Kitabı oku: «Everything Begins In Childhood», sayfa 14

Chapter 32. A Wedding Is a Serious Affair

If you examine the way people prepare for an event, it’s usually possible to determine their attitude toward that event and the significance they attach to it, particularly if it’s a traditional kind of event. Families of Bucharan Jews do their utmost not to be worse than others in such cases, though this is probably not only true of Bucharan Jews. It may be the attitude toward such customs all over the world.

The preparations for Robert’s wedding, which had been going on for many days, assumed frightening proportions by the end.

The house, along with the yard, looked like an anthill. There was cleaning, washing, chopping, frying, steaming, nailing things down, fixing, painting from morning till night, day after day, but, as Grandma Lisa put it, “there is no end of work to be done.” She, however, supervised the whole thing with enthusiasm. Her voice could be heard all the time, valuable instructions flying to right and left. She gave assignments to the professional cook, to all the women who had arrived to help, as well as to the members of her own family.

“There’s not enough salt… Add some water, it’ll boil down… How come you haven’t cut it yet? Hurry up, hurry up, it’s time to add it… Take it to the yard… Get it from the fridge… No, another one!” Those and similar commands sounded without a break, giving Grandma’s “team” no chance to relax.

She was so busy that she forgot all about her “spondulosis,” up until a certain moment. By evening, after she served supper to Grandpa upon his return from work, Grandma found it necessary to end the day with her special ceremony.

The kitchen door was thrown open with a bang. Grandma appeared in the doorway, her face a picture of suffering. She walked slowly, swaying, shuffling her slippers, her arms spread as if she were afraid of falling down.

“Valery, bachim…” Grandma’s voice was heard. It was a barely audible voice, filled with unusual tenderness, the voice of a very tired person ready to inform her relatives that she was about to part from them for good. “Valery, bachim, after Grandpa eats, take the dishes to the sink. I can’t do it. I’m so tired.”

Grandma crossed the room slowly, swaying more than before, losing the last of her energy, and reaching the television just as The Latest News broadcast began.

Grandpa Yoskhaim was having supper at the table across from the TV. I usually sat on the couch next to him for the reason I will explain. He took Grandma’s “ceremonial march” as an annoying interference – she blocked the screen.

“Pass, Lisa, pass faster,” he said impatiently, paying no attention to Grandma’s hints of tragedy.

The thing was that The Latest News, foreign news in particular, was the only program Grandpa watched and considered worthwhile.

“They show all kinds of crap,” he would often comment indignantly when he stopped for a minute or two by the TV and saw me watching a movie or something else. “Why are you watching that? You should switch to the news.” As soon as the news began, Grandpa forgot about supper. He froze, spoon in hand, halfway to his mouth, stopped chewing and held his ear with his other hand. Alas, it didn’t always help, for Grandpa’s hearing wasn’t good. That’s why one of his grandsons, either Yura or I, had to sit next to him at that important moment to narrate the news.

I was the narrator on duty during my vacations.

“Well? What? What’s he saying?” Grandpa asked all the time.

He pushed me, keeping me from hearing the news properly, and, after my muddled narration, he often argued with me, was indignant and offered his own interpretation. Grandpa assumed that he knew everything that was going on in the world better than “those fools.” He became particularly agitated when something about Israel was broadcast. That’s what he was waiting for as he watched The Latest News. As soon as “Israel” was heard from the television, and more often “Israeli militarists,” Grandpa wouldn’t rely on me. He would jump out of his chair, approach the television and listen, almost pressing his ear against the screen.

The tone used in the Soviet Union to broadcast events in Israel, how those events were distorted was common knowledge. Grandpa certainly understood that very well, but his desire to hear at least something about our ancient homeland won out over his common sense. But then he would unburden himself, cursing ‘those damn anti-Semites” with all his might.

Meanwhile, Grandma Lisa who had already reached the bedroom, was making herself comfortable, sitting on the bed and changing for the night, all the while demanding sympathy, pity and recognition of her accomplishments. Since she didn’t have an audience and, perhaps taking into account that Grandpa and I weren’t far away, she talked to herself:

“Oy, how tired I am. Should someone my age work like this? Of course not. Oy, oy, oy, it got to me again.” That was her “spondulosis” remembered most unkindly. “Oy, it stings, it stings, what a curse!”

