Читать книгу Night and Day - Abdulhamid Sulaymon o’g’li Cho’lpon - Страница 9

Night and Day: Night, First Book¹

When spring comes, the work begins.²

—Folk saying

1

Every year the coming of spring joy tickles hearts. Warm blood rushes to nature’s trembling bodies once again.

The ever-so-green sochpopuks of the willows begin to quiver like a young woman’s intricate braids. Under the ice the somber cheeks of the murky running waters begin to smile; the water, though tired and limping, like a freed slave, begins to gnaw its way forward towards the satisfaction of liberty. Birds begin to appear one by one at the ends of branches. The first bird of spring brings the pleasure of the season’s first well-fried corn. Planted last year, the cobs have just recently poked their heads out from that kohl root that will be applied above the eyes. Oh, how that green of spring, which not long ago emerged from wintry ice that melts in warm hands, so loves to lie on the courtyard platform of the eyes.³ Oh, how the cool wind that playfully toys with those bare women⁴—with their hair and their curls, with the ends of their headscarves—never touches the flower-embroidered skullcaps of men. Spring frolics in the revelation of its beauty.

Why is life so beautiful and sweet in spring?

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Zebi’s soul had felt compressed all winter, as if rusting, but it began to expand with spring’s warmth. She had just begun thirsting to ride out into the fields and meadows in a horse-drawn cart, even one covered in straw. The chain of matchmakers that poured into her house uninterruptedly all winter had stopped momentarily for the last one to two weeks, and now the creak of a door, the slow steps of a woman, and the rustle of a paranji no longer terrified her young heart.

Ever since she had seen a few farms and some wide courtyards, though her family lived in the city, her heart had started to long for the fields and meadows, for faraway places.

Her father hadn’t yet returned from the morning prayer, her mother was busy milking the cow, and she was sweeping their small courtyard. The sudden opening of the outside door set her heart aflutter. In one hand she held her broom, the other hand was on her knee, she stared intently at the open door. It couldn’t have been her father since not much time had passed since he had left for the prayer, having closed the big door on a heavy chain while coughing and clearing his throat as usual. This man, who couldn’t tell haram from halal, had the habit of sitting for a long time at prayer, staying to put out the candles in the mosque long after others had left.

Through the door hurried in a young girl Zebi’s age. This girl, still not yet a woman, wore a paranji that older women had wrapped over her to protect her from wandering eyes. The long hems of the paranji enclosed her girlish arms like a well-kept secret.

The tightly covered girl, entering the female side of the house almost jumping, threw off her paranji, and, full of youthful energy, ran up to Zebi and embraced her. The two of them looked at each other rejoicing. Zebi laid her broom on the ground without returning it to its place. Their cheeks bright, hearts bursting, they took one another by the hand and headed towards the porch to sit together in Zebi’s father’s place.

Saltanat still hadn’t explained why she had arrived at Zebi’s home panting and exhausted so early. They were engrossed in each other, in sharing mahram secrets, in advising one another how best to sew designs and stuff skull caps with paper. Saltanat suddenly opened up regarding her arrival:

“I didn’t rush here so early without a reason. …”

“I sensed it. … My heart fluttered.”

“Why, friend?”

“Those terrible matchmakers, you know. … They came without end all winter.”

“I am sick of them too, they’re exhausting. That’s why I came to invite you to the village.”

“Oh, what a wonderful idea! The water in the canals has already peeped out from under the ice.”

Zebi’s face was filled with all the signs of her winter fatigue. Her tired eyes, which stared so intently at the stitches in the blankets underneath her, were cloudy like glass under warm breath. Saltanat’s face, on the other hand, like a shining star, was full of contentment and happiness, far from any worry, and reflected the waves of joy escaping from the deepest corners of her heart. She couldn’t sense the heavy despair in Zebi’s words. Although her eyes were on Zebi, her thoughts were in another place altogether.

“Do you know Enaxon? My friend in Yoyilmasoy?”

Zebi lifted her head and looked at her friend. That look showed that she couldn’t remember Enaxon. Saltanat added, “Last fall, do you remember, she came to us with her sister-in-law? At that time, I invited several guests, but you didn’t come, your father didn’t reply to my invitation. …”

Zebi shook her head.

“Yes, yes … I know, I know. I didn’t see her myself, but I heard.”

“When she came that fall, her sister-in-law invited me to visit her in return. I’ve been planning to go as soon as spring came. She just recently reminded me. I’m going there with some other girls soon. I’ll take you with me.”

“When?”

