Kitabı oku: «Everything Begins In Childhood», sayfa 28

Chapter 52. It’s Sweeter from Someone Else’s Tree

We woke up too early the next morning. The hot sun confused us: we thought it was quite late and the adults had already gone about their business. But it was not to be! We parted. Yura walked to his door, and I ran to our house. Grandpa appeared on the porch after throwing the curtain aside from the open door.

“Hey, wait!” he shouted to Yura. “Wait, shaitan [devil]!” Yura stopped.

“You shouldn’t hurt your uncle,” Grandpa said loudly so that everybody in the house heard him. “Ah, you, shaitan, shaitan.”

As he said that, he glanced at me, and I saw that his eyes were laughing. But when I smiled in response, Grandpa drew his brows together and shook his finger at me.

After fulfilling his duty, Grandpa Yoskhaim threw his knapsack over his shoulder and shuffled to the gate, and I, happy that everything had worked out, shouted after him, like in the old days:

“Grandpa, bring ice cream… Vanilla, please.”

“And sorbet!” Yura shouted.

Grandpa disappeared through the gate. He was lucky, and I would most likely have an encounter with Forelock. He was still having breakfast at his mother’s. His wife liked to sleep late in the morning. I lingered at the front door, but I didn’t want to miss breakfast. Ah, what would be would be.

* * *

I was right. Robert sat alone at the breakfast table. He was pouring tea for himself. And Grandma Lisa sat on the couch with her legs, which didn’t reach the floor, crossed.

“Take a seat… Everything’s on the table.”

Trying not to look at Chief, I took Grandpa’s seat. Kir-k, kir-k, squeaked his chair, in greeting.

I had noticed that the chairs and many other objects in the house were somewhat like their owners. They acquired the similarity gradually, not right away, but how they did it was a mystery. The older an owner was, and the object as well, the more pronounced the similarity was. Sometimes it was so great that I wondered: was it possible that I was the only one to notice it?

The chairs at the dinner table in the living room always evoked those thoughts. Those dark-brown chairs were very old and durable. Their durability, by the way, was also an indication of their similarity to their owners. Besides, those chairs were very squeaky, and the squeaking of each one was amazingly similar to its owner’s voice. I remember very well how I first noticed the similarity and how it entertained me. Grandpa’s chair squeaked pompously in a bass register. Grandma’s chair squeaked clearly, with a shade of constant discontent. Robert’s chair squeaked in measured tones, not loudly but persistently.

The chairs squeaked not only because of their venerable age. Their backs were very cozy: the high arc of the thin rim was supported by a concave crosspiece, from the middle of which a round stick ran down to the seat. It wasn’t clear why, but everybody who sat down on the chairs wanted to rub their back against the crosspiece, which was on the level of their shoulder blades, and against the stick. The chair would naturally begin to sway and squeak. And that happened day after day, year after year. Before you noticed it, the chairs began to squeak in their owners’ voices.

* * *

I sat down and examined the table – what was for breakfast? – and I certainly glanced at Robert. He sat to my left, with his face to the window and, not considering me worthy of his attention, stirred the sugar in his tea bowl. The bowl was big, with white fluffy cotton balls scattered across a dark-blue background. Such a pattern on tea bowls was very popular in Uzbekistan. After stirring the sugar thoroughly and slowly, Forelock began to make a sandwich. He did it very diligently and with great concentration, as if building a hammom. He picked up a slice of whole wheat bread and covered it with a very thin layer of butter, so thin it was almost transparent. He spread the butter very neatly so that the whole surface of the bread was evenly covered with butter. After Forelock checked the quality of his work, he covered the slice with another layer of butter. That layer was a little thicker. And, finally, a third layer of butter completed the construction of the sandwich, which was ideally smooth and appetizing. To achieve that effect, Robert usually waited patiently for the butter taken out of the fridge to soften.

To tell the truth, Chief’s sandwich looked wonderful. Just looking at it, one felt hungry.

There were many tasty things on the table: five-minute eggs, cheese, flatbreads, my favorite cherry preserves with pits. But the sandwich made by Forelock seemed the tastiest of all. I had experienced it many times before. Usually, when Forelock noticed that I wanted to join him, he would move a bowl of butter closer to me and suggest, “What are you waiting for? Go ahead.” Today he was silent, still looking out the window. All right, I thought, and moved the butter closer. I poured some tea, took a bite of my sandwich and, feeling very bold, looked Robert in the face.

My sandwich also turned out very tasty.

