Kitabı oku: «Everything Begins In Childhood», sayfa 6
Chapter 16. Dog Eaters
I was on the way home from school, skipping and singing. I was singing loudly so that passersby could hear. Let them guess what happy event had made me sing! Today, I received my first grade, and it was an A, for good behavior. It wasn’t difficult to be an A student, I thought. Behave yourself, and that’s it.
My joy wasn’t disinterested. Father had promised that I could go to Kislovodsk in the summer if I finished the first school year as at least a B student. Of course, I dreamed about that trip. And now, the first step had been taken. I had already made some sort of progress in my mind, and Kislovodsk seemed a reality. Really, it was just two… three… eight months before summer, and then I would be there! I could already see the mountains in front of me, the camp hidden among them, the lake, the boats and other wonderful things.
Transported to Kislovodsk, I didn’t notice that I had reached my building, where I saw a bunch of boys at the entrance. Squatting, they surrounded Leda, our yard dog. Her clever eyes always shined like two sunny orbs during the day and two twinkling stars at night. Her raised tail would wag back and forth. Leda was very friendly. She enjoyed our company, and we enjoyed hers. We were generous with caresses. We would pat her little snout and kiss her cold black nose, but we really had to keep an eye on what was going on around us for we didn’t want our parents to see this. We were told all the time that it wasn’t hygienic to kiss and pat a yard dog, or even to play with her. It was useless to argue with adults. It was better to pretend that we sometimes forgot those rules. Besides, our parents were illogical, since many of them liked Leda very much and fed her and all that.
Our relations with Leda had become even closer recently – she’d had pups, and not for the first time. Leda had pups almost every year. It was always a big event for us. She would spend her time in the basement where she kept the pups. Leda seldom left her pups, so some of the boys would visit the dog family. They went there to admire the pups or, when they remembered that it was necessary, to feed Leda. However, those were the older boys, and only a few of them, because it was spooky in the basement. Today, Leda came to the entrance herself, and not because she missed us. Her empty nipples were hanging from her skinny stomach. She needed to fortify herself to feed the pups. Leda was often hungry nowadays. Unlike other dogs, she didn’t wander around the garbage bins in search of food. Leda was squeamish about garbage. She was our yard dog, a member of our society, so to speak, and she knew that. She understood that she got her allowance from building #15.
Each building had its own yard dog, but ours was the best. We were proud of Leda, who was always groomed, without burrs, her coat shiny. She walked in a special way, not like other mongrels, who moved sideways at a hurried trot, looking around cautiously, their thin tails between their legs. Leda was a refined lady, she never hurried, she walked straight and had a bold air about her. Sometimes she allowed herself to waddle, wagging her bottom. If male dogs could whistle, they would undoubtedly have whistled upon seeing that flirtatious beauty, “Wow, what a looker!”
Yes, Leda was attractive. Perhaps that’s why she had pups every year.
We were watching with pleasure as Leda swallowed pieces of sausage when we suddenly heard a piercing cry, “Dog eaters!”
Vitya Smirnov, disheveled and flushed, came running to our entrance with that shout – he lived in the neighboring building – and ran away, probably to inform his own people. Indeed, not a moment had elapsed when a small truck appeared around the corner. It was a disgusting truck. We hated and feared it along with those who drove it. They were “dog eaters,” a team that went around catching stray dogs: that was what our Leda was considered.
Apartment buildings had no right to keep such dogs. Residents couldn’t even protest against these treacherous raids. That was the problem. We boys were the only defenders of the animals.
We knew the hustlers in the truck very well. They called on our parts quite often. We waged a “guerrilla war” against them year after year.
The guy with the indifferent blank expression on his round physiognomy was behind the wheel. He was short and moved around clumsily on his bowlegs, as if he were about to stumble on the smooth surface and take a tumble. His buddy, his face covered with stubble and a crumpled cigarette between his lips, always wore high boots for some reason.
Many a time we watched with disdain the way the dog eaters acted. After siting yet another victim, they would pop out of the truck and try to throw a kind of lasso made of thick, twisted wire over a dog’s head. The noose smelled of death. It looked especially terrible when it was around a dog’s neck.