Saltanat understood a good deal from Zebi’s short question. That question alone showed that, if she could, Zebi would that very day take her paranji (without putting it on!) and rush as far away from her home as possible. Realizing this, Saltanat said, “I want to take you with me, dear friend!”

And the two young girls once again embraced each other in their boundless happiness.

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A mother’s heart is usually tender. Zebi’s mother, as soon as she heard Saltanat’s invitation, gave her consent.

“Very well, go be free and frolic. Winter has made your hearts tense. … Young things. But …”

Zebi knew her mother’s answer well ahead of time. Qurvonbibi was a mother who wanted nothing but her daughter’s happiness. She wished and truly desired everything good and beneficial in the world for her only daughter. “But …”

The poor girls didn’t have a chance to bring to crest again their waves of joy when Zebi’s mother added that “but” to her words of agreement.

They all fell silent. Each of them saw a singular impediment before their eyes: Zebi—her father, Qurvonbibi—her husband, and Saltanat from beneath her eyelids saw the old man as cold as snow.

Only a mother can clear such cloudy weather.

“When your father comes from his morning prayers,” she said looking at Saltanat, “let me try to reason with him. He won’t refuse me.” Then she looked at Zebi: “You, dear, prepare the house, see your friend in, and set the table. I’ll speak with your father over tea and tell him what you told me.”

The girls remained silent because both knew Razzoq-sufi’s character well. To get him to accept even the most agreeable of things one had either to be his master or be wealthy. The man had never listened to a single word of advice from his equals. For Razzoq to accept advice from women, or, to be precise, one little suggestion from his wife, he would have had to be remade from head to toe.

For that reason, Zebi’s eyes grew wide with worry as she stood silently in the house. She began to cry.

After she prepared the table for breakfast, she stuffed tea leaves into the pot by the hearth.

“No word of father?” she asked her mother. Qurvonbibi, after looking first at the door to the street, at the sun rising up between the trees next to the door, and then at her daughter by the hearth, answered.

“I don’t know. Could prayers have gone late? Put the tea down quickly, finish sweeping the spots you missed, and come here.”

Though she had no desire to take up the broom again, she dreaded that her friend might think that she wasn’t an obedient daughter. She silently took the broom in one hand, put her other hand on her knee, and started to sweep the ground. Having waited for Zebi to start the tea, Saltanat got up from her place behind the table in the house and went out to check on her friend. Zebi ran up to meet her and apologized.

“Friend,” she said, “Father is still at prayers. That’s his way. He should come any minute. Don’t be upset.”

The sincerity with which Zebi uttered her request could only be expressed between young girls in a close friendship. One had to see Zebi’s face as she said that “don’t be upset” with the broom in one hand and the other hand on her knee, never lifting the broom from the ground and only holding her head up to know that her whole being was submitted to Saltanat’s will. Her soul, her aspirations, her love, her joy. All of these flew towards Saltanat; they were shot at her, they wrapped her up, moved her, embraced her! Zebi’s face, clear as the moon and bright as the sun, openly revealed the truth of her being.

Saltanat didn’t see her friend’s sincerity with her eyes, but understood it through her heart. She understood so well that she didn’t bother to answer Zebi, but suddenly grabbed the broom in her friend’s hands. She knew that if she could take the broom and sweep some for her friend, then that would be a sufficient response to Zebi’s sincerity. Zebi released the broom, but quickly said, “Voy, what are you doing! Put it down, I’ll do it myself!” and seized the broom. Saltanat didn’t give it back; Saltanat ran, she chased; lost in themselves, instead of sweeping the courtyard the two friends turned Zebi’s home on its head, their noise and shouting disturbing their whole world as they chased one another.

Razzoq-sufi, who preferred the quiet of a graveyard, the silence of a mosque, whose very soul was coarse and frowning, returned to this chaos!

A voice emerged from the doorway: “What is this hell?!” he bellowed like lightning striking a tree, petrifying the two young girls in their places. Qurvonbibi, ever faithful to her husband, had already shouted, “enough already!” a few times herself. If the cold old man hadn’t returned, the two young girls’ pent up tension from the long winter would have expanded with the warmth of spring and produced even more mischief. In fact, the girls had completely forgotten themselves. How could their games with one another not release the coiled spring of their agitation, not break the dam holding back the flood? To stop such madness from overflowing, of course, equally mad screams and thunderously powerful force were needed.

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Razzoq-sufi had such power in excess. This man, as a jadid denizen of the city said of him, “was one of those ancient monsters put out for display.” The old woman that shot him from her womb perfectly healthy and swaddled him for the first time was named Hamroh. She had a reputation for jokes and mischief. After swaddling him, she looked at the face of her child, which hadn’t yet been disfigured by manhood, and coddled him with these words: “My dear guest, who has upset you? Who has hurt you? Tell me! Unfurrow your brow! You have come into the bright world! Give thanks! Be happy! Laugh a little! Smile! Grin!”

