This extraordinary book by Sabit Aliyev deals with the struggle for freedom. And with the recognition of the reality of numerous invisible restraining shackles.
These stories convey a consciousness I have not yet found in western literature. From exotic Baku intelligent educated people travel to Moscow, (often to further medical studies), and yet they retain a sentient relationship to their surroundings. Physical sensations assume great importance. Beyond rationality, philosophy and analytic thought, the characters hope to find wisdom. They struggle against destiny and against their perception of God’s Will and as they individualized, they resent arranged marriages with strangers and yet quite often the bonds of family and the power of tradition inspire and develop stoic coexistence, or a slow knowledge of each other that between wives and husbands ca evolve into love.
We as human beings all have in common an ineffable feeling of loss. Loss of the comfort of the womb, the loss of the nurturing breasts that sustained, the loss of childhood innocence, the loss of youth, the gradual loss of ideals and ambitions, then eventually the impending loss of life. Sabit Aliyev has added to this: a terrible sense of being betrayed.
The tragedy so aptly conveyed is that the males depicted in the stories desire the oblivion of Self in the moment of sexual fulfillment, whilst the women want a man who is more present, and so leave…
The sensuality of the homeland, the comfort, the savours of food and drink, the apparent exaggerated but genuine reactions, (characters don’t rise from chairs, they jump up), give the reader the impression that with belief and tradition there is no room for objective reflection, and in its place there is a sort of emptiness in the core.
The potency of this book is that it instills an implicit ache so that we too crave for a balm to heal the soul.
The old society is becoming decadent and the new world has not yet established values.
In the comfort of home in Baku, thyme tea gives relaxation, external ease from pressures and conveys acceptance.
To those far from home, coffee’s pure caffeine is needed to awaken the characters out of their dreams. Under its influence they want individualized lives, (whatever that means).
This book deals seriously with different mindsets. The characters are flawed, (as are we all), they take wrong directions and yet sometimes they return to the security of family, and or reconcile with failure, and painfully learn to endure destiny. Or dare enter into the illusory freedom of modernity.
This is a powerfully written book.
The nuances of offended reactions and the luxuriating in flavors have no western equivalents.
But the author has unifying themes that become real personas: Baku and Moscow, past Soviet standards, God, religious beliefs, medical careers, -and the ever present sense of the harbour and the sea of home. Oh yes, and the gulls and birds.
I was gripped and still remain entranced by the skill of the writing that takes me into a totally alien existence. I felt perhaps as Miklouho Maclay did when looking onto a strange old settled landscape not yet measured and mapped.
This book is an exemplar of modern literature because it creates a self contained world that excludes our normal rationality. The author writes both as an observer and as a participant in a vast paradigm shift.
It is about encounters at thresholds between worlds.
David Wansbrough
Dolgoprudny,2019.
Sabit Aliyev
Contents
1 A Way to the Word
2 Mentors
3 “I love only you”
4 Peonies
5 Confession
6 The March Thaw
7 Letters between Friends
8 The Last Day
9 An Arid Spring
10 Coffee without Sugar
A Way to the Word
Arseny poured water into the kettle, measured out coffee beans with a spoon and turned on the coffee grinder. Every time when the little motor would buzz, Arseny thought why the people of this small Baltic town were so indifferent to the coffee beans that had ripened in the tropics. Lazy and hasty people, they refer instant powder with only the faintest spicy aroma. That is why yesterday, despite the drizzling cold rain, he went to St. Petersburg, and there, on Nevsky Prospekt, in a store that he had known since he was a child, he was handed a tight package of the most fragrant coffee.
The sacred ritual was never broken. Beans ground into powder were poured into a pre-warmed porcelain coffee pot and flooded with bubbling boiling water. On the coffee table covered with a lace napkin there were a cup and a saucer already waiting (survivors from an old family set). Arseny sat down in an easy chair, leaned back and paused for a minute while inhaling the magical aroma. A cup of the drink with a tight greenish film caused a slight excitement in him: he was transported back to his childhood, to that serene and happy time when his all-powerful guardian angels, his mother and grandmother, were alive. He recalled anecdotes, his mother’s stories about his birth and early childhood, and grandmother’s either true stories or legends about their ancient noble family.
Now Arseny Potapov, long past the age of Christ, was something like a hermit philosopher. The longer people stayed near him, the stronger his desire became to either get rid of them, or to leave them himself. He hated it when someone stayed the night in his house. He loved his old furniture, dishes, his ancient chandelier, graceful carved shelves filled with amusing figures; he perceived them as living beings with their own characters, quirks and even secrets.
Arseny knew his father, but he did not remember him, as much water had flowed by since his younger days. In response to his inquiries his mother spoke briefly but well of the talented theater artist Georgy Potapov. Their young very happy family, fascinated by literature, drama, and painting, was the envy of many. And even the son was born with the beautiful name Arseny that means in Greek ‘courageous, sublime’. Then the mother would interrupt her story, sigh, and quietly lament the country’s collapse and the unemployment that deprived people of the art of understanding the meaning to life. George Potapov began to try find himself in wine. At the age of reason Arseny saw his father only once. In a coffin.
His mother was an unusually attractive person. Not only did he think so as a son, everyone who knew her was aware of this. For many she embodied the feminine ideal: she was beautiful, slim, with a calm but firm character, in addition she was an extensively educated and widely recognized literary critic. She paid a lot of attention to Arseny: she delved into all of his boyish problems, and taught him how to find the right solutions. Being aware that her son was a budding humanitarian, she did not reproach him for Cs in physics and chemistry, but tried to be more and more engaging when talking about the classics of Russian literature.
When they were once walking in an autumnal park talking about what a person should devote their life to, and what the choice would mean for the personality, his mother suddenly began to speak in such a heartfelt tone, as if leaving her son a parental injunction. “Being a writer is the best profession. The writer does not depend on anyone. While creating, they live in the world of their characters rejoicing and suffering together with every hero and heroine, they are born and die with them. But whatever the events of a story or a novel, they should help the writer, and then the reader, to grow a more beautiful soul, a more courageous character, and a more tempered will. This labor is hard but noble.”
The maternal revelation fell on the heart of her son like a prayer.
***
On finishing high school Arseny entered Leningrad University’s Faculty of Philology. He immediately began to publish his works in a student newspaper; his notes were literate, but rather informative. After his second year the student was conscripted for military service. In the military unit his writing career made a small breakthrough as he became the chief editor of the army newsletter “I Serve My Homeland” that was published in the regimental printing house. Arseny liked both the efficiency of work, the process of laying out a newspaper page, the sound of the linotype, and the exciting smell of a freshly printed sheet. A feeling was beginning to grip his soul; he would be the author of a fateful novel that was struggling to emerge that would captivate the country, and perhaps the whole world. Of course, he understood that fame did not fall from the sky. Repeating over and over again his mother’s spell about work, Arseny started a thick diary, a notebook. However, time flew by with such speed, the events around him seemed shallow, the fates of the people with whom he spoke appeared ordinary… Valuable coins rattled weakly in his creative piggy bank. Arseny lamented his bad luck, but was consoled with his youth that promised to bestow plots sometime in the future.
By the end of his studies he and his mother thought about the next page of his biography. His mother, a wise woman, planted the thought in her son’s mind that a true writer was to be formed by big events and by personal involvement in them, be it war, a blockade, wintering in Antarctica, work in a hot spot (wherever it would be), a big construction project, or knowledge of the psychology of the people involved in the events… And all this should be learned through personal soul struggles. A person who condemns himself or herself to such work becomes a voluntary hard laborer. But it is a sweet hard labor.