I knew very well what would follow. As soon as The Latest News and my work as narrator were over, Grandma’s very mournful call could be heard.

“Valery, bachim, let’s have a little massage.”

And I became a masseur.

Even though Grandma Lisa often used her “spondulosis” for certain purposes she considered diplomatic, as a weapon in “civil strife,” she actually had a considerably bent spine that made her back look like a small hillock. There was a board under the Grandma’s thin mattress, for the doctor had ordered her to sleep on a firm surface. In a word, Grandma really did suffer.

Up-down, up-down, to the left, to the right, to the left, to the right… My hand, coated with lotion, slid along Grandma’s curved back like a sled, as she moaned and groaned, albeit blissfully.

“A bit higher… more… harder! That’s it… good! That’s my boy! God grant you good health. When you’re not here, no one gives me a massage…”

Only when I worked as a masseur, did I receive so much praise and gratitude from Grandma. I continued to rub, my hand gradually becoming numb, and Grandma’s back turning red. To my surprise, it seemed to me that her back became more even, that the hillock almost disappeared.

* * *

The last day before the wedding was particularly tense. Yura and I had to run small errands every now and then, and we tried to enjoy this vigorous activity as much as possible.

Mama and Valya scraped fish on the old wooden table with the carved legs near the trestle bed in the garden. Mama had arrived the day before from Chirchik after obtaining permission to miss work for two days.

There were two wicker baskets filled with big, fat silvery carp near the table. Now and then the women bent down, grabbed a heavy fish, dropped it with a thud onto the table, and large scales flew like spray in all directions.

Yura and I hung about near them waiting for the spoils.

The fish had been scraped. Now, they opened their bellies. O-one, and innards were pulled out. That was the moment we had been waiting for. Our mamas took the fish bladders out of the bundles of innards and threw them to us. A fish bladder is an oblong, pearly-yellowish container consisting of two parts and filled with air. It allows fish to stay afloat better. But we were attracted to a different quality: it was a perfect cracker. Put a bladder on asphalt, lift your leg and … pakh! Oh no, no words can express what that sounds like. One must simply hear it. It is so harsh, so booming that your ears get blocked for a second.

Bookh! Bookh! was heard from the table.

Now Mama, now Valya, and sometimes both of them together hit their knives with hammers, cutting through the sturdy fish spines, slicing the fish into chunks.

It was hard work. Their hands were stained with blood; fish scales were stuck to their hands, clothes, even faces. They were hot, and the flies that were attracted by the smell of the fish swarmed around and pestered them. But even that didn’t upset either Mama or Valya. They were very glad to be together, for they saw each other very rarely since we had moved to Chirchik.

Mama and Valya were friends. Their similar personalities, fates, even sorrows, along with being neighbors for many years, had bound them together. Valya was the only friend with whom Mama could share her trials and tribulations. She, on her part, heard out quite a few of Valya’s secrets. After marrying Father’s brother, Uncle Misha, Valya was, naturally, drawn into the whirlwind of the family squabbles. She was the only one in the whole family who didn’t take part in the hounding of Mama. Uncle Misha didn’t shun any “means of education” in trying to get his wife to join the clan. Sometimes, the pressure became so strong that the friends had to meet secretly, but their friendship endured.

Now, the two kelinkas – that’s what they called daughters-in-law in these parts – were getting ready to meet a third one. What would she be like, this young daughter-in-law? Would she become their friend? Or would she prefer to join the majority? That’s what bothered our mamas, what they pondered while their hands were busy preparing the fish for cooking.

Our mamas discussed everything, not even feeling awkward about having Yura and me around. It made no difference, for we knew all their secrets. We saw how other relatives treated them, and we witnessed their hopeless and timid attempts to change this small hostile family commune for the better. And, of course, we sided with our mamas with all our hearts. Yura’s open rebelliousness, his quarrels with Grandma Lisa and Forelock were nothing but a desire to express it. I was timider and, perhaps, gentler. My protest began to reveal itself later.

“Where are those lazybones? Valery, Yura, run to the neighbor’s for benches and tables! Ilya and Yasha are already there.”

Yasha and Ilya were our cousins, Aunt Tamara’s sons. Some furniture was borrowed from our neighbors, the Fazildins, an Uzbek family. Their son, Allaudin, was our friend.