Razzoq-sufi, who hadn’t laughed then, still has not laughed. There is a big difference between laughing and crying. There is again a great distance between laughing and maintaining quiet gravity. It cannot be said that Razzoq-sufi ever laughed.

He “laughed” in situations where laughter couldn’t be avoided, but his laugh was pained like that of a sick person; it was unpleasant like a cold joke, injurious like false well wishes.

One day Zebi said with a serious face: “Father has never laughed.” As soon as she heard her daughter’s words, Qurvonbibi scolded her. She openly scolded her daughter for speaking the truth, but how many times had Qurvonbibi repeated the same truth to herself in secret? It is easy to speak of someone else’s faults with a sharp tongue, but those who can speak of their own faults with their own tongue are rare, and though Qurvonbibi had a very sharp tongue, she couldn’t count herself among that rare class.

As sharp as her tongue was, Razzoq-sufi was to the same extent a reticent, tight-lipped, boring man who kept to himself. In the outside world, that is the world outside his home, his sole, ever-present task was to answer “yes, yes” to those who were more powerful than he and to shake his head “no, no” to those less powerful. While he was at home, not one word that could be called meaningful, healthy speech which an adult uses around children ever left his lips. He didn’t think it necessary to move his tongue in the presence of womenfolk, and his muteness before his family members was a point of pride. “This tongue,” he told himself, “moves only in remembrance of God. This mouth opens only for God. The mouth and tongue are the dearest and most blessed parts of a believer’s body. Should they really be embarrassed by being used in front of such a low creature as a woman? If they were meant to be used with women, then God on high would have granted dogs speech! No, only the most necessary phrases should be used with women. Those creatures should only be spoken with concerning the most urgent matters and that’s all!”

Every Uzbek man calls his wife—his lawful partner in life—by his daughter or his son’s name. It just won’t do to call his wife by name. If his wife’s name was Maryam and his daughter’s Xadicha, a faithful Muslim wouldn’t bring shame on himself. He would call his wife Xadicha. Most mother-daughter pairs would both answer, “yes, sir!” and the true head of the family would specify: “I mean the elder, the elder!” But he would never say Maryam.

Our Razzoq-sufi, our faithful Muslim didn’t observe this tradition. He always called his lawful partner in life Fitna. “Fitna, bring me my turban!” he would declare. “Fitna, where is your damn daughter?” “Fitna, give me some money!”

Whether she caused havoc in her husband’s life on purpose or it was just her nature, Fitna wasn’t an inaccurate label for Qurvonbibi, who was no stranger to guile and perfidy. Even if she wasn’t all that upset by the fact that her husband didn’t speak a word in front of womenfolk, she suffered from his not speaking to her, and she knew how to use all manners of tricks to coax words from him and even excite his tongue into singing. With one word, she would not just upset her husband: she would enrage him. Just look at how Razzoq-sufi wags his tongue in front of the womenfolk! Oh my!

“They say your elder master is quite upset with you,” Qurvonbibi said to Razzoq-sufi one day.

Razzoq-sufi’s face, normally hard and motionless like a stone, suddenly came to life with various movements and changes.

“What did you say, Fitna? Why was he upset?”

“You flirted with a boy who came to have his braid cut. …”⁵

That was it! Razzoq-sufi, normally a master of brevity, turned into a preacher.

“Love is of two kinds, Fitna. Don’t speak of what you don’t understand! There is miraculous love, true love.”

Qurvonbibi, not understanding her husband, suddenly became bored.

“Really, is that the case? I didn’t know. I’m the ignoramus,” she said, trying to avoid a long diatribe.

After his wife had turned around and left, Razzoq-sufi quieted down. Suffice it to say, when he became angry, he would talk himself into the grave. And oh, how he would talk!

When Razzoq-sufi was at home, he was usually picking weeds by the creek, locking the door and gates, cutting firewood; or, if not, he would continuously walk inside with his hands behind his back, then outside, then into the courtyard, keeping his mouth sealed shut as if his lips had been stung by bees. In the summer, he normally slept in the afternoon; in the evenings, he lay awake, screaming “idiot!” to himself in a loud voice so that neither his family nor his neighbors could sleep. On those days when his elder master wasn’t present he, according to neighbors, would sit in the cool prayer hall and sleep with great satisfaction. Sometimes the other murids would throw him into the mosque’s pool. When he was at home, he would cool the house, like he did his lodge, lie down, and if he had fallen asleep after the early afternoon prayer, he would just barely wake up in time for dinner, usually to the sound of Qurvonbibi’s screaming. The late afternoon prayer usually fell victim to his naps, for which he heard all kinds of reproaches from his wife. But his tongue wasn’t up to it, and he wouldn’t say a word.

