Everything Begins In Childhood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ko-o-o-o-o-ko-ko…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My question was: for whom were vacations created?

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

“Do you remember how to do it?”

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

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

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

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

“Do I have to?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joni bivesh!”

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

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

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

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

Perhaps it was true, to some extent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A grimace of disgust appeared on Yura’s face.

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

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

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

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

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.