When the time came Arseny firmly agreed to go to one of the hottest spots in the North Caucasus. But, despite all his intensive training, this event was not destined to occur. His mother had a stroke. As her only son, Arseny took on all the responsibility to care for this loved one. In order to earn at least some funds, he got a job as a junior editor of a trade union magazine, and he earned some extra cash by answering letters, and giving private lessons. There was not enough money. Then his mother made a sensible offer: to exchange their excellent apartment in St. Petersburg for a small house by the sea in Vyborg and a one bedroom flat in St. Pete to be rented. Arseny courageously began to traverse the unpredictable hellish circles of the housing exchange.
One evening, while sitting beside his mother, he tried calmly, without worrying about her, to tell how he was camping on the doorsteps of offices, and of the hopes she and him had, and he suddenly gazed into her pale face distorted with illness. His heart sank at the awareness of the transience of life. That night he could not sleep. He was tormented by shame. He, an adult man who dreamed of great literature, had not written a single line that would bring joy to his mother. What was he waiting for? What heavenly manna? What insight? No miracle would happen. There would be routine hard labor. And if you have put these shackles and chains on yourself, then sit at the desk, suffer from the distress of your soul, rack your brains and write.
Arseny got up, put on a dressing gown, sat down at his desk, tucked a blank sheet of paper into the typewriter, and typed out in large print the title A Stranger’s Life.
The story of a talented young man who was orphaned early and now lived with his grandmother, had long been formed into a small tale, a little amusing and a little sad, as the uneasy life of two generations that had been separated by the half Russian century is well known.
The plot of the story clearly lined up in Arseny’s head. His fingers ran easily over the keys; there was no time either to stop thinking or to reread the typed text.
Arseny woke up after midday. Not a trace was left of the nocturnal excitement. He took the typed sheets and calmly read the writing. Yes, this certainly was a story, though small, but it contained the three necessary components, the plot, the main action, and the ending.
Walking into his mother’s room, he saw that she was lying on a high pillow feeling ill. When she saw her son, she smiled weakly and quietly, but with an attempt at clearly pronouncing the words, she said:
“I heard … You were typing all night … did the little lamp light up in your soul?”
“Mother, I have prepared a surprise for you. God willing, it will be a good remedy for you.”
His mother’s name (Yevgenia Potapova) was well known and appreciated as a talented literary critic to the magazine that he took his first story to, so Arseny was rather welcome and invited to the next editorial board to hear the answer.
He was walking home involuntarily smiling at his thoughts: he imagined this mother’s joyful excitement when she would hear his story about joining the editorial office, how she would ask for details about everyone and everything, how he would tell her that she was remembered, loved, and everyone was hoping for her quick return…
As always lately, the apartment was quiet. And his mother’s room was too. Arseny carefully opened the door. His mother did not turn in his direction. She didn’t respond to his weak, tender call… He came very close. The traces of the disease were smoothed from her dear face She seemed to have fallen asleep for a while, smiling at something in her sleep. But that sleep was forever.
***
The exchange of housing finally happened. Arseny’s grandmother, Olga Pavlovna Repnina (a totally extraordinary person), came from Kiev to help him settle in a new place, and establish the bachelor’s housekeeping. When was still quite a young girl, she came to join the clinic of the famous neurologist Bekhterev and to his students and colleagues. The sixteen-year-old Olga was employed to wash tubes in the laboratory. Very soon the persistent and inquisitive girl was already working with a microscope. She entered the medical institute and managed both studying and doing scientific research in the clinic that formed the basis of her candidate’s dissertation.
War changed the young woman’s fate. While the radio announcement about the beginning of the tragic war was still sounding, Olga was already on her way to the military registration and recruitment office to demand the immediate appointment of her, Repnina, as superintendent of a medical train. Her assertiveness and ability to convince anyone of anything, her capacity to keep on her feet without sleep and food enabled the miracle: three days later a red cross train fully equipped with medical equipment and staff moved to the west from a platform of the Finland Railway Station. Until Victory Day it raced along those hellish rails, then crawled silently, then, stopping absolutely, would stand to save the lives of thousands.
At ninety, Olga Pavlovna had a clear, practical mind, a phenomenal memory, she read and sewed without glasses, walked without a stick, did gymnastics in the morning, and breathing exercises in the evening, she played chess and was an excellent cook. Of course, she did not move heavy furniture, did not carry suitcases, trunks, and bags, and she did not groan in long queues. Olga Pavlovna was a talented organizer of any business. Knowing that she took on the role of an emergency assistant for a short time, she persistently taught her grandson everything she knew. And she firmly insisted that Arseny did not give up halfway the literary work that he had promised to his mother.
The son of a respected author was seen by the editor-in-chief himself. He expressed sincere condolences, and praised Arseny for not giving up. Putting in front of him the sheets of paper with his story, he began to talk in detail about the writing. While listening, Arseny would suddenly feel feverish and the next moment as if doused with icy water. Though the venerable critic praised him for the liveliness of the dialogues, for the modern youth style, for the finely written details, Arseny understood that his opus was nothing more than scribbling.
The chief editor hugged him tightly by the shoulders.
“Do you agree with my comments? Then bear them in mind and come back. You’ve got your pen, now you shall learn to own it. This is the first thing I wanted to offer you… And the second is that in memory of your mother, we will create a position for you that was taken from literary journals after perestroika and has not been previously in our editorial office. You will read the manuscripts that are sent to the office. They are written by graphomaniacs, by some idle people hunting for memories, and by people who live very interesting lives but cannot tell about them; there are rarely nuggets of gold. The work will certainly be no piece of cake, but you will benefit from it. You will have a contract and, of course, a salary. And the most important thing is that you will be with us, like a son of the editorial regiment.
As he said goodbye, the editor handed Arseny a thick folder and the several sheets of his story flecked with notes.
As Olga Pavlovna looked through the window and saw her grandson slowly walking along the path to the house, she felt with her heart that he was not arriving on the winged Pegasus. However, she was not in a hurry to ask questions: an experienced psychiatrist, she knew that Arseny would tell everything himself. Arseny’s grandmother was sitting in a chair for knitting. He came up, gently hugged her by her shoulders that were covered with a light shawl. Silently he stopped at his desk, carefully put down the plump folder near the desk lamp. He pulled back the bottom drawer and threw the pages with his story into the farthest corner. In the evening they drank fragrant coffee at a coffee table, and the grandson told Olga Pavlovna about the conversation with the chief editor and he himself continued it, talking to himself. Yes, the style, the tone of the story, interesting words… And what is it for? What did he want to say to the reader? How to attract them? What to think about? He does not know life… He is not involved in a great work that gives rise to deep thoughts in a person.
Olga Pavlovna, without interrupting her knitting, as if by the way asked:
“Arsen, do you remember the things I had when you met at the station?”
“Of course,” the grandson answered in surprise. “A small travel suitcase and a large yellow briefcase.”
“Well, my dear, I will take the suitcase with me, but I will leave the briefcase with you. There are my papers, my archive. You will be surprised at what is not there: letters, scraps of wrapping paper with two or three lines, school notebooks with records cut in the middle of a word… I really wanted to remember the war years, events, people’s fates, different cases… But that time was a complete hell. And then another stream washed over… I thought that I was keeping the briefcase for nothing. But no! It has waited for the right moment. I am leaving it to you as a legacy, on your conscience. I am sure that it is useful to you.”
From that day Arseny lived in high spirits. He got up early, sat down at his desk, took another opus from the thick editorial folder and read it carefully, making notes in the margins as if he had been conducting a workshop for himself. Gifted by nature with literary abilities, he did not know how to properly apply them. But then Arseny felt the living flesh of the word, its smell, and its place in the line. As architects know the laws of constructing a building, so writers should build their stories.