We chewed and sipped, chewed and sipped for some time, and I continued to look at my uncle.

Oo-oo-p could be heard each time he sipped his tea because the tea was hot and because Robert enjoyed it. His swollen nostrils, drawn-together eyebrows and squinting eyes also expressed his delight. Even his hair, combed back, thoroughly smoothed out, shiny as if licked, radiated satisfaction.

Forelock was very tidy, just like his mother, in everything that concerned his clothes, hair and nails, which were always trimmed. His neatness was especially manifest at meals. He always put his bread on a separate little plate. He placed his teaspoon against the edge of the saucer. Neither the food nor the utensils Forelock used ever touched the oilcloth. He used a special knife to get butter from the butter bowl.

Forelock’s neatness amused and angered Yura and me. Grandma Lisa always set him as an example for us at the table.

But today, something else engaged me.

First, Forelock pretended not to notice me, as if he were alone at the table, eating to his heart’s content. Then, my staring must have begun to irritate him. Really, I should have felt guilty and sat with my eyes cast down, but I stared at him instead.

Now, Forelock didn’t look calm anymore. He began to fidget, to bend like a tom cat before a fight, turning first toward the table, then to the left and right. He acted high and mighty: that was how Yura and I described Chief’s attempt to look fearsome.

Robert acted high and mighty with the help of his moustache. His moustache was short and stiff; there was nothing noteworthy about it. But when Robert got angry, he first lowered his upper lip, then began to raise it slowly and bare his teeth, and his moustache stirred and bristled, and reminded one of a shoebrush.

Looking fearsome, Robert at last looked at me and pronounced:

“I’ll call your father today. Let him take you home.”

My Father… But even that couldn’t scare me. Obviously, I was seized by something like Yura’s reckless courage. Besides, I had noticed something funny on the face of my beloved uncle. How come I hadn’t noticed it before? On his forehead, above his eyebrows, there was a red spot the size of a five-kopeck coin.

Well done, Yura!

Without taking my eyes off Forelock, I chuckled and moved the butter bowl closer. “Call him, call.”

Robert jumped up from the table and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

“Well, shall we climb up there?”

Yura had finished breakfast long before and was waiting for me in the part of the yard where he wouldn’t catch Forelock’s eye. He must have already caught hell from his father, but Yura was accustomed to that. Now, the adults had left, and Yura was impatient to get down to business. He had suggested to me many times that we raid the neighbor’s apricot tree. Its branches, decked with ripe apricots, could be seen behind the back wall of the house, where our part of the house used to be and where Robert and his wife lived now.

Why did we need those apricots? We had already eaten too many of ours. But again, Yura reminded me that the neighbor’s apricots were not only bigger than ours but also sweeter and more fragrant.

“Don’t you remember? Are you trying to tell me that you’ve never tasted them?

The neighbor’s apricot tree grew squeezed between the wall and a cow pen. It was a mystery how it managed to grow in such a tight shady place, but the tree had grown, towering over the roof, and it had many branches and bore plenty of apricots. It was, naturally, visible from our yard. The neighbor’s apricot tree couldn’t compete with ours, in either size or abundance of fruits. No tree could compete with our apricot tree. It’s funny even to think about it.

One could climb onto the roof of the hammom using the ladder that was kept at the wall behind the trestle bed, but Yura and I were not going to do that. It would be silly to have such a noticeable thing as the ladder in full view. Besides, the hammom wasn’t tall, and the apricot tree grew next to it. Holding the thick lower branches with your hands, you could begin to climb the wall of the hammom, gradually assuming a horizontal position. You stepped as high as you could, then grabbed a higher branch, and off you would go again. The most difficult thing was the last yank that left you “suspended in the air.” You needed to push off the branch with all your might and throw your body into the roof. Gosh! And then you were on the roof.

The roof of the hammom was made of tarred roofing paper. Now, it was covered with a compact colorful spread: dried apricots. Grandma’s vigilant eyes had missed the roof for some reason; no one cleaned it. Apricots were gradually drying in the hot Asian sun and becoming so sweet and viscous that they stuck to your teeth. We ended the first leg of our journey with a small feast.

The roof of the hammom was like a royal table set for birds, gnats and ants. No one could bother them here. No one would throw a stone at them or try to catch them. A cat could have climbed to the roof, but cats weren’t interested in fruit. Come flying and crawling and eat as much as you like. That’s how it happened: there were plenty of pits thoroughly nibbled at and apricots that had been pecked.