The residents of our building could hardly be gladdened by that sight, except the secret sadists among them. Dog eaters were cursed at. Attempts were made to shame them.
“What do you teach kids? To kill animals?” someone asked mournfully from a veranda.
“I’m sure you use soap,” the unshaven one usually answered.
“And what will you say if one of them bites your child?” the dimwitted one asked.
They said the dogs were used to make soap. The boys thought it was nonsense. Couldn’t they possibly come up with a different way to make it? So many things had been invented, and soap must have been made of chemicals. And if it was true that dogs were used to make soap, it would be disgusting even to touch it. You would wash your hands and think, “These suds could be our Leda.”
Besides, we kids had a serious suspicion. To be precise, we were sure that the dog eaters were catching animals in order to feast on their meat. That’s why we called them dog eaters.
“Why not? It’s very simple,” we discussed the cause of dog eating. “There’s often no meat at the bazaar. That’s why they try to catch poor dogs. They skin them and chop the meat into pieces. They eat it themselves and take some of it to the bazaar. Just try to tell dog meat from mutton.”
Aroused by such ideas, our hatred of the dog eaters grew boundlessly. Unlike the adults, all of us, especially those who were older, did not limit ourselves to verbal altercations with our enemies. We devised different methods of defense and keen plans for revenge. While the dog hunters were trying to catch their prey, we boys would either puncture the tires of their truck or stick matches into the ignition. Once, we even managed to open the truck and set almost a dozen dogs free. And later, hiding in the hallways, we writhed with laughter as we watched the dog eaters’ growing rage.
Of course, as they were arriving, our first task was defense. We had to make our plans in advance, and they had to be carefully thought out. Today’s tactic was clear – hide in the basement, that very basement where Leda fed her pups.
We retreated, like the Spartans, forming a triangle, holding our briefcases out like shields, with Leda in the middle. We safely reached the third entrance, where there was a staircase leading to the basement. Going down there with Leda was not as scary as going by ourselves, but still… many of us, including me, were afraid of the basement. Its dark expanse stretched under the building for its entire length and was lit only by sunlight streaming through small windows in the back wall. Besides, the ceiling was low, and we had to bend over to walk.
The darkness and desolation made the basement a perfect refuge for all kinds of riffraff who would stay there overnight, or sometimes even live there. An alcoholic who was drinking like a fish stayed there until he sobered up; a homeless hobo lived there for a month or so until he was chased out. It would be all right if it were just that, but the high school students talked vaguely about evil spirits and ghosts.
“Once I stood there…” Sipa was telling us, “smoking. Suddenly, I looked around and saw ‘it’ staring at me with its glowing eyes. And it was mumbling as if it had been wounded… I don’t know how I managed to escape.”
“That was a homeless drunk,” his friends laughed at him. “He was asking you to help him cure his hangover, but you didn’t understand him you were so scared. You can’t be serious!”
They laughed all right, but it gave us the creeps.
* * *
Leda ran in front of us as we walked in single file, looking around, even though it was absolutely dark. We hadn’t equipped ourselves with flashlights – that was a big mistake, since it was difficult to walk in the basement without stumbling, even with flashlights. You could come across anything there – pieces of pipe, chunks of cement, bottles, various types of garbage, not to mention dried up human excrement. But we walked and walked and walked. Leda’s shining eyes showed us the way that she knew very well.
The pups, all seven of them, lay on the rags by one of the windows. We could get a better look at them there. They were tiny, and they poked each other with their wet little noses, yelping softly. How aminated they became when they smelled their mother. Pushing each other impatiently, they crawled to her belly. It wasn’t far to crawl. As soon as Leda reached them, she would sniff them without fail and lie down on her side.
We grew quiet. All we could hear was the smacking of their lips.
Suddenly, a match was struck a few steps away, by the wall. Someone uttered a cry. We didn’t even have time to get scared, as the flame illuminated Oleg’s face.
“Who are you guys hiding from?” he asked.
“From the dog eaters!” and we began to tell him about our recent “battle,” interrupting each other.