In the winter, he would fall asleep in the evenings. “If I spend the scarce winter daylight sleeping, how will I spend the winter evening that is longer than the Kashgar?⁶ Sleep is life’s measure!” he told himself.

He shared this philosophy only with worthy and dignified people. His poor family members and womenfolk in general were deprived of this great philosophy, derived from sleep!

If he was in the city, he never spent a night in a place other than his home. At whatever celebration his elder master was, he would come home towards dawn. He rarely went outside the city. Only together with his elder master (only with that one person!) did he go to celebrations, large parties, fruit and melon festivals. While at those events, his bed at home went cold for four to five days. In Qurvonbibi’s words, “he is relaxing,” and in Zebi’s, “he is enjoying himself.” One time, after one celebration dragged out nearly a week, on the sixth day our Razzoq-sufi left for home without asking his master! That left his elder master upset with him for quite some time.

With that in mind, Qurvonbibi pressed him on another occasion.

“Why did you run away from your master after you left together with him? You’ve seen all the respect he is given and received from him an abundance of blessings. Do you have a store in the city that didn’t open on time or a watermill that suddenly stopped?”

Razzoq-sufi was forced to open his blessed mouth and wag his prized tongue in front of the lesser sex.

“Wretched Fitna! Will you let me alone or won’t you already? Ḥubb al-waṭan min al-Īmān, that is, ‘love of home comes from faith!’ If you don’t know that, you’re hopeless. Only gypsies have no home in this world. Are you calling me homeless?”

Razzoq became a bit heated and continued.

“Do you want to say that because this house was your father’s, that it is yours? If that’s what you’re saying, then I’ll get a passport and get on the Russians’ rails and I’ll go to Mecca! May you lose your house, Fitna!”

This time Qurvonbibi begged and pleaded, just barely managing to talk him out of it.

Truthfully, Razzoq-sufi’s desire to go on the hajj was strong. Every year he brought it up. Once or twice he even got a passport. Only, for some reason, he could never separate his feet from the soil of his city.

Regarding his reproach—“love of home comes from faith”—was it true that he really couldn’t leave his “home”? There’s a secret to that.

He did not have a single professional skill or craft. He neither traded, nor farmed, nor wrote for a living. Nevertheless, his table was never without bread and his pot was never cold.

One year his brother came from a faraway village for three to four days. Because he too was a faithful old man, they got on well. They went to the lodge every day together.

“Razzoq, do you really plan to pass your life without taking up any kind of work?” his brother asked him as they were leaving for the lodge.

“Heeey,” said Razzoq-sufi, protracting his monosyllabic objection with a self-satisfied laugh, “no one has the wealth that I do, brother! Being my elder master’s beloved servant, blessings flow like water from all four sides. Do we thirst at the river? You’re a strange one!”

After they had gone a little farther laughing, Razzoq-sufi said seriously:

“My wife and daughter are tricky ones, thanks be to God. My daughter sews a skullcap, and it looks as if it was made in Europe! They deal with the household’s needs. As long as I can lie down and turn my prayer beads, everything is fine!”

Razzoq-sufi’s brother visited again a year prior to our story in the fall. This time a serious issue was raised. One or two days after the guest arrived they started conversing:

“Razzoq, you yourself say ‘home, home,’ but you don’t know your own home.”

Razzoq-sufi fumed at “you don’t know.” “Why don’t I know, brother?! Please tell me!”

“Don’t get angry. I’ll tell you. Is your home not the place where your parents passed, where your umbilical blood was spilt, where you light a candle for the spirits of your parents?”

Razzoq-sufi was silent. Tears seemed to well up in his eyes.

“Why are you silent?” his brother asked.

“What can I say to the truth? You’re amusing. …”

“In that case your home is our village.”

“Yes, our village. …”

The two of them were silent for a moment. Razzoq-sufi took his toothbrush out of its case but then slowly put it back. His brother took the autumn leaf that had fallen on his knee by its stem and twirled it, saying:

“I came to take you back to our village. We once fought over the land left to us by our parents, decided to split it, and then you left for the city.”

Razzoq-sufi’s voice wavered as he sighed:

“Why do you bring up what’s already been decided? The past is the past. … Let the land dry up and the inheritance too.”

“No, Razzoq! Don’t speak that way!”