In the evenings, sitting down at the coffee table, his grandmother would take her knitting, her grandson would pour fragrant coffee into cups, turn on a tape recorder, and Olga Pavlovna would begin to tell. What did she not remember? She would tell either about the powerful, sprawling family tree of the Repnins, about a companion of Peter the Great described by Pushkin in Poltava, or about the troubled times when the centuries-old glorious tree was being severed at the root. But most often she remembered the war, confessing that for the rest of her life she would hear the moans of the wounded, the whispers of the dying, the explosions of shells and the rattling sound of train wheels … Clack, clack, clack.
No matter how great the tragedy of war was, no matter how hunger, being orphaned, injury, and death hammered people down, there was the joy that would warm the disadvantaged: a letter from home, a concert of the front-line musical band, a pot of hot porridge, a hearty melody played on the accordion, and a trusting rub past of a stray dog that was given shelter. And what about all types of animals picked up by people roaming on wheels! Especially Arseny’s grandmother loved to tell various complicated stories about a handsome rooster that everyone first called Petya, then Pyotr, and then the Emperor for its golden outfit and royal arrogance.
And tapes in the smoothly spinning tape recorder made the voice of the narrator as permanent as rock.
The train to Kiev left in the evening. Having seen his grandmother off, Arseny waited a long time for his bus. The streets were already deserted when he returned to Vyborg. He did not feel like going home, so he went to the sea. The moon was bright. Waves splashed against the stones, washing his face with moist freshness. Arseny stood still. In his soul there was an excitement unknown to him before, excitement that bordered on insanity. He calmed himself down with difficulty and slowly walked to the house. Without lighting a fire, without undressing, he lay down on the bed. He did not want to sleep, he just closed his eyes and dozed off a little. But suddenly he heard the door faintly creak and open slightly… His mother was standing on the threshold wearing a light dress. She approached him. Arseny half rose, buried himself in her knees and through hot tears that were flooding his face he whispered: “Mama, my dear mama… how I missed you…” His mother lifted his face, looked tenderly into his eyes and said softly, but firmly: “It’s time, son. It’s time for you to start on a journey. Now you are ready…”.
Arseny woke up. He was lying on the bed dressed as earlier. There is no one in the room… The door was closed. But his face was wet with tears. What was it? A dream? A vision? But he felt his mother’s hands and saw her eyes. And he realized that she had blessed him.
At the appointed time, Arseny Potapov entered the office of the chief editor, handed him a voluminous folder of manuscripts and said that all materials had been read, put into categories of importance and briefly reviewed. The editor-in-chief nodded in approval, but, staring at Arseny, he sternly asked:
“And where is your story?”
The new employee, a little embarrassed, handed him a transparent file with sheets of clearly printed text. At the top of the first page there was the title “My Amazing Grandmother” displayed in large font. The editor-in-chief surprisingly chuckled, pointed Arseny to a chair to sit down in and wait, and began to read. The author-debutant’s heart was trembling, but he tried hard not to betray his excitement.
Having read the story, the chief editor was silent for a minute, then he carefully folded the sheets and smiled broadly:
“Well done! Your mother’s blood pulses in you! We are publishing this instantly.
Thus began the fate of the writer Arseny Potapov. His stories were published in every issue of the journal. The events of different years and of the different people involved came to life in a new way in the cycle “To the Rattle of Train Wheels”. When starting another storyline, Arseny almost physically felt that he was entering the narrow space between the rails, walking along the tracks. It was difficult to walk forward as if he had been carrying an enormous burden on his shoulders. But step by step, his gait would become lighter, the melody of the story that only he could hear was being born in his soul, and he would search for words harmonious with the melody.
A year later a book by Arseny Potapov was published. And ahead of him new stories were waiting.
Mentors
Once I woke in the morning with the happy thought that if I wanted to become a famous lawyer, I needed to move to the capital, enter university and find myself a mentor. On the same morning I decided to talk to my father about the implementation of this brilliant idea. He approved of my plans, and a week later I moved to the capital.
I am one of those who achieve success at any cost. But defeat turns into victory in some situations. The main lesson is to learn from errors. Only I am emphatically against repeating the same mistakes.
I remember that back in the past when I first visited Baku with my father, I made the wish to be sure to return there to live. Since that time nothing has changed in the city: the horizon’s straight line in the distance, the same limitless sea, the sand is in the same place, waves crash against the shore, people walk along the boulevard…
Baku is a city with narrow streets and happy traders selling fruit, tomatoes, cucumbers, black and white grapes, and fresh fragrant vegetables.
I went to the first café that I could find, had a cup of scalding coffee accompanied with two glasses of local cognac, and bought a drink for the bartender.
From the first day I liked life in the capital.
I dreamed of a brilliant career. There are so many dreamers like me who have failed to succeed. And now there is the son of a provincial doctor, who having graduated from a law school immediately found a job as an assistant attorney. This is how people say: “God helped.”
My manager was a true professional.
He was my mentor: he taught me the skills and subtleties of the profession, praised for success and effort. And I became his faithful dog: a friend from among those who are charged with unpleasant errands. Soon I began to conduct those law cases that were destined to failure.
At first success turned my head. I proudly walked around the city streets looking very pleased so that everyone would know about my achievements. When I met an acquaintance in the Baku boulevard, I’d enthusiastically shake hands and declare: “Please know that I am a lawyer, and I am at your service.” People would smile in bewilderment and go away. So my days went by.
I was once again walking along the streets one afternoon when rain suddenly began to fall. In this sort of weather it seems that the sun hasn’t been seen for a long time by anyone, and in fact miracles happen only in summer and only under the sun…
The rain was getting heavier and heavier, the water flooded the sidewalks, and the boulevard. I had to take refuge in a small and rather cozy cafe. Cadets walked in a single file behind me and crowded at the door: some clasped their hands in front of them, some leaned a shoulder against the wall. After standing there for several minutes, they left.
In the cafe there was an old man, short, thin, and stooped. His big hands resembled the claws of a crab. His bald skull shone through sparse grey hair. He stared at me, but I still could not understand where I had seen him before.
I recognized the old man as a former adviser to the president of the republic. He was apparently also there fleeing the rain.
Having obtained his permission, I sat down at the table and ordered tea for myself.
“What bad weather,” I said.
The old man only shrugged.
“Especially for those who went outside without an umbrella.”
He did not answer, staring thoughtfully through the window. The downpour was subsiding. On seeing a woman gathering up her skirt to cross a puddle, he slowly began to speak: “I love to watch people through the window when it rains. Children rejoice and stomp barefoot in puddles, women lift their skirts a little, and students cover their heads with plastic folders with their coursework and essays. We should be like children.”
He raised his eyes and looked at me.
“But I don’t like to walk in the rain. I am especially afraid of pedestrians with umbrellas: there is nothing more dangerous for eyes than sharp ribs.”
“Especially if the pedestrian is a woman,” he said, grinning.
So our conversation commenced gradually and it became more and more lively. We talked about everything: about politics, about culture, about family, about life. When they brought me the bill, the man resolutely raised his hand:
“Just a moment,” he said, “it seems I have some change somewhere. If so, you are extremely lucky.”
He pulled a handful of paper money out of his pocket, rummaged in it, found one manat, smiled, showing shiny white teeth, and announced:
“You are in the luck. You are the only one to be lucky today.”
Then we left the cafe and decided to take a walk. Kerim Karimovich (that was my new acquaintance’s name) walked stooping a little and choosing where to step so as not to get his shoes dirty.
“You cannot be from Baku.”
“Yes, you are right,” I replied. “I have moved to the capital to study. Afterwards I decided to stay here. I like this city, the bright lights, the boulevard, the sea.
“May I ask your profession?”
I paused before answering. After all, it would be at least immodest to surprise a person of such magnitude with my achievements. And I said simply:
“I work as a lawyer. Usually I win hopeless cases that venerable lawyers refuse to take.”