Leda was a participant in the conversation. She whirled at Oleg’s feet, yelping quietly and wagging her tail. Leda liked Oleg. He had been ready to fight to defend her many times. Dogs can discern people’s good qualities better than some humans.
“We should have burned their shed long ago,” Oleg mumbled, after listening to our story about the dog eaters.
The idea received enthusiastic support, but he never got a chance to burn down the stand.
Saying good-bye to Leda and the pups, we never imagined that we were seeing our dog for the last time, but that was what happened. Leda disappeared the next day. No one knew what had happened or how it happened. And the dog eaters never showed up again.
We ran through all the yards in the neighborhood. We asked everyone, children and adults, but no one had caught sight of her. We managed to give two of her pups to nice people, but the other five had to be drowned. Of course, the adults did it, not us.
We didn’t adopt another stray dog. It just didn’t work out. We also didn’t want to be unfaithful to Leda, for we hoped she would come back one day.
Chapter 17. A Gulp of Life
The caterpillar tracks of tanks rattled, booming shots rumbled, the barrels of cannons gave off smoke. It was just another exercise underway on the training ground of the tank school. We watched the “battle” with agitation, ecstasy and envy from the roof of our building.
We were really lucky to live in this building. We were so lucky that all the boys in town envied us. A huge plot of vacant land began behind our building and stretched for a few kilometers up into the hills. The tank school was located at the edge of that plot. The training ground where the tank exercises were carried out wasn’t far from the school. Well? Is it clear now why we were lucky? We could watch that wonderful spectacle – which was sweeter for us than any movie about war – from the roof of our building, as if from the stands of a stadium. Were we capable of simply watching? Actually, we were not on the roof but on a hill from which, as representatives of General Headquarters, we directed the battle.
“Where… Where the heck are you going? Get in position to intercept them! C’mon!” Vitya Smirnov yelled, peering into the distance through field glasses formed by his curved fingers.
We heard muted submachinegun shots… then single pistol shots…
“That was a Kalashnikov… Now it’s tracer bullets…” it was Kolya Kulikov explaining what was going on as he sat with his eyes closed. He was a real expert. Kolya rocked to the rhythm of the shooting, hugging his knees and straining his hearing till he had a sharp pain in his ears. It was as if he were sitting somewhere in a concert hall, enjoying classical music… “Three… four… five…” he counted. “They’ll be done shortly.”
A sixth revolver shot rang out, and a short period of silence fell, both on the training ground and on the roof, but the events continued unfolding in our imagination. Here was an officer lying in a trench. He was wounded, and he was outnumbered. He had no more bullets in his pistol. They were surrounding him… and…
“That’s the end,” Kolya exhaled. He wasn’t rocking any longer. There was suffering in his eyes. “That’s the end. He’s been killed.”
But still we were listening, waiting… what if…
There it was! Bang-bang-bang – single shots were heard.
“No, he hasn’t been killed,” Vitya declared triumphantly. “He was changing the cartridge clip. Kolya, you always panic.”
Yes, of course, we were representatives of General Headquarters on the hill. But we’d rather have been down there, on the battlefield, dashing forward in pursuit of the enemy, or seated at the levers of military vehicles. Forward, always forward!
Sweet dreams…
Many boys in our town dreamed of becoming military men. They were a special caste in Chirchik, held high in our esteem. They were full of merit, both inner and outer. They knew how to show off their bearing. An officer would walk, clad in his impeccably ironed tunic with stars sparkling on the epaulets, his shoulders thrown back, his chest well-developed, his feet moving springily and rhythmically as if he were marching in formation. He certainly knew that children’s shiny eyes, and perhaps girls’ eyes too, followed him closely. But his strict gaze was fixed on the distance. He absolutely did not notice anyone. Of course, he noticed those of senior rank, and he saluted them precisely and handsomely.
It would be nice to befriend a military man’s son. Such a boy’s life was far more interesting that ours. Now and then, his father would take him along to a military school where he could get close enough to tanks to touch them, or he might even get to hold a submachinegun in his hands.
The exercise came to an end. The tanks, one by one, turned their turrets toward the hills and headed back to their encampments. We were also about to disperse.