The entrance to their house was unusual – after opening the door, you entered a dark room with an earthen floor located under the house. Its other door led to the yard. After entering the yard, you could get to the house. Yura and I were very amused by this ingenious arrangement.

“Hey, Akhun, be careful, don’t run into the doorpost!” We heard Ilya’s voice as soon as we stepped from the sunny street into the darkness of the room.

Akhun was the nickname of our younger cousin, Yasha. The nickname didn’t have any special meaning; it was just reminiscent of the name of a statesman of our time, Akhunbabayev. Yasha was a rather unruly boy. Every time the brothers appeared in Grandpa’s yard, their loud squabbles and the clinking of broken glass could be heard. Yasha was indifferent to the nickname Akhun, but he couldn’t stand his other nickname, “Baldy.” Yasha’s head was quite often shaved for some reason. Maybe that’s why he got angry. Ilya tried his patience several times a day.

As we entered, the brothers were bringing in a big wooden table with crossed legs from the yard. It wasn’t too heavy, but it was too wide to fit through the doorway. The table got stuck, and Yura and I arrived just in time to help. Ilya began giving us instructions immediately:

“Sideways…now to the left… more, more… Stop! Can’t you see?”

Tables and benches traveled from one yard to another and back quite often. So, we boys, who were always entrusted with this work, had long ago become experts in pulling furniture through narrow doorways. Many words, whose meanings were very particular to the task, were used in the process – “diagonally,” “into a skid,” “lower,” “more to the side,” and the like. But it still wasn’t easy not to break these old but very necessary tables and benches and not to scratch doorposts. We were wet and tired after we had gotten that damned table outside.

“How many more?” I asked, waving flies away from my sweat-covered forehead. “Many. They want to clutter the whole yard with them,” Ilya mumbled. “I’ve seen mineral water delivered, but not too many bottles. We need to stash it, otherwise we won’t even get a taste.”

Tashkent mineral water, like many other things, was delivered to stores irregularly, and we boys liked it very much. Of course, we had to stash it so that at least at the wedding we could have as much of it as we desired.

We talked a bit about various tasty dishes, which we knew were already being prepared. Ilya’s thoughts somehow switched from this “tasty” subject to the bride.

“Have you seen her? When she walks, she moves her ass so it makes a figure eight,” Ilya raised his hands and demonstrated what he meant.

“Oh yes, her buns are the best!” Yasha confirmed.

And we giggled. The brothers were older than Yura and me. Ilya was already fifteen. It wasn’t surprising that they weren’t indifferent to the spiciest details of Robert’s bride’s figure. It didn’t stir any emotions in Yura and me, but we couldn’t admit it.

“Alright, let’s go.” The elder brother interrupted this interesting conversation as he got down off the table. “Let’s go, or Robert will start yelling again.”

By evening, the yard was ready to receive guests.

Chapter 33. The Long-Awaited Day

“A few words about our newlyweds …”

Standing in front of the microphone so that everyone could see him, Uncle Misha summarized for the gathering the principal milestones in the lives of the newlyweds, Robert and Mariya. He spoke distinctly, emphasizing every word, no less skillfully than the leader of the music group who had spoken a moment before. His voice resounded over the tables placed all around the yard, up to Jack’s kennel. For tonight, Jack had been locked in the storage room.

The light of many bulbs stretched above the tables illuminated the feasting guests. There were many of them, over one hundred people. It was so light in the yard that even the lush thick green crowns of the apricot and cherry trees glistened against the dark, velvety sky. The guests looked particularly well-dressed in that bright light. The tables set for the occasion with bottles, platters of appetizers and piles of vegetables were resplendent with abundance. They were about to start serving the hot dishes… Glass and porcelain sparkled, women’s dresses of many colors gleamed, laughter and voices droned on, sometimes even covering Uncle’s monologue. By that time, the guests had split into groups, small warm groups, each of which was having a good time in its own way. At the beginning of the event, everybody, as usual, paid special attention to the newlyweds, casting glances at them, sending them smiles and proposing toasts. But, after observing this decorum, the guests got busy with their glasses, plates, and conversations. They kind of forgot about the newlyweds, who sat in full view under the safe protection of their mothers. The guests would look at them from time to time when Uncle Misha’s voice became especially expressive or when he gestured toward Robert or Mariya with a sweep of his hand, as if calling upon the guests not to forget their duty.