I forced myself to smile.
We walked in silence for some time. Suddenly my companion stopped.
“I now live in London and work as an adviser to our ambassador in England. If you want to continue to learn and to work in a new place, you may have me at your disposal.”
I found such a proposal a complete surprise.
I started mumbling words of appreciation…
Kerim Karimovich patted me on the back with a smile:
“Well, well… Enough, young man… Relax. You have time to think.”
After a stroll we reached his house, and he invited me in. Convention states that an invitation is not to be declined, even if you don’t want to go in.
The house was luxurious and very simple. There was a massive mahogany table with drawers in Kerim Karimovich’s study. In the living room there was a large tiled fireplace, a leather sofa and four armchairs. There was is a Persian carpet on the floor, and crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. There were multivolume collected works of classics in high bookshelves. On the opposite wall there was a large painting depicting a raging sea.
When we were saying goodbye, he mentioned that my life would change a lot: there would be more opportunities to show my abilities.
For a long time I wandered through the streets of the city thinking about the proposal from a person I had met by chance.
When I returned home I took a clean sheet of paper. I could not remember the last time I wrote a letter. I wanted to consult with my parents, but decided to go to them, to see them and discuss this offer.
***
I got out of bed to heat the kettle. The wooden floor was cool underfoot. A chilly day was dawning. I opened the wooden door, entered the kitchen that seemed to me smaller, narrower and lower.
A gas jet came to life with a trembling blue flame that cast faint shadows on the wall. I took out a cigarette and, stooping down, lit it from the gas flame. I inhaled eagerly and sat in the armchair. The tobacco smoke seemed to send a signal to the brain with each puff, and the sleep was going somewhere far away. The kettle whistled like a siren. Mother quietly came in.
“But why aren’t you sleeping?” mother asked.
“I don’t know…”
“Get some sleep,” she whispered softly.
“I will later. Looks like the passenger train is passing by…”
We listened to the sound of the wheels for a long time. The tremble merged with the noise. Then everything would calm down, die out, as if the roar had been absorbed by the earth.
“Farewell, another train,” I thought.
As a boy, I loved to open the window to a cool garden in the early dawn, when roosters crowed: then the air was clean and clear, as if it hadn’t been there. I would hurry up to wash, and the clear, icy heavy water would instantly sluice away nocturnal laziness. After a breakfast of cheese and tandoor bread, I would rush out for a walk.
Yesterday, when I finally arrived home after being away for a long time, I first of all sensed the smell of freshly baked bread. It was quiet and clean everywhere and it seemed that the chairs, the table, and the mirror had never moved. And now my mother and my father were meeting me.
Lentil soup and pilaf were already on the table. Everything was like it had been in the childhood. I sat down at the table, swallowed a few spoonfuls; I was so excited I could hardly eat. Mother asked if I was well.
“Thank you, Mother! Let me look at you first,” I replied.
I decided to postpone the talk about moving to London. I cut off a piece of bread and began to chew it slowly. Meanwhile, my mother was coaxing me: “Son, at least eat some more. This is your favorite soup.” And suddenly she started saying that her elder brother, who had been the head of our city for a long time, was in hospital, and I had to visit him.
***
When I woke up the next morning, the house already smelled of freshly baked bread and thyme tea. The dishes clattered.
I hurriedly had breakfast and began to get ready to visit my uncle. Mother had already prepared a bag with treats for him.
The central hospital had been repaired and painted. Now it was purple. It never occurred to me to paint a cancer hospital in that color. Apparently, the principal doctor thought differently… Where is the patient? In a purple oncology hospital. It is even a little funny.
I went into the building from the main entrance. A grey-haired guard with a black mustache looked at me inquiringly.
“Excuse me,” I said, “could you tell me the ward where Afgan Askerov is?”
“Who? Afgan Askerov?” He put on his glasses and carefully looked at the log book. Then he got up. “Are you visiting him? Why didn’t you say so straight away? He is in Ward 312, alone. Third floor. Do you understand that patients cannot be visited in the morning? I think the chief doctor will not say anything if he sees you.” He talked with great pride. “Excuse me, young man, what relation are you to Afgan Askerov?”
“A nephew… I came from Baku,” I replied, and headed for the lift.
It always seems strange to me that a man may be interested in someone else’s life. It can be somehow understood in women, but not in men. In my opinion, this is one of the differences between men and women. As the lift was going down to the first floor, a man wearing a white coat got on.
The lift doors closed. The man in the white coat pressed the button for the third floor. He looked preoccupied. But could it be different? Try working as a cancer surgeon. This is not an easy task. The lift slowly crawled up and then it stopped. We both got off and found ourselves on a landing where there were different doors with golden handles.
“Where is the number 312, or rather, the ward 312?” I muttered not looking at him and hoping that he would answer.
“I don’t know,” the doctor replied and left.
“Thank you,” I said gritting my teeth. An elderly woman with glasses who wore a nurse’s uniform walked past slowly, stood in front of the lift and pressed a button.
“Could you tell me,” I was looking at her now, “where is Ward 312?”
“Straight, fourth door.”
I found Ward 312 but could not enter at once. My hands went cold. After standing a little in front of the door, I entered. The most important thing was to pull oneself together, to say hello, then everything would follow on.
It was a long room with one big window and a door at the far end. My uncle’s bed was right in the middle of the room. He was lying on his left side. He seemed to immediately see me; he recognized me and even rose up slightly in the bed. The voices of doctors and nurses could be heard from other wards. The grey morning light made its way through the blinds. I came closer, gave my hand and, not waiting for a return movement, took him by his wrist and kissed his thin cheek. I looked into his eyes. And I found the gaze of a man who had lived for almost eight decades in this world and for whom the other world was no longer a secret. It was a look that had still not lost its sharpness and mysterious attractive force. With a single glance he suggested I sit, so I sat down on the edge of his bed having carefully moved the blanket away. We looked at each other for a few minutes.
I admit I did not know where to begin our conversation. For some reason, I did not like him before. There was something cold about him. In any case, it seemed to me so when we had just met.
As a child I dreamed of becoming a sailor; I would play in the yard with a boat. The rope to which the toy was attached got tangled, and I could not untie it at all. Suddenly my mother approached me and said that we had a guest and he should help me. I complied, knowing that I had no choice. He was impeccably dressed. It seemed to me that his clothes had been ironed on him. His shoes were polished to a shine, and his thick brown hair was brushed to the side and it smelled strongly of cologne. It took him a second to untie the rope; he gave it to me and, patting me on the head, said:
“If anything, only ask,” and I felt like an idiot at that moment.
Now in front of me I saw an old man emaciated by illness. Only the eyes remained from the man I once knew. I looked at him and thought that relentless and merciless Time had won again.
“Do you live in Baku? How is life there? They say everything there has changed since Soviet times.” A smile appears on his lips, he probably remembered his youth. “I have not been there for a long time. What are you doing there? Well, tell me… do you help your parents?” he asked in a calm and confident voice.
I answered briefly that I was working as a lawyer and that I helped my parents. I no longer knew what else to tell him.
There was silence, and with every minute it became more and more oppressive.
“You know, when a person is incurably sick, they want to be alone,” said Afgan in a weak voice. “Now it is important to accept one’s diagnosis with dignity, without panic. And I also want to free everyone from pitying me unnecessarily. I still have a lot of questions and an understanding that I could not do everything…” he took a deep breath. “You do not remember her, she was much older than you. My daughter Telly. She died when she was fifteen. That was thirty years ago. For me…”
I saw tears in his swollen eyes.
“… it was the highest punishment of God. For thirty years I have been living with this pain.”
“I understand,” I muttered and lowered my eyes.
