, and the enraged bird would press me to the ground with its mighty claws and begin tearing me apart.
Yes, that escape attempt was a moment of truth sent to me deliberately by fate. I turned from butcher to prey for a short time, the same sort of prey the rooster had been in our hands.
I stopped upon hearing Yura’s voice. The rooster was no longer chasing me. Yura had grabbed it by a leg, though it dangled in the air, all the while trying to break away, flapping its wings and wailing.
“Redhead, over here!” my cousin yelled. “Hurry! Let’s tie it to the carriage!”
As soon as the rooster was in Yura’s hands, I recovered my courage. I dashed to the carriage and found a shoelace on the bottom. We tied the poor rooster, whom I hated bitterly at that moment, to the frame. Dealing with the hens wasn’t a problem, for they were thrashing around not far from the carriage, to everyone’s amusement. The unfortunate inhabitants of the henhouse were so tired from their unsuccessful escape attempt that they didn’t cause any more trouble for the rest of the way. But we continued to grumble for a long time, cursing our captives and threatening the vicious rooster with his upcoming inevitable execution.
The synagogue was located in a small two-story, U-shaped private house.
The yard, formed by the house and its outbuildings, was paved with bricks and stone slabs. There was a long green awning attached to the roofs on three sides of the yard. There were tables and chairs under it.
The light that came through the awning tinted the walls of the house and the yard a pleasant turquoise color, soothing to the eyes. It was very cozy there. Perhaps it seemed to people who prayed in the shade of the awning that they were actually under the protection and auspices of the One to whom they appealed with hope. There were a few synagogues in Tashkent, but that was not enough, and worshipers usually suffered from crowded conditions. Grandpa attended that very synagogue to which we had come, and he often grumbled that there was no room to stand and no seats to sit on. But on that weekday the synagogue was empty.
An elderly man with a beard and bright skull cap, which Bukharan Jews wore instead of kippahs, appeared upon hearing the squeak of the door. He was the synagogue’s shochet. After asking us what we had come for, he nodded and came out to the yard.
It is well known that the Torah doesn’t allow Jews to eat all meat and fish products, but even the permitted ones must be prepared in a special way, and only an expert, a shochet, can butcher animals and poultry. He must butcher them in a particular way so that all the blood drains from them, because the use of blood is forbidden by the Torah.
If we consider the numerous holidays, family celebrations, birthdays, bar mitzvahs and weddings, it’s not difficult to imagine how much work a shochet has.
“Which one shall we begin with?” the shochet asked, looking into the carriage.
Neither Yura nor I answered him. Our grudge with the rooster and our thirst for revenge had left us. We stood silently in front of the carriage. We didn’t look at the chickens. We looked at a strange structure in the yard, close to the exit. It was quite tall and made of wood. There were cone-shaped chutes sticking out of it. On one of them was a straight razor with clotted blood and chicken fluff on its blade. I couldn’t turn my eyes away from that razor once I had caught sight of it.
The chickens were silent and didn’t even stir in the carriage.
The shochet didn’t ask us any more questions. He took one of the hens by the wings, pulled them back and slashed its throat with the razor. Blood spurted out in a scarlet jet. The hen started, as if an electric current had run through it, its legs shook convulsively, and it fluttered, trying to break away. Its eyes and beak were wide open, and the yard resounded with its hoarse screeching.
That terrible screech pierced Yura and me like an electric shock, but the shochet’s hand didn’t shake. Holding the hen firmly, as if gripping it in a vise, he lowered its head down into the chute, and in a few moments all life had left its body, along with its blood.
The carriage was soon empty. Five pairs of legs, their claws spread apart, stuck out of the five chutes. The shochet then placed the chickens into the carriage. We paid him and left.
Kirk-kirk – the wheels squeaked slightly, as before. The carriage rocked gently. Its bottom was covered with a fluffy white mat of chicken bodies, speckled with blood here and there.
The chickens looked as if they were asleep. We walked without talking, as if we were afraid to wake them.
The hot air still hung over the city.