We easily climbed onto the neighbor’s roof – the house was just a meter higher than our hammom. Unfortunately, the roof, covered with sheet metal, rumbled terribly. Even though the metal sheets weren’t thin, they sagged under our feet and caused a booming sound similar to a pistol shot. But that din definitely amused us. When you ran across the roof, you could hear takh-takh-takh! like a real burst of submachine gun fire. It was a lot of fun for us, though it was hardly any fun for those in the house. Their eardrums popped.

And if you got onto the roof without permission, you could get into trouble. Grandma Lisa would walk onto the porch the moment she heard a suspicious noise overhead. Rubbing her lower back with one hand, she held the handle of the door firmly with the other. To view the roof, she had to stretch so that it seemed she became taller, stick out her head and ask, “Ki bood vai?” It’s interesting. I thought, if Grandma was afraid it was a thief on the roof, did she expect him to answer her? Did she really think that all thieves in Tashkent spoke her language?

Grandma listened for a long time, then began to look over the yard. After making sure that Yura and I could not be seen in the yard, she figured out who made the roof rumble. At that point, her pose relaxed, the expression of fear disappeared, and Grandma Lisa loudly expressed her opinion about boys who behaved outrageously on the roof, destroying it, scaring people and subjecting their lives to mortal danger.

After we had been caught a couple times, we learned to walk noiselessly on the roof, without making a single “shot.” One had to walk slowly and carefully, trying to step only on the joints between the metal sheets. In a word, it required great skill. This time, we made that difficult walk and found ourselves above the yard of our neighbor Samik.

It was a real Uzbek yard. It could have been successfully exhibited at any agricultural show under this name. Why agricultural? Because the vegetable garden in this yard, which wasn’t big, a bit bigger than Grandpa’s, was wonderful, simply exemplary. Tomato plants supported by sticks formed trim rows. The tomatoes, which protruded in all directions, were so big and meaty that it seemed the supports wouldn’t hold up. The cucumber rows looked just as good. Hot peppers and different greens for salad – they knew edible plants and herbs well in Uzbekistan – were lush and abundant and filled the yard with tasty scents.

Samik also had cattle, a cow and a fierce black bull. The neighbors also valued the bull very highly. Perhaps it was a good stud, and Samik was eager to increase his herd.

When we played on the street, we often saw Samik take his bull to graze on the banks of the Anhor. He would tie a thick rope around the bull’s mighty neck in place of a leash. It either irritated the bull or, as he reached the street, he was intoxicated with the hope of escape, but when outside, the bull began to bustle about, snort and try to rid himself of the hated rope. He lowered his head, his eyes growing red.

Muscular Samik would pull on the rope with all his might, trying to keep the bull close to the wall. The bull would resist, also with all his might. Usually, when they reached the grass, the bull would get distracted and calm down, maybe imagining that he was already free. But here, on the lane, he continued to rant, snort, kick and try to butt Samik.

And once, as we were told, he had succeeded. Poor Samik had to stay in bed for a week. Everything worked out, but our stubborn neighbor continued to take the bull to the grass.

The bull behaved more calmly in the yard. Standing under the eaves near the back wall of our house, it stared straight ahead, a dull and sleepy look on its face, perhaps dreaming of the possibility of butting someone.

At least, that was the impression I had every time we stopped by to see the neighbor’s children.

We usually saw the cow standing on a leash in the yard. She was always chewing something. Saliva flew down from her lips. Now and then, the cow began to moo, her neck outstretched, head raised and tail beating her sides. She mooed so long and plaintively as if she were the unhappiest and most victimized cow in the world.

But her owners didn’t share this belief, and they were right. They took good care of the bull and the cow, fed them well and kept them clean. Manure was piled at one of the walls and, after it dried, it was used to fertilize the vegetable garden and fruit trees.

It’s no surprise that everything there grew like leavened dough.

The family had many children, but Yura and I were only acquainted with three of Samik’s sons – Salahuddin, Nigmat and Pakkiy, who were our age. We weren’t close friends; we just played together from time to time. We knew what was happening at the neighbors’ quite well by the sounds we heard from their yard. Those were the sounds that usually woke us up when Yura and I slept under the apricot tree.

Their yard came to life at the crack of dawn. The morning started with the ringing voice of Samik’s wife preparing breakfast in the outdoor kitchen, the rhythmic clatter of her knife against a cutting board, the clinking of dishes.