“I have three or four months left to live if I take the medicine. If not, a month. Therefore, I have decided to refuse treatment. I do not want to be a burden for my sons; I have never been like that. I always lived as I wanted, but now everything is different. I do not want it like that… I look at my photo, it is the last one with Telly where we sit in an embrace in a park. Now I understand that I was alive when she was alive. Afterwards I just counted my days. I told my sons that I should be buried next to my beloved daughter. I want to see her! How many years I have lived with this thought. Once long ago I read a book where it was written that if graves are near, souls may meet.”
He looked up, looked at me and was silent. Still, God is not just: the loss of a child is the most terrible thing that can happen to a person. This time my uncle Afgan seemed a fearless person to me. He was not afraid of death. People are right when saying that the fearless do not need courage, courage is necessary for those who are afraid, but still overcome their fear.
His courage strengthened my confidence and I, without speaking with my parents, decided to move to England.
Now I live in London. During this time I lost my father. And a year ago Kerim Karimovich died.
“I love only you”
Part I
The first day of autumn… Suddenly, a heavy rumble of thunder rolled over the city, drops of rain started drumming on the roof of the house. An old clock in an marquetry wooden case showed eight in the morning. Boris Gusev, an associate professor of Bauman University, awoke very early as his thoughts were unsettling him.
“The rain has burst into singing…”, Sarah muttered in her dreamy voice.
Boris, without answering, continued to automatically count the fallen drops of rain. “One, two, three, four…” Then he turned to the sleeping girl and kissed her.
“You are the best woman in the world, your body is like honey, all sweetness, from head to toe.” He kissed her once more, then on the forehead.
“I love you…” she murmured opening her eyes.
“And I, only you…” he answered. “Forgive me for letting you down yesterday…” Boris turned away from her.
“Don’t mention it, I always feel good with you, as you know. It’s enough that you are near”, and she kissed him on the neck. “Near to you I always feel that I am a woman, a loved and desired woman… You and I just loved each other yesterday… It’s enough for me. On the other hand, is it so important to you?”
She opened her eyes.
“Important… In love, everything is important, especially the little things.”
“You yourself told me that sex is a game…”
Boris smiled, but said nothing in response, and only took a deep breath.
“Why is my boy not in the mood?” She clung to him even more tightly.
“You are flying away tomorrow, and I am losing you.”
“You aren’t losing me at all. We have all today and the whole night to spend together. I will just leave for a while,” she smoothed his thick hair that had been sticking out in all directions after sleep. “Father and mother have been waiting for me; I haven’t been home since summer. I need to talk with my own people, to explain to them… Although…” And she added a little while later. “Besides, it is all very strict in BP, they only let me go for two days…”
Boris didn’t say another word, but the rain continued to drum on the roof. The room was cold, the wind was wandering around the room.
“Shut the window,” Sarah asked. “It is cold.”
He got up, approached the window and closed it, then went back to bed, all without a sound.
“Why are you so silent?” She began to stroke his head.
“I don’t know… For the first time in my life I am feeling so empty inside. Now I’m lying with you and I cannot imagine how I will be without you. How will you be there, alone? An Eastern city, people are different, everything is alien…”
Sarah was somewhat puzzled by the conversation. She lay quiet for a while, then said:
“I will not be alone there, but with my parents, my brothers… And yet, why do you say that everything is alien there? The place is my home, and the largest city in the Caucasus,” she pronounced firmly.
“I mean, alone, without me… And isn’t Moscow hometown for you?”
“Yes, but the first place is Baku. Life there is different, it is quite distinctive from the life that is here in Moscow. You should one day go there with me…”
“Would you like that?” Boris asked as he quickly looked at Sarah.
“Of course I would, dear.”
“Then one day we will fly there together.”
“By the way, do you know what the word Baku means?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“It is assumed that the word ‘baku’ comes from the Persian word bad kube, blown by the wind.”
“So is it always windy there?”
“The wind blows from the Caspian Sea almost at all times. And it smells like oil.”
“I would never have guessed myself,” he smiled slightly.
Boris certainly knew all that, but he did not stop Sarah. He liked the pride she took to tell him each time about the city where she had been born and raised.
She sat on the window ledge and began to look into the courtyard from the height of the second floor. Boris brought from the kitchen a cup of coffee and a plate of strawberries. He put all that next to her and touched her cheek with his lips.
“Here, I’ve made it for you. Of course, I cannot make real oriental coffee, but I have tried as best I could. Only for you…”
She coquettishly squinted her eyes and answered:
“Teşekkürler…”
“What? Say it again, please…”
“Teşekkürler…” With a smile, she chose the biggest berry, bit off half and held out the other half to Boris.
“Translate.”
“It means Thank you. You speak English to me, I speak my own language to you. And why? Since you love me, you must know my language, as I know Russian…”
“If you marry me, I promise that I will learn Azerbaijani!”
She said nothing and looked away.
“Well, what do you say?”
She took a sip from the cup enjoying the taste of strong sweet coffee, and bit down on another berry…
“Delicious… You know, our men are not used to being so romantic? I mean, making coffee, cooking for a woman they love. Hardly anyone does it… In short, it is all the opposite.”
He shook his head, smiled and said:
“But you yourself have spoiled your men…”
“Absolutely!” The young woman agreed.
They were silent for a while. Boris gave a long audible sigh.
“Everyone leaves me. The housekeeper had gone too.”
“Amanda?”
“Yes, Amanda. She left early in the morning, asked me for leave yesterday. One of her many relatives has her birthday today.”
“But do they celebrate first thing in the morning?” She sounded surprised.
“Don’t know. Filipinos are from another world, we don’t understand them, and they do not understand us. I was even glad that she would leave today, and you and I could be alone…” he added with sadness.
“Honey, I’m only going for two days. Stop being sad, please. People don’t see each other for years…”
“Tell this to my heart, if, of course, it understands you…”
They again were silent for a long time.
“Is it still raining?”
“Yes. I like the rain… They say in my country, if you want God to hear your prayers, pray when it rains. My great-grandmother always said so. This is just a proverb.”
“Grandmothers are like old treasure chests, brimming with riches, I mean, wisdom. When they start talking, everyone around is silent. Only they are able to tell the same story many times, and each time differently…”
She nodded in agreement.
“You are right. My great-grandmother died when I was fifteen. I then was her only great-granddaughter, and I was named after her,” Sarah’s eyes became sad. “I was shocked and for a long time didn’t feel myself. I never thought that she would ever die… So wise… Up until now, she is as alive before my eyes… I really miss her.”
“You are lucky as I don’t remember either my grandmother or great-grandmother. I look on you friendly envy; if you think often of her, it means that she is still alive for you,” he sadly smiled.
“Yes, she certainly lives in my memory… She was ninety-four years old. For us she was a link with our ancestors.”
There were tears in Sarah’s eyes. Boris hugged her trying to reassure.
“Don’t cry. We should pray for her. She lived a decent life. May God let everyone have such a life…”
“Before she died,” Sarah continued, as if not hearing him, “everyone gathered around her. I sat down next to her and took her hand in mine. I could not hold tears and burst into tears… Grandmother looked at me and said: ‘Always be courageous, and may Almighty Allah bless you.’ Then in a weak voice she said her last words: ‘Everyone be friendly and maintain the family’… These words, ‘maintain the family,’ I remembered forever. Her death was the first injustice I encountered in my life.”
“Your hands are so cold, Sarah!” Boris squeezed her palm.
“My hands are like everyone’s. I just stared at the rain for too long and remembered her…”
He took her in his arms.
“Get dressed, let’s go.”
“Where?”
“I just want to go on a ride with you around Moscow. Shall we have breakfast somewhere?” He was already standing in front of the closet deciding on what to wear. Sarah approached him and put her head on his shoulder. He ran his hand over her cheek wiping away the remnants of tears.