The roof of our building was flat with a slight incline. It had no railing around its perimeter. Only a few brave boys dared to approach the very edge. They knew how to adjust a television cable or knock down icicles that were a danger to pedestrians. My knees would begin to tremble at the very thought of going near the edge of the roof.
We were about to leave the roof when the Oparin brothers came through the door leading to the stairs – Vova, who was my age, and Gennady, who was older. Their father was a military man, and Gennady had already decided he would enter military school after he graduated.
“What are you doing here?” he asked angrily, in surprise. “Get out of here!”
“The leaves have already dried!” Zhenya Andreyev shouted and was the first to dart to the door.
The roof was an observation post for us, but it served as a kind of production area for older boys. Hand-made cigarettes rolled from cherry tree leaves would be hung from the antennas to dry. Hemp, secretly grown behind the garage, was often dried on a secluded corner of the roof. Was it possible that Gennady thought that we, the younger boys, didn’t know about it? And why did they, the older boys, skip watching the exercises, those fascinating spectacles? We discussed this for a long time before we split up to go home.
Father was sitting on the bed, breathing hoarsely. He had once again suffered a severe asthma attack. He was so weak that he couldn’t leave “the concrete coffin” – as he called our apartment – to sit on the bench near the entrance. He called to me in a barely audible voice.
“Do you remember where the hospital is? Go there and get some oxygen…” and he gave me the oxygen pillow with its breathing tube. “I called them… The doctor is expecting you.”
One could get to the hospital by bus, but I decided it would be faster to walk. As I was walking, I remembered with annoyance that the entrance to the hospital grounds was at the far end of the fence. That meant that it would take me at least half an hour to get there. At last, I arrived. I found the doctor on duty and held the pillow out to him. The doctor looked at me over his glasses, with an expression of great surprise.
“Who are you with?” he asked. “Where did you get this pillow?”
“My papa gave it to me for you to fill …”
“What papa?”
“From Yubilayny settlement,” I answered, scared now.
Father had told me, “The doctor is expecting you,” but this one didn’t expect me at all. What if he was the wrong doctor and wouldn’t fill the pillow?
“It must have been your father who called an hour ago,” the doctor figured out at last. “Yes, he said ‘My son will come over.’ But I thought his son was an adult… How old are you, kid?”
“Six,” I answered, with no inkling that we were practically reenacting the dialogue from a famous poem by Nekrasov.
The doctor was silent. Then he cleared his throat.
“Your mama must be at work now, right? And your papa… You see I don’t have a car at the moment… Nurse!” he suddenly shouted, “Fill it quickly, but not quite all the way.”
Oxygen began hissing into the tube. The doctor squatted and gave me the pillow.
“Here it is… You don’t smoke, right?” he stroked my hair. “Carry it carefully. Remember – it’s a gulp of life for your papa.”
I grabbed the pillow and rushed home as fast as I could.
Chapter 18. With a Forelock
Our class was discussing the terrible news. Renat Khabiyev had injured his hand. Three fingers had been blown off. The two remaining ones had been disfigured.
Yesterday, after classes, Renat and a few high school students had made their way to the training ground. There was no need to explain that they had gone there to collect cartridge cases. Renat was lucky – he had found an unexploded military cartridge. It was a very valuable find because you could remove the capsule from a cartridge, and a capsule was… Well, you know what I mean. When he returned to the yard, he got down to business. Of course, he couldn’t do it at home.
“He was separating the capsule from the cartridge,” Zhenya Zhiltsov was telling his agitated listeners, “when it exploded… right in his hand!”
Tall Zhenya always hung out near the fifth graders, and he always knew all the news.
The boys were silent. Obviously, almost every one of them tried to imagine what horrible pain Renat had felt. Expressions of suffering appeared on many faces. Timur Timirshayev stared at his palm and pressed three fingers to it, wincing.
“At least it’s his left hand,” Sergey Bulgakov broke the silence.
He belonged to the same group as Zhiltsov. They were not known for outstanding academic achievement. They were useful when it came to either beating someone up or “giving a warning.” As for Renat, he wasn’t a mischief-maker, and he had gotten into that group accidentally. Renat belonged to a poor Uzbek family with many children. They didn’t live in one of the new buildings but rather in a clay house in the settlement. He sat quietly at the last desk in class. He wasn’t among those who always raised their hands, eager to demonstrate their superior knowledge at the blackboard.
