Everything Begins In Childhood

Our apricot tree was not only powerful and beautiful. It also bore fruit with incredible generosity. All its branches were covered with dark yellow, brown-speckled apricots the size of a small plum. In our parts, dried apricots with pits were called uryuk and dried apricots without pits, kamsa, and cut into two parts, kuraga. No matter what you call them, they’re amazingly sweet and fragrant.

Yura and I ate many, many apricots throughout the summer, a kilogram a day. Of course, we didn’t disregard the sweet and sour cherries, but the apricots had an advantage – we didn’t need to climb the tree to get them. Ripe fruits would fall onto the ground by themselves… though ants and gnats usually beat us. You would bend down to pick up an apricot only to see that they had already covered the most appetizing ones. So, we had to let them have those.

The day would come when Grandma Lisa, who made the tastiest jams and preserves, didn’t have the energy to cope with that abundance. Even Yura and I couldn’t eat them any longer. And then, the wide space, above which the apricot branches extended, would be covered with a carpet of apricots. Tender apricots rot very quickly. Flies and gnats would swarm above them like little clouds. We had to sweep the yard twice a day.

“ValeRY! Yura! There are flies everywhere! Go sweep the yard!”

Grandma Lisa was obviously guided by the rule “those who don’t work don’t eat,” which was all the more justifiable for Yura and me since no one else ate as many apricots as we.

Those were the days when we learned that we had many relatives in Tashkent. They arrived carrying pails and baskets and picked up apricots, even overripe ones for preserves, jams and compotes.

And the apricots continued to fall. No, that tree never ceased to amaze me. Chpok! Chpok! could be heard in the yard day and night.

* * *

This was one of those nights. The resounding chpok-chpok seemed especially musical. I didn’t pay attention to it right away, but, as I began to listen carefully, I tried to gauge the rhythm of that monotonous tune and guess when the next chpok-chpok would sound.

Then, quite different sounds reached us from the direction of the house.

Chief, or our Uncle Robert, slept right under the windows of Grandma’s bedroom. Like Yura and me, he preferred to sleep in the yard when it was hot rather than in the company of his pregnant wife Mariya, who was about to have a baby. Chief snored in his sleep, though his snoring was gentle. Grandpa’s mighty snoring rushed out through the open windows, so we didn’t just hear two different types of snoring, but a duet of father and son, a family concert. Kir-r-r-kh-kh-e-rr-rr! – solemn, awesome and bellicose. That was Grandpa. Pikh-k, kh-kh-pp, pi-k-kh – soft and soothing. That was Robert. Chpok-chpok – the apricots’ accompaniment was woven into that music.

“Damn it!” Yura cursed in a whisper. A juicy soft apricot, as was clear from the sound it made, had landed on his head.

I heard the smacking of his lips: the apricot was eaten right away. My cousin wiped his sticky face with the duvet cover. After a night like this, the snow-white bedsheets were often colored grey-brown-crimson. Those were Grandma’s sheets, and Yura thought she wouldn’t mind washing an extra sheet.

Khri-i-k-k-kir-r-r! “P-pi-kh-k-k…” Yura giggled, “That’s some snoring. Can you hear? Grandpa’s gets louder, and Chief sleeps like a log. Nothing falls on his head. Redhead, grab an apricot.”

It didn’t take long to find one. Yura, on his knees, raised his arm and threw an apricot with all his might in the direction from which the snoring was coming. A smacking sound was heard. Judging by the sound, the apricot had hit the wall.

“Missed,” Yura bent down and began groping the ground with his hand. “Just you wait… This one is soft.”

A new projectile was launched in Chief’s direction. The snoring stopped but soon resumed.

Yura hastily picked up yet more projectiles. I couldn’t help laughing. At the same time, I was afraid. We knew Chief’s explosive personality all too well.

“Yura, stop it! Are you out of your mind, Donut?”

I called Yura “Donut” that summer because, even though he had grown, he had put on some extra weight. But the extra weight didn’t affect Yura’s liveliness.

“Ah, you sleepyhead. You’ll wake up now,” he mumbled.

Then he stood up and threw a few apricots at the enemy fortress with all his might. And the fortress blew up.

“Scoundrel! I’ll kill you!” Chief’s shout, or rather roar, was heard.

It was amazing: newly awakened, he immediately understood who the culprit was. Of course, it was his damned nephew, that spineless creature. A stream of swearwords fell on Yura’s head. We listened to them with interest after climbing under the blanket and pretending to be asleep. That was silly. Chief’s yelling could wake up the dead.

We pretended all right, but we watched closely to see if Chief would rush to our trestle bed. We would need a few seconds head start to run away. But obviously Chief wasn’t in a hurry to rush anywhere in the dark. I wouldn’t be surprised if he thought that his dear nephew was preparing another dirty trick.

Hiding under the blanket, we didn’t notice right away that the light had gone on in the house. The part of the yard nearest to us turned into a stage. The speechless spectators could be seen there: Uncle Misha and Aunt Valya, Grandma Lisa in a long nightgown and Grandpa Yoskhaim in his nightcap, and Mariya, whose shadow with protruding belly rested on the spot of light in the middle of the yard where Robert bustled about, yelling and raising his hands to the sky. He was the only actor on whom all eyes were fixed.

Robert ran back and forth, not noticing the spectators, not realizing that he was trampling the silhouette of his wife and future offspring, until he fixed his eyes on his parents, who were examining their son closely. Chief stopped and fell silent. Then, the stern voice of Uncle Misha was heard from the window across the yard:

“Why are you yelling? Is there a fire? Or thieves in the house?”

“Fire! Thieves!” Chief shrieked. “This lousy child is worse than any thieves! He’s behaved like a hoodlum all night! Your son! He was throwing things at me…”

“Oh, my, and you’ve been yelling ‘Help!’ You’ve woken everyone up. Do you want to call the police?”

And Uncle Misha slammed the window and moved away. The light went off in his house.

Either chuckling or coughing was heard from Grandpa’s porch, but Grandpa had already covered his mouth with his hand, pretending that he was touching his beard. He said “Ah, shaitan, shaitan [devil]” quietly. At least that’s what I thought I heard. It sounded quite tender, and it definitely didn’t apply to his son. Then, Grandpa moved away. Grandma Lisa followed him. It was amazing that she had not stood up for her son.

Robert and Mariya whispered something to each other on the empty stage and went into the house. Only Yura and I stayed on the trestle bed. The artistic director and protagonist of the show, whom no one appreciated, stayed under the blanket, choking with laughter and pinching me in the arm.

Cicadas could be heard again. And the stars looked down as calmly as before, twinkling with their thousand golden eyes.

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.