“Where do you intend to go? It is cold and raining outside…” Her voice was already quiet and calm.
“When you’re around, I don’t feel cold.”
He kissed her.
“You are just gorgeous… Let’s go and on the way decide what to do. And, since your grandmother said that we should pray, when it rains, we will do so, we will pray holding each other’s hands.”
“And what shall we ask of Him?”
“A happy future for us…”
“There is no happy future. The present only can be happy, and only that.”
Sarah also began to dress. Ten minutes later they were sitting in the car. Boris started the engine and looked at her:
“It is necessary to wait a little, they say, three minutes is enough for the engine to warm up.”
“My dad never warms the engine, just starts it and drives off.”
“What sort of car does your dad have?” he looked at her.
“I don’t understand cars much… Just a moment…” she opened her brown Hermes bag and took out an iPhone. “I’ll show you some photos now. Here!”
“This is a Toyota Land Cruiser. A great car, one might say, eternal.”
He nodded in approval.
Well, we shall go. Fasten your seat belts. My main concern is to deliver you safely.
Part II
“Are you hungry?” Boris’s hoarse voice seemed to come alive.
“Terribly,” Sarah replied smiling.
“We’ll order food now,” he rubbed his hands impatiently, “What would you like?”
“Thyme tea…”
“I mean, what shall we eat?”
“Azerbaijani ku-ku.”
They were sitting by a large glass window, on the second floor of the 24-hour Fresh Café located right on the Garden Ring, next to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Boris looked around for a waiter.
“Looks like we are alone here,” he smiled leaning toward her.
“You know, I am very glad that you and I are alone here,” she giggled.
“Sorry,” a young man of twenty-three quickly walked over to them and put a menu on the table, “Sorry for the delay.”
He had a an elongated head, disproportionately long, with which he seemed to shake guiltily.
“Bring us thyme tea and, if you have it, Azerbaijani ku-ku,” Boris said, looked at his name tag and added:
“Aslan.”
“There is thyme tea, but unfortunately no kyu-kyu. Maybe you would like to order something else?”
“Good. Leave the menu here and bring some tea.” Boris took the menu and handed it to Sarah.
“Do you do omelet?” She put the menu aside without even looking.
“We have eggs, cream and cheese omelet served with three pieces of toast, cream cheese and butter,” “Aslan replied instantly, as if he had been waiting for this question from the very beginning.
“I’ll have the omelet, Beard! And you too?”
She very often called Boris ‘the Beard’. He shook his head.
“I would like to have pancakes with cottage cheese.”
The waiter reiterated the order and hurriedly left.
“I still need to have time to get some sweets as dad loves Moscow chocolate so much. He says this is the taste of his youth, especially Mishka Kosolapy and Alenka…”
Sarah smiled and sighed.
“After all, he served in the army here in the Moscow region; he was even offered to stay, but he refused. He loves his homeland madly,” she sighed again, “and even grandmother insisted that he should return home, ‘You are my only son, will you really stay in Russia?’ This is how motherly love very often gets in our way…”
“But he seems to have made the right choice, there is only one homeland, and just like one’s mother, it cannot be replaced with anything. I was born in Moscow and grew up here, I’ve got so many opportunities to immigrate to America, but I don’t want to, Russia is my homeland…”
The waiter approached and silently put a teapot on the table and left again. Boris poured tea into cups.
“Where are you going to buy the sweets?”
“Well, in any store, I just hope I won’t forget. As well as some smoked sausage, Dad always asks me to bring that too. The funniest thing is,” she took a cup of tea, “he will eat two or three slices on the first day, and the rest is kept in the fridge until mother throws it away.”
“Sausage?”
“Yes, she is a believer, she doesn’t eat sausage… Her religion does not approve.”
“I see … So, your father is expecting sausage and candy from us.”
Boris immediately started wondering where was best to buy it all.
“Do not forget, dear Beard, Dad is expecting a gift personally from me. Let’s not do it in common. Not yet,” she added, “please…”
“Your omelet and pancakes,” said Aslan trying to please. “Anything else?”
“No, that would be all so far. Bring two cappuccinos later.”
When the waiter left, Boris reproved Sarah:
“Why do you always speak straight from the shoulder? You are always trying to hush up conversations on this topic! Am I saying something unusual? You and I have been together for six months… But when I say ‘we’, mind you, I don’t divide us into you and me, but you stop me all the time.”
Sarah did not answer a word.
“Well, at least say something! I beg you, don’t be silent…”
“By the way,” she looked up at him smiling, “you screamed in your sleep last night. You even woke me up.”
“Did I cry out?” Boris asked in surprise.
“The first time it happened?”
“I don’t know, I don’t remember anything,” he shrugged his shoulders, “probably the first… Apparently I cried out because you were leaving me, and I was calling after you…”
“Not calling, but screaming with all your might.”
Boris smiled shyly.
“When a loved one leaves us, we must do everything to stop them. Sometimes it is better to scream, it may help more than gentle words.”
“Yes … Eat, eat, my darling man…”
“And you, my darling woman, eat too as your omelet will get cold now…”
For a short time it was silent at their table, only the clatter of forks could be heard, but soon the silence was broken by the waiter.
“Your two cappuccinos. Anything else?”
This time he looked at Sarah.
“Thank you, it is enough for now,” she straightened her unruly hair that fell over her forehead.
“Well, if anything, I will be downstairs.”
He retired.
“It seems he likes you,” Boris said derisively.
“But I don’t like him. Leave these sarcastic comments for your girl students, you have lots of them, so you can mock them as much as you want.”
“Really? And can I yell at them?”
“Of course, you can…”
“And can I yell at you?”
“Only when asleep,” and she smiled again, “considering you have already done it today. But, mind you, I’m not offended. I still love you…”
“I love only you…” echoed Boris.
“Dear Beard, tell me, please, do not conceal it. What did you see in your dream? I feel you are not saying something…”
“You won’t like my dream.”
“Why? Was it really me you shouted at in your sleep?”
“No.”
“And then what?”
“Killed…” after saying this, he watched Sarah’s reaction carefully.
“How? Killed who?”
“A horse… I can’t remember the colour. I only remember that I was in the desert with a group of people. We were many, and we were going somewhere. One of the horses fell ill, and for some reason I decided to kill it. I stabbed the horse with a knife. But the horse was the most beautiful of all…”
“Why did you kill it?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged again, “I don’t know, probably there was a reason, but I don’t remember.”
Sarah was expectantly silent.
“I remember that when it saw the knife in my hand, it looked at me and closed its eyes. As if it had sensed what was coming… Horrific! A nightmare…”
“And were you screaming because you were killing?”
“I don’t remember… I felt sorry for it, but I could not do anything. I cannot add more detail, I remembered only this sense of experiencing the horror,” Boris added.
“It’s good that all the horror you experienced remained there,” she said in a trembling whisper.
Suddenly Boris’s phone rang. When he saw the number, he smiled tightly and quickly turned the phone screen down, being obviously startled; he even fidgeted on his chair.
“Why aren’t you taking it?” Sarah asked curiously.
“Well… An irrelevant person, I will call back later. I don’t want to waste this morning on empty talk…”
“Are you sure that this is an irrelevant person?”
She ate the last of the omelet.
“Yes, I am sure,” he rose from his seat, taking the phone. “I’ll go outside.”
He went downstairs to the first floor and stopped on the porch to press the call reception button.
“What do you need?” Boris asked irritably.
“We need to meet. What’s more, it should be today, in the afternoon or in the evening, no matter.”
“Exactly no matter! All this does not matter to me!” he responded. “Before I asked you and now I demand that you no longer phone me, never again! Leave me alone, Alice, don’t you understand plain Russian?”