Yekaterina Ivanovna entered the classroom. We rushed to our seats.
After laying her briefcase on her desk, she paced the room for a long time. She was silent and didn’t look at us. She didn’t have the usual smile on her round, good-natured face. She had such a sad expression that all of us grew even more ill at ease.
“Well, first graders of Class B,” she said as she stopped walking. “Have you at last excelled? Who was with Renat at the training ground yesterday?”
Naturally, the class was silent. Even if someone had been at the training ground, was he foolish enough to inform her about it? And if anyone knew with whom Renat had gone to the training ground, they would never betray their friends. That was for sure.
Yekaterina Ivanovna directed her stern looks at Zhiltsov, Bulgakov and Gaag. They were silent like everyone else.
“How can they allow such naughty children to join the ranks of Young Octobrists?” Yekaterina Ivanovna reproached us.
It was true that we had been wearing the pins for two weeks, the little stars of the Octobrists, and we were very proud of it. But was it against the Octobrists’ rules to play war games and stock cartridges for combat operations? Of course, Renat’s misfortune scared everybody, but at the same time, he was considered a war hero, injured in combat.
No, Yekaterina Ivanovna’s reproaches didn’t arouse our remorse. The class was silent…
After scolding us a bit more, Yekaterina Ivanovna at last told us something worthwhile.
“Tomorrow after classes, we’ll go to the hospital to visit Renat. Who can come?”
So many hands were raised that they formed a dense forest. The class began to buzz, completely forgetting its recent inability to speak.
As always, a few of us walked home together. Khobeyev’s name was on everyone’s lips, and, yes, we felt sorry for him. But we cast glances in the direction of the training ground without a sense of fear. The training ground became even more desirable.
Here we were near building #14, in other words, near the former construction site. Oh, how we missed that construction site! We felt as if something had been taken from us, a thing that had been the principal delight of our lives. How many adventures we had had there! As for the new building… Well, what about it? It looked like a big freshly painted poster – meticulously cleaned glass sparkled in white window frames, the freshly painted dark red entrance door shined. The stairways smelled nicely of whitewash. Joyful new tenants stomped up the steps carrying their baggage.
If there was anything that attracted us to the new building, it was the chance to make new friends. Also, a new barbershop had opened at the end of the building.
And we stopped in there today. Kolya remembered that the director of studies had reprimanded him, “Your hair is too long. You look sloppy.” Edem and I decided to keep him company.
The spacious, well-lit barber shop, which occupied one of the corners of the building, was furnished modestly: just two barber chairs and three seats for waiting customers. The fan, with its rubber blades, was buzzing, and soft music could be heard on the radio. Both barber chairs were occupied by customers. We sat down on the seats and became spectators to this most interesting show. The actors, that is the barbers, wore white gowns, like doctors. The older one, who undoubtedly played the leading role, manipulated first clippers, then scissors, skillfully. His hands flashed up and down, to the left and to the right. He spun around the barber chair like a figure skater in a rink. His fat belly didn’t allow him to get close enough to the barber chair, so he stretched out his arms in a comical way as he worked. Maybe that was why it seemed that he cut hair by touch, without looking at his customer’s head. “What if he cuts off the customer’s ear?” I thought. He could cut it off and not even notice. Then he could cut off the other ear. Then he could let the customer go, and the customer would stand up without noticing anything. After all, everything would still be symmetrical. He wouldn’t even realize that he was deaf. I thought that was what would happen if one’s ears were cut off. And he would just nod, “Thank you, it’s a very nice haircut. Nothing is sticking out.” And he would leave.
The second actor was young and not as agile. He must have been a novice. He wasn’t in a hurry and, after clicking his scissors a few times, he’d take a few steps back to examine his customer’s head.
The master was the first to finish his work. His chair was vacant. He looked at us and motioned to us invitingly, pointing to his barber chair. We looked at each other. It was scary for some reason. We grabbed hold of our chairs. We felt as if we had not been invited to sit in a barber chair but rather to climb onto an operating table. And the doctor, or rather the barber, froze while he waited for us to respond to his invitation, “Well, who’ll be the first to make up his mind?”