Perhaps we boys were the most attentive listeners. If only Uncle Misha knew how we commented on almost every one of his phrases.

Our group, Yura, me, Ilya and Yasha, had made ourselves comfortable at the table near the apricot tree. We could see and hear everything from there. We could mock everyone and everything, our heads close together, to our hearts’ content. That was exactly what we were doing.

“After finishing eight grades, Robert entered technical school,” Uncle Misha informed the audience solemnly.

“Eight?” Ilya whispered, choking with laughter. “Yeah, a whole eight grades and playing hooky… or was it hockey?”

Satisfied with his quip, Ilya laughed loudly. Yasha poked him in the side, “Be quiet. There are people around… Let’s see what he says about Mariya. She must have just played hooky. He’d better tell us how she was ‘plucked’ today.”

Now we were all shaking with laughter.

Quite recently, as the guests were arriving, we peeked at the koshchinon right here, near the trestle bed. The word chino means “to pull out” in Tadjik. The koshchinon ceremony consists of plucking all excess hair from a bride’s face. It’s a very old Eastern tradition, but I’ve failed to discover its origin. As far as I know, it’s customary to do it before a wedding, setting apart a special evening when women of the bride’s and groom’s families get together. But with us, the ceremony took place in our yard shortly before the wedding celebration.

If the hair had been plucked with the usual cosmetic tweezers during koshchinon, there would have been nothing interesting about it. But the operation was done the old-fashioned way, with the help of an ordinary thread. They say that in the very old days, they used the thinnest leather lace to do it. A person who performed the procedure, called a koshchin, held a thread tied into a loop with both hands, between the spread thumb, middle and index fingers. Moving them fast, now bringing together the sides of the loop, now moving them apart, and running the thread over the face of the bride-sufferer, the koshchin skillfully pulled out all excess hair around the eyebrows, above the lips and on the cheeks, in a word, wherever it was necessary.

That was the ceremony we had witnessed under the apricot tree not so long ago.

Grandma’s friend Mira performed the role of koshchin. The principal person who was “plucked” was Mariya, but a few other women waited their turn, unwilling to waste such a rare opportunity.

Mariya was seated on a chair. Her head, wrapped in a scarf and tossed back, was held by one of the women. Aunt Mira sat down opposite her and spread her fingers. We could see the dark thread between her fingers perfectly well. The thread moved, its strands got close together, then drew apart, merged together like the jaws of a beast of prey, moving like a roller around Mariya’s face, which was getting redder and redder. Poor Mariya squinted, grimaced, even moaned, and Aunt Mira, repeating “You can take it, my dear” and rocking rhythmically, continued her work. It even seemed to us that we saw little wisps of hair between the parts of the thread.

“Ouch! She’ll pull out her nose!” I said to laughing Yura.

Mariya had a nice straight little nose located neatly on her small oblong face. She belonged to the category of girls who were attractive without make-up. With a short haircut, slender, neither stout nor skinny, with everything in moderation, she looked splendid in her white wedding dress. There was only one thing that evoked our malicious remarks, her gait. Mariya’s little bottom wiggled, forming figure eights when she walked, as Ilya had put it.

Meanwhile, Uncle Misha, after endowing the newlyweds with an incredible number of the best qualities, expressing hope for their future achievements, and wishing them happiness and wellbeing, finished his speech. He was replaced by a vocal-instrumental group that was quite popular in Tashkent – a doira, two guitars, a clarinet, and a singer. The group opened with an Uzbek song, one of the old favorites. The tanned singer with long dark hair performed it very well. She sang, taking dance steps and waving her raised arms. Her long silk dress dotted with roses danced as she moved her shoulders. Sparkling gold hoop earrings danced in her dark hair. That was when we forgot about teasing and gossiping and couldn’t tear our eyes away from the dark-complexioned singer. Our jaws dropped, and we sang along with her “Guli sangam, guli sangam…”

“The first dance is for the newlyweds! Please!” one of the guitarists announced, strumming his guitar. The guests applauded. Robert took Mariya’s hand and led her to the area in front of the tables. He usually stooped a bit, but today he stood up amazingly straight. With his hair neatly combed, he looked elegant in his new black suit. Mariya, in her snow-white gown, was cut out for the role of bride. In a word, they were quite a couple.