“I do understand, don’t shout at me! I am not your wife anymore, you may scream at your woman. What was her name?” she paused for a few seconds, then added sarcastically, “Oh, Sarah the provincial girl!”
“Leave us alone…”
“Us? Is this how you putting this already? You haven’t got married, have you? I won’t forgive you that, can you hear me?”
“I am not going to discuss anything with you!”
“Well, don’t. When I find her, Boris, you will see what I will do to her. I will scratch her face with my fingernails! Let her leave you alone! You are mine!!!”
“Go to hell…”
He pressed the button, turned round and saw Sarah right in front of him. Boris blinked, puzzled, and looked at her from head to toe, not knowing what to say.
“Come on, it’s raining,” she whispered, and they went back to the cafe.”
“Wait!”
He grabbed her hand.
“I’ll explain everything, she is my…”
She pulled her hand away and pressed her index finger to her lips, as if calling for silence.
When they returned to the table, Sarah made sure that there were no extra ears around and said:
“Never tell anything personal about yourself without making sure you are alone. People just need a cause for gossip. And believe me, it doesn’t matter whether these people know you or not.”
“But you and I were alone, and nobody here knows us.”
He pointed to an almost empty cafe.
“I don’t care about everyone else, the main thing is you!”
“Neither do I, but we had already been inside, and there are people on the first floor, and there are waiters. Why should they know about your ex-wife phoning you?”
“You are right,” he stroked his beard, confused, “how wise you are!”
They sat down.
“I know who she is,” Sarah said. “Once, maybe three or four months ago, my phone rang. I picked up the phone and heard an unfamiliar female voice. She said: ‘Well, hello, Sarah, you didn’t expect a call from me, did you?’ I asked who it was, and she started yelling: ‘Didn’t you recognize me, you bitch, I am Alice, your lover’s wife, leave him alone…’ And so on. In short, an empty talk…”
Boris looked at her in surprise.
“And what did you say to her?”
“Nothing,” she smiled, “I sent her to hell.”
“I don’t understand,” he nervously rubbed his beard, wondering, “how did she get your phone number? How did she even guess about your existence?”
“Well, we will probably find out over time as answers sometimes come much later than questions.”
“It is just when it does come, it will no longer have such a meaning.”
Boris tightened his lips in a single line.
“Honestly, I don’t care! I will tell you more, I do not care where she found the number and how she knew about me. Let her worry, as I am with you, not her.”
“Shall we get you another mobile number?” suggested Boris.
“No! I’m not afraid of her; I can really do without changing my number because of her. I have all my contacts connected to it.”
“And after then has she called you again?”
“I put her number into the block list straight away.”
“I get it.”
He shook his head.
“The next time she calls you, do tell me. If I am near, then speak with me near. Otherwise it looks like you are hiding something from me… But she’d better not try calling again!” he muttered discontentedly. “Why didn’t you tell me about that call?”
“Why? This is what she is trying to achieve, I would tell you, you would call her and get mad at her… Perhaps there may be a reason to meet… So I decided to wait. But why did you break up?”
“Because she is an idiot!” he said sharply, then added:
“Honestly, I still do not understand what attracted me to her. Very often I think about it and cannot understand.”
“Do you think of her?”
“No, I think of what made me marry her. It’s as if we were really drawn to what we dislike. She has a cold heart…”
“Did you understand this just now?”
“No, I realized it fully about a year ago, and immediately left her. I left the apartment to her. As a bonus.” He smiled ironically. “But she wasn’t happy and wanted an apartment in the center of Moscow. No shame, no conscience, all the time nothing is good enough…”
“Dear Beard, let’s forget about her,” Sarah interrupted him.
“Forget about her,” he repeated quietly, then straightened his back, looked at the Garden Ring from the window and said:
“And shall we spend today together?”
The girl’s lips spread into a tender smile.
“I don’t mind…”
Part III
Sarah opened her eyes. The electronic clock display showed 8:20. After a few more minutes in bed she reached out to the bedside table, trying to find the phone by touch. She wanted to write to Boris, to once again tell of her love for him… Her fingers were frantically rummaging searching for the phone, but suddenly Sarah remembered that yesterday before going to bed she had left it on the window ledge. She had to get out of bed and go to the window. She looked at the phone screen, the mobile clock showed 8:23; she took a deep breath and began to tap out: “Dear Beard, I adore you! I love you… Life is so sweet with you…”
“Sarah,” mother came into the room, “daughter, are you awake already?” she asked gently.
“Yes, mum. Did something happened?” she put down her phone.
“Nothing happened. Why are you up so early? That’s out of character for you”, her mother was tidying up in the room at the same time as she was speaking.
Sarah raised herself to lean on her elbow and spoke:
“You are right, mum, but before my brain used to spin in the mornings, so my body would lie motionless for a while. Sometimes I could not even remember my own name, until I would gradually become myself. But all this is already in the past…”
“Perhaps something is bothering you? Maybe you have fallen in love, but I don’t know of it?” Mother was looking at the daughter suspiciously.
Sarah remembered Boris’s eyes; as at first she would feel uncomfortable when those green cat’s eyes looked at her. She wanted to say: “Why ‘maybe’, I am in love,” but she couldn’t. A smile reappeared on her lips, and Sarah pretended not to hear her mother’s last words.
“Well, daughter, don’t be silent! Maybe you will tell me…”
“I just don’t feel like sleeping longer…” Sarah was somewhat puzzled by the question. Then she got up to take her robe.
“Don’t look at me, mum… I’m feeling embarrassed…”
“I am not looking,” Mother turned away. “No big deal… Didn’t I raise you? Didn’t I wash your little bum? Okay, okay, I am not looking!”
“That’s good … Mum?”
“What?” she replied slightly offended.
“The early bird gets the first worm, remember?” said Sarah getting dressed.
“But the early mouse will get into a mousetrap, and the next mouse will get the cheese,” her mother objected making the bed.
Sarah left the room and headed to the bathroom. When she returned, her bed was made up. Mother called from the kitchen:
“Daughter, come have tea! Just brewed, I have not had breakfast yet because I was waiting for you. But dad has already gone to work.”
Sarah sat down at the table that had all possible treats served. Tea in a Turkish tea glass, honey, tandoor bread, cheese of different varieties, olives… She took a cake, lifted it to her face and smelled it with her eyes closed, then broke off a piece.
“How I love this smell!” she sniffed the piece of bread again. “There is nothing tastier in the world than hot fresh tandoor bread!”
“Yes, daughter,” mother nodded in agreement. “Here, take honey, it is real honey sent from a mountain region. And have some butter.” She moved the butter dish closer to Sarah. “Come on, eat.”
“No, I’ll have some bread and cheese and that’s it. Honey is too high in calories, and as for butter, it is out of the question…”
“Look at yourself, what do you look like now? You’ve lost weight, your arms are like matches.” Her mother grabbed her arm and shook her, then let go. “Shall I make you an omelet?”
“Please no! My arms are not thin, they are slender. Even if I gain weight, then first of all it will show here,” and she pointed to her chest and hips, “it is genetic. On the whole, everything will turn out like you, I will be round like a donut.”
“How are you going to give birth being so thin? It worries me a lot…”
“Stop it, I am not going to give birth soon anyway, and you are forgetting that I’m not married yet.”
“I am not! Just wanted to talk about it with you, while father and brother are not at home.”
“Well, let’s talk…” Sarah had a sip from the cup. “I am all ears.”
“My dear daughter, you will soon be twenty-seven, and you are still not married. Both your father and I are rather worried… We want to see you wearing a wedding dress, to dance at your wedding… You know that your father has heart problems…”
“I realized that when father didn’t meet me at the airport yesterday but Timur, my father’s friend’s son. I am already tired of persuading him! He should fly to me in Moscow, there is an institute of cardiology. Moscow doctors will help him…”
“Father and I have recently been in Istanbul, there are also good doctors there. The doctor we visited said he absolutely should not worry.”