The first one was me, even though I didn’t want to at all. I was sitting in the middle between Kolya and Edem, and they, unexpectedly and treacherously, pushed me off the chair. I thought they were my friends. I had no choice but to go and sit in the barber chair. And while the barber was wrapping a white sheet around my shoulders, I imagined in dismay how the blood would run down it. A scared yet quite likeable little boy with a tidy hairdo, not at all shaggy, looked out at me from the mirror. His eyes were pleading: “Please, don’t do it! It’s a mistake. You have the wrong boy.”
“Which hairstyle do you prefer, young man?” the barber asked with condescending politeness. “I think you’ll go for the one with a forelock.”
I nodded without saying a word. The choice was limited to With a Forelock, Skin Fade and Youth. I wasn’t old enough for the youth style. I didn’t like the skin fade because I would look like a prematurely bald child with a fur cap on my head. With a forelock was the only option left.
The scissors began to snip, the clippers began to buzz, and I became tenser and tenser, cringing as I felt the barber’s fat belly rubbing against my arms. I wanted him to finish quickly. It was too much. I could see the famous forelock on my forehead. It looked like we were done. The barber glanced at the mirror and turned my head from side to side. Now he would set me free, but no, he grabbed the clippers again and began to expose the back of my head. V-v-zh-zh, v-vzh-zh, the clippers rumbled like a car going uphill. It seemed to me that I was about to go deaf, yet the Professor of Barber Affairs continued torturing me. He pushed the clippers hard into the back of my head as if trying to drill into it. Perhaps he had already done so, and now he was scraping it the way you scrape asphalt with a shovel.
I was covered in sweat. My cheeks and ears were on fire. I could see my friends behind me in the mirror. They were shaking with soundless laughter, grabbing the cushions of their chairs with their hands.
Suddenly, everything was quiet. I took a deep breath. I was relieved. That was it. And right away, I lurched forward, as I got a shock, an unbearable burning sensation – the master generously wiped the bare scratched-up back of my head with eau-de-cologne.
I stood up, dumbfounded, and shook my head. I saw a billiard ball rocking first to the right and then to the left in the mirror. The forelock and a small wisp of hair that looked like a little island in the ocean were glued to the top of my head. But my ears were intact, all the more noticeable since they were still on fire.
“Do you like it?” the potbellied master asked with a kind smile. I nodded. If I’d said I didn’t, he might have dragged me back into the chair. I wanted it to stop so I could sit in peace and enjoy the show. It was my friends’ turn now.
After some slight jostling, and without any exchange of words, – Kolya nudged Edem, Edem nudged Kolya – it was Kolya who landed in the master’s chair. Edem rushed to the chair of the novice, which had just become available.
“Skin fade, please,” Kolya requested. He wasn’t amused any longer. He remembered my suffering.
“A skin fade wouldn’t be right for you,” the master answered. “You had a forelock before.”
Kolya was at a loss and, as always in such cases, he twisted his lips to the side and began to mumble something incomprehensible.
“What? A forelock?” Mr. Potbelly responded eagerly. “That’s good!” The scissors immediately began to click. Kolya didn’t even have time to shout “Ow!”
Now it was my turn to have fun. Now I was the one bursting with laughter as the destructive clipper grabbed hold of the back of Kolya’s head. It munched on his light hair like a hungry dog opening a wide path for itself. Aha! Now it was scraping like a shovel. I gazed with malicious pleasure at the back of Kolya’s head and at the mirror in which his tomato-red face was reflected. Now and then, I would cast a glance at Edem, for whom matters were no better – a forelock was already looming on his forehead.
Then three boys were walking home. As they walked, they scratched the shaven backs of their heads. They walked without talking, thinking about the same thing – how tomorrow in the yard and at school, boys would delight in thinking up nicknames for them, repeating the word “forelock” all the time and giving them flicks to their foreheads, which were known as “initiation.” Who knew what else awaited them?
One thing they knew for sure – they would never again go to the new barbershop.