The newlyweds moved around the “dance floor,” smiling at each other tenderly. They danced well, feeling the rhythm and changes in tempo, their movements natural and supple. They didn’t stand close to each other but rather a bit apart. That’s how newlyweds should behave during the first dance in Central Asia. Those are unwritten rules, but they are strictly observed. Guests are not just spectators; they are very stern examiners. If a rule is not observed, an exam failed, so to speak, the gossip will travel all over Tashkent the next day.

The newlyweds exchanged tender glances and a few words. It was clear they were in love. Looking at them, I suddenly remembered the conversation I had accidentally overheard three months before the wedding.

I was playing in the yard, and Robert and his two older brothers were talking at the table near the cherry tree. I noticed them only when I heard Father’s loud angry voice:

“What do you need her for? Aren’t there enough other girls out there?”

Father was sitting with his back to me and I couldn’t see his face, but by the tone of his voice and the way he waved his hands it was clear that he was enraged. Misha patted him on the shoulder, trying to calm him down and, at the same time, saying something to Robert, trying to convince him of something. I couldn’t hear everything he was saying, only separate words “she… such… family” reached me.

I clearly understood that they were talking about Mariya and that the older brothers didn’t approve of her.

Robert listened to his brothers without saying anything, his head lowered. From time to time, he repeated, without looking at them and trying to seem calm, “That’s my choice. It’s none of your business.”

And now, after he had upheld his choice, Robert the Victor was dancing with his chosen one. There was joy etched on their serene faces. It would be ridiculous to expect that thoughts about what fate had in store for them would cross their minds at such a moment…

“Dear guests, join the newlyweds!” the leader of the music group announced. The guests came quickly to the dance floor. Charmed by the Asian music, they simply couldn’t stand still any longer. Things like that didn’t happen in our parts. There was no family celebration without traditional Asian dances.

The big area near the tables was filled with dancers. They moved over the ground in time to the music, moving their shoulders, their hands close to their faces, tapping their feet. From a distance, it looked like a multi-colored swaying carpet or a huge flower bed. The bright ethnic dresses made the women look like flowers, fairy-tale flowers that had come to life, dancing.

One’s hands were the most important part of this dance. They were like magic birds whose “flight” could be watched endlessly. Now their wrists turned gently from side to side, now they began to bend so rhythmically and gracefully that it sent a shiver of delight down my spine. It seemed that their hands were singing, that the music was emanating from them. Faster, faster, fingers were snapping… Suddenly, they came to a standstill, as if listening to the melodious tune… and then they resumed their bewitching dance…

In my opinion, to my taste, there is nothing more beautiful than an Asian dance. In Asian countries, including those of Central Asia, the culture of dancing, dancing skill, is not entertainment. It’s an emotional requirement, almost a necessity. The hand movements of almost any dancer, much less a professional dancer, are full of an expressiveness and grace that you rarely find in the best dancers from other countries of the world.

Young people, certainly, don’t mind dancing Western style, even when Asian music is played. And now, a few couples danced that way outside the circle.

“Who is Rosa dancing with?” Ilya asked with interest.

We all knew Rosa very well, but we weren’t familiar with her partner. He must have been invited by the bride’s family. We exchanged glances. It meant that Rosa had met this guy at the wedding, and he hadn’t hesitated to ask her to dance. On top of that, the couple chatted happily as they danced. Our customs hadn’t yet lost their patriarchal nature in those days. And such behavior seemed quite daring, even to us children.

“Just look at them,” Ilya muttered. “As if they’ve known each other for ages… Well, well, we’ll see what happens tomorrow.”

We giggled. We could guess what would happen tomorrow.

Tomorrow, the telephone would ring in Rosa’s house. One of the acquaintances who had been at the wedding would tell Rosa’s mother with an air of significance, “The kids looked so great together, really very nice!” Soon, another voice would sing on the receiver, “His family is so decent, a hardworking family… We used to work together.”

In a word, there would be many interested individuals ready to begin immediate matchmaking in absentia, who were absolutely sure that a dance at the wedding was sufficient reason to do so.

* * *

Meanwhile, one of the dancers in the circle attracted everyone’s attention – he danced so jauntily and beautifully.