“So you shouldn’t make him anxious,” Sarah replied, sipping her tea.
“Me?!” The mother looked at her daughter through her glasses in surprise.
“Certainly you, who else, I live far away from you…”
The mother said nothing.
“Well, tell me how did Timur meet you yesterday?”
“It was fine. I was getting my luggage, and suddenly heard a voice: ‘Sarah, let me help you.’ He met me inside the airport. Honestly, I liked that.”
“And do you like him?”
“Of course not.”
“Why ‘Of course’?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t like him and won’t be able to fall in love with him,” she shrugged.
“You may be able to…”
“No, I won’t,” Sarah replied in a firm, confident voice.
“Maybe you are right…” mother agreed reluctantly.
Sarah nodded, as if once again confirming her words, and then added indistinctly, with her mouth full:
“Then what are you talking about? Since you know everything…”
“My dear daughter, my little Thumbelina,” mother began persuading her. “You will fall in love with him later when you have started living together. He is very smart, handsome…”
“Yes, yes, I know…”
“He graduated from a university in England,” continued mother, “and now he works as a deputy director in one of the major Baku banks. And he is only thirty-one. He has a future…”
“Someone is going to be really really lucky!” Sarah smiled. “I see my future clearly, but Timur is not part of it, that’s for sure. The times have gone when bridegrooms were chosen for girls, even before they grow up, praise be to Allah! But now parents do not leave us alone in adult life, they just want to see their daughters married! As if that was the one’s only goal in life! People have completely lost their minds…”
“Stop it! What do you know about life? You are young, have no life experience and do not forget, your parents don’t wish you ill.” Mother got up from the table, poured herself some more tea and sat down again. “We have chosen a guy for you whom we have known since he was young. His parents are educated and decent people, and as you know, genes play a big role in such matters.”
After a while, she added:
“The other day Timur’s mother came round, after she had heard that you were arriving soon. You know, they are our distant relatives…”
“I do know that. So you and his mother decided to send him to the airport to meet me. So mother, altogether please remember once and for all, when a person returns to their homeland, they want to be met by their loved ones.” Sarah took her mobile to see if there was an answer from her lover.
But mother again ignored her words.
“She came to us with a ring. He chose a diamond ring for you! Bought it in Paris, can you imagine? In Paris!”
While mother was talking, Sarah read the message: “My dear, good morning! Do you want to know if my morning is good or not? I will tell you. When I wake up and don’t see your beautiful brown eyes, don’t sense the smell of your hair, my morning cannot be good. I love only you…”
“Daughter? Can you hear me?” Mother was looking at Sarah with her eyebrows raised in surprise. “You have such an faraway look, as if you were here and somewhere else at the same time.”
“Sorry, mum, I’ve been sent a message from work. You were saying?”
“I was saying that your thoughts are somewhere far away,” the mother waved her hand in front of Sarah’s eyes.
“No, it’s probably because of acclimatization… I feel good without his ring. So what, from Paris!”
“Ah … Daughter …” The mother, sighing, looked tiredly at Sarah.
“Mother, why do you by all means want me to marry Timur?”
“Probably because I see a worthy boyfriend, husband, father in him…”
“Well, even if it is true, so what?”
“You will marry him!” said the mother in a firm voice.
“This is totally out of the question!” Sarah smiled, trying to soften the emphatic words. “I cannot marry him… I do not like him!”
“You will fall in love with him later, the two of you will live together and you will get used to him, as I’ve already told you. I married your father the same way and later I fell in love with him.”
“But do you think this is the norm?”
“Without a doubt!” the mother answered trying to maintain her composure.
“I am sorry, but it’s really impossible…” Sarah turned away for a few seconds, then looked at her mother again. “Life is given only once, and everyone should live it the way they want it.”
“Listen, it turned out historically that our women don’t decide their own fate and entrust it to their parents. I will not give you bad advice. You will marry him and have children with him. What could be better?”
Mother looked at her, as if hypnotizing with her look, showing with her whole appearance that Sarah had to submit to fate.
“This is already a pathology…” Sarah growled, unable to bear it.
“Your pathology is right here,” the mother tapped her temple, “you’re already twenty-seven years old, and you’re still not married. All your peers have been married for a long time, and I am tearful when I see them, and at each wedding, too, when I see happy couples… And I come home from weddings, I take a sedative.”
“You have a neurosis, and I even guess who can heal you…”
“Of course, I have a pathology, maybe I am altogether crazy?!”
“Mum,” Sarah got up, sighed heavily, she obviously could not wait to speak. She took a deep breath and began to say:
“It is now the twenty-first century… Young people should choose husbands or wives themselves, not their parents! Life is different now, we cannot live according to old traditions. In the past century, everything was different. Do you mean that during this time, I mean, over one century, nothing has changed in the life of Azerbaijani women, and they still do not solve anything and remain slaves of men? This is absurd…”
Sarah stared at her mother, waiting for an answer.
“We women decide all, but we shouldn’t talk about in the presence of men,” the mother got up from the table. “When they say, the man is the head but the woman is the neck, do you know what I want to answer?”
“What?” Sarah turned to her, not taking her eyes off.
“Using dad’s words: the man is the head, and the woman is the limbs.”
Sarah smiled.
“You should understand that parents always want only one thing, for the children to be happy.”
Mother walked over and hugged her.
“Mother, I remember, even ten or fifteen years ago, you said with tears in your eyes that you would not let me go through the same suffering that you had gone through yourself? Didn’t you say that when you had married my father, you had to say goodbye to many dreams? Or have you lost the memory?”
The mother, not listening to her daughter, continued:
“The father gave the go-ahead, he said that Timur is a decent guy. So he likes him. Our grandchildren will have noble genes.”
“Mum, don’t make a fool of yourself in public! I have been a grown up for a long time and I have never been a fool. The conversation is over, I myself know when and who to marry.”
“What did you say?! How can you disobey your parents?! Who are you going to marry without parental approval? You seem to have forgotten who your parents are…” The mother was glaring at Sarah with a scathing look, her usually soft face suddenly felt like a stone. Sarah also looked at her, not fully understanding what made her so angry.
“Grandmother! Grandmother…”
Their intense conversation was interrupted by Sarah’s nephew, the six-year-old Imran. He has a tanned little face, deep dimples on his cheeks and a wide gap between his front teeth. His hair is black, like Sarah’s, only short.
“What, couldn’t you have spoken more quietly?” the mother snorted towards Sarah. She silently shrugged, shifting her glance from mother to her nephew.
“Yes, my little one! My dimpled hero, why have you woken up so early?” her mother cooed, hugging Imran and kissing him on the cheek. Sarah came out of the kitchen, and mother followed her.
“We haven’t finished yet. Sarah, open your ears and try to hear me. You will marry Timur, and there are no other options. Your father has promised, and he cannot take back his words. You know dad well…” The mother said it all in a low, cold voice. “In Azerbaijan, reputation is a value that is difficult to restore if it has once been damaged.”
Sarah looked at her mother as if seeing her for the first time. For some reason it seemed to her that her mother hated her.
“I think it has come to an end, mother,” said Sarah, knowing very well that this was not so. Then she went into her room, threw herself on the bed, buried her face in the pillow, and began to cry silently. At home, she suddenly felt like a slave. The longing for Boris painfully pierced her… Sarah sat up hastily and began to breathe deeply, with a bitter-salty taste in her throat. Tears ran down her cheeks in transparent paths. “Why did I just arrive,” Sarah thought wiping away tears. “Oh how unhappy I am,” she said out loud.
Later she checked her phone, but there were no new messages. Annoyed, she threw the phone on the window ledge and lay down again, but then it suddenly rang.