Then the sound of an axe chopping was heard: one of the sons was chopping firewood. The sound wasn’t sharp; it was muted, coming from the other end of the yard, but we, for some reason, couldn’t hear the voice of Samik’s wife over that noise.

When the firewood chopping was over, it became so quiet that we could hear onions frying in a skillet and butter crackling.

Then a spatula was heard lightly banging against the skillet, and the tempting scent of something frying reached our nostrils.

“Pakkiy! Nigmat! Everybody to the table!’’ the mother called.

Then, such a ringing of voices and clanking of bowls and spoons was heard, such aromas wafted over, that Yura and I jumped out of bed and raced to wash our hands and faces so we could have our breakfast as soon as possible.

I liked that harmonious family. Yura also liked them, but that didn’t prevent us from performing raids on Samik’s apricot tree. I think Yura considered it partly his because the apricot tree was so close. We could see it from our yard, and it was possible to pick its fruits from our territory, from the roof of the hammom.

Two years earlier, Samik had noticed that that tree in particular began to bear less fruit. Obviously, at the same time, he noticed well-nibbled pits on the ground under the tree. And after he saw Yura on the roof a few times, he didn’t have any doubts about it.

Unlike Yura, Samik didn’t want to consider this property a joint venture, and he went to visit Uncle Misha. Yura was given a talking to and swore he would never again climb onto the roof, but… Is it possible to list all the vows my cousin has broken?

We lay, pressing our stomachs against the very edge of the roof, and looked over Samik’s yard. It seemed that there was nobody in the yard but the chewing cow. We could hear the bull stomping under the overhang at the wall, but we couldn’t see it.

The branches of the apricot tree stretched very close to us. There was no fruit on the nearest one – Yura had been here more than once. If we could stand up to our full height, it would be easy to reach a branch on which round, golden-yellow apricots were shining. But we couldn’t stand up. We had to reach the apricots lying down.

Yura was the first to begin. Lying on his back, he slowly pulled on the nearest branch, which he had grabbed after raising himself slightly. He pulled and pulled, gradually becoming covered with rustling foliage. Yura crossed his legs and gripped the end of the branch between them. Then he grabbed another branch and pulled it up so that we could pick the apricots.

“Pick them. Be careful,” he said in a hoarse voice from under the branches.

Lying down, I stretched out my hand, my head – like Yura’s – stuck out beyond the edge of the roof, but I couldn’t reach them. I stretched out, taut as a string, as if turning into the pole that we used in our yard to knock apricots off the tree. I stretched and stretched. Not just my hand and head but almost half of my thigh was now beyond the edge of the roof. I got carried away. I wasn’t even afraid of falling.

“Pull it, pull it,” I whispered to Yura.

“Pick them, pick them. I can’t hold the branches any longer.”

But he nonetheless continued to pull them, back and forth, back and forth… The branch bent and swayed, and I grabbed an apricot. The cool, round, heavy apricot was in my hand. There was another one next to it on the branch, and I picked it too. And more, and more… That was a good branch.

“That’s it. Let them go.”

The branches rustled and returned to their proper place.

Sweaty, tired and excited, we crawled from the edge of the roof, covered with torn-off leaves, and made ourselves comfortable, even though the metal roof had already become very hot in the sun.

We were terribly thirsty. I smelled a dense yellow-red apricot with pleasure. Oh, what a scent it had. I sank my teeth into its juicy pulp. And Yura, who did everything faster than I, had almost finished eating his first apricot, smacking his lips.

“They will soon have a holiday,” he said sucking a pit. “They’ll probably be away for the whole day. Shall we?”

I nodded. Of course, it would be even more interesting to climb up the neighbor’s tree. And it would be simpler.

Yura giggled, spit out a pit and threw it over his shoulder without looking at the neighbor’s yard.

“Hey! Who’s there? Are you stealing apricots again?” a familiar voice was heard.

It was Samik. Had he sneaked up on us long ago or had the tossed pit given us away – we didn’t give it a thought. We jumped up and rushed to the hammom. The damn roof accompanied each of our jumps with rattling and shooting. I reached the trunk of the apricot tree. As my feet touched the ground, I was about to say something to Yura when I looked at our porch.

Holding the handle of the door with one hand, the other on her hip – a gesture that expressed the utmost degree of anger – there was Grandma Lisa on the porch. Shaking her head, she looked at Yura, who leaned against the trunk of the apricot tree with an independent and impudent look on his face. Then she turned her eyes on me.

Ah, if only I had Yura’s personality.