Here, he began to whirl in place like a leaf falling off a tree. His head was turned up, his arms pressed to his sides, with only his hands sticking out, which made him look like a penguin.

That’s how he went around the floor twice, and then he squatted half-way, beating the rhythm with his feet brought together, his arms outstretched in front of him, looking like a wrestler preparing for a fight.

Then he made another circle, snapping his fingers and rocking from side to side. His eyes half closed, he looked blissful, his lips moving a bit, singing along quietly – he was in the thrall of the music. If he had sorrows or grief, family problems – and who didn’t have them – he forgot about everything as he enjoyed that moment.

Yes, he was a wonderful dancer. That’s why everyone was watching him with such pleasure. The song was about to end, but the musicians understood that it would be a sin to interrupt such a dancer. It’s not good to interrupt a person who feels so happy.

So, the musicians began playing the song all over again.

Boop-p, boop-p. boop-p… The Uzbek doira, or drum, started its beat. The other musicians stopped playing. It was time for the drum solo, or rather a kind of competition between the dancer and the drummer.

The drummer set his instrument upright on the ground, held it between his legs and began to beat the rhythm, fast and with great force on the tightly drawn leather, with small rings attached to the inner part of the round surface of the drum. It seemed that the tightly drawn leather of the drum might snap under his tireless fingers, which were moving faster, making the sound even louder.

It was incredible! The drummer, flushed, his forehead covered with beads of sweat, bent over the drum.

Who would be the victor?

The dancer was tireless. He was spinning around the ground faster and faster, keeping up with the tempo of the drum, enchanting the viewers with new dance movements.

The drummer tossed back his sweat-covered head. His mouth was half-open. Another cascade of sounds… yet another … That’s it! He was exhausted… He nodded, and the other musicians joined in.

The dancer had won!

* * *

They began serving the main course. Women were heading for the tables, one after another. They carried lagani, large, round, brightly painted platters piled with steaming pilaf.

The pilaf was arranged in tall heaps, and above them, curls of fragrant steam were rising, as if from a volcano. It was clear, and our noses smelled it, that today we would be having a real Uzbek pilaf, cooked with great skill. We began to salivate, just looking at it.

The long, dark rice mixed with amber, thinly sliced carrots and shiny black raisins looked like a mosaic. Fat, juicy pieces of lamb exuded heat.

Pilaf is a traditional dish in the countries of Central Asia, and in the East in general. It can be cooked in many different ways – with chicken, dried fruits, and even peas. But the most important thing is the skill of the cook.

Judging by the speed with which plates were emptied, the skill of today’s cooks was on a very high level, and the guests appreciated it.

I was devouring the pilaf when I suddenly heard a mournful yelp. It was Jack. I remembered that he was locked in the storage room. I began fishing out pieces of lamb from my plate. Jack would definitely have all the bones left after the wedding repast, but… I felt ashamed to be feasting without my friend. Besides, the pieces I had were tastier than bones.

More dishes arrived following the pilaf. This time, the women were bringing out chicken with fried potatoes.

The clatter of dishes, the clinking of glasses, laughter and the exclamations of the guests merged with the discordant but pleasant humming, interrupted by shouts of “Bitter!” (to make it sweeter, and the newlyweds are supposed to kiss), toasts and speeches.

The speakers were divided into two groups. The group representing the bride praised their “commodity” at the top of their lungs. The representatives of the groom praised his qualities with the same ardor. Both groups went out of their way, as if the wedding hadn’t yet happened and the question of the possible marriage was being decided right then and there.

* * *

Dancing resumed.

I took advantage of that convenient moment, picked up the plate with the treats for Jack and made my way to the storage room. The door was latched, but its lower corner had come off the doorframe.

I squatted and saw something that reminded me of a big, shiny, black beetle close to the ground. That thing changed its shape, it had two holes that alternately narrowed and expanded. Snorting was heard. How come I didn’t understand right away that it was Jack’s nose?

I opened the door and, stepping into the storage room, closed it behind me. Jack whirled around me like crazy, pounced on me, put his paws on my chest, whirled again, telling me with his yelping how happy he was that I was visiting him. If Jack could have talked, he couldn’t have expressed it better.

Took-took-took! Jack’s tail drummed the door of the cabinet. Boom-boom-m! As Jack whirled, cans and boxes were scattered around.