His brother’s words were harsh like a command. Razzoq-sufi raised his head and looked straight into his brother’s face. Razzoq’s brother continued:

“Nothing is more precious than land! Our deceased father, our grandparents, our ancestors—all of them received their subsistence from that parcel of land. True?”

Razzoq-sufi responded, barely audibly, “True …”

“Why do you flee from the land?”

Razzoq-sufi couldn’t manage another answer to this important question other than: “Where is there land for me? You have your parcel of land and it’s not enough for you.”

His brother gave a brave answer; while starting his answer, his face involuntarily smiled and his toothless, bare mouth opened with joy.

“I evened out the hill on the far side of the river and opened it up for planting. Now I just need labor and capital.”

“What can I do?” asked Razzoq-sufi; his voice was very low. “What am I able to do?”

His brother became serious.

“Leave the city!”

Razzoq-sufi was going to say something to his brother’s demand. His brother didn’t let up.

“Don’t dismiss me! Listen to what I have to say!”

Razzoq-sufi was silent. His brother continued:

“Leave the city! Sell your house! You can get good money for a house in the city. We’ll find a small house in the village. We’ll get it for half or even a third of that money. We’ll use the rest on tools. We’ll find another parcel of land close to ours. You’re still healthy, we can work together. Right?”

Razzoq-sufi didn’t utter a word; he took his white skullcap in his hands and began to fold it.

“Well, say something!”

Razzoq-sufi said nothing and got up. Without hesitating, he took two steps towards the inside of his house. Then he turned around and spoke.

“Let me put on my turban and robe. We’ll read the Friday prayer in the lodge. We’re late …”

As they were leaving for the lodge, his brother raised the question again.

“Just say it. We’ll leave for the village! Death is what you should be thinking of! Let’s not be far from one another when it comes time to die; let’s not die thirsting for one another’s company.”

Razzoq-sufi pointed to a colt in the street.

“What a beast, hey, isn’t that a fine horse? Oh my!”

Silence set in. Then he started speaking again.

“Well, what do you say? Will you answer my question?! Even an old woman prays aloud.”

“Over there is the bathhouse of Umarali, the Kokand court official. It’s been here for 170 years. Not one brick has been moved. … If you go inside, you can hear bells ringing. …”

His brother, unable to get his point across, asked Qurvonbibi for advice, who, in turn, sent him to Razzoq-sufi’s master.

“Where is Razzoq himself?” the eshon asked.

“He is at home … his teeth hurt …,” his brother answered.

The eshon laughed. “His teeth hurt? Oh no! A toothache is a frightful thing. Go tell him: go to the barber in the corner of the market, have him take his pincers and yank the bothersome tooth out. That will cure him. Go. Amen, God is great!”

With that Razzoq-sufi’s brother became despondent and set out for his village. He mounted his horse and, while he said his goodbyes, Razzoq remained inside reading the Book of Wisdom.⁷ Draping a headscarf over her face, Qurvonbibi saw him to the gate. With her long sleeve, she dried her tears and saw off her guest from the village. Standing next to her mother, Zebi sang loudly with her sweet voice, “Goodbye! Send aunt Adolatxon next time. Bring a gift.” After the guest was out of sight, she asked her mother: “Why did father not come to see uncle off?”

Qurvonbibi gave a short answer, “Damn your father’s character, child!” She turned to go back into the house.

Qurvonbibi had worries other than her brother-in-law. The village guest’s arrival had only added to her troubles. Truthfully, poor Qurvonbibi was worried about clothing and material needs, but most of all, about her daughter’s dowry. Those worries sat in her mind until her patience was exhausted and she would begin bickering with her husband. Razzoq-sufi had no tolerance for her bickering. He would respond with screaming, telling her “God will deliver!”

But is Qurvonbibi not human? Patience can be exhausted.

One day she broke out, saying, “God will deliver, of course! If his servant moves and desires, He will deliver! Don’t they say, after all, that God created the means to ensure that deliverance? Your eshon’s wife read to us from Sufi Olloyor’s book;⁸ a profession, he says, is a religious duty!”

Razzoq-sufi didn’t give an answer to his wife’s jabbering. Without a word, he turned away from her. Qurvonbibi didn’t relent; she raised her voice further still. Razzoq-sufi almost let out one of his laconicisms, but decided it would be better to deal with it all at once—angrily he barked at her: “Enough, you bitch!”

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The anxiety and nervousness playing lightly in Zebi’s heart gained in strength with her father’s pronouncement “What is this hell?!” Under the gaze of the cold sufi, who had interrupted her frolic, she felt like a bird whose cage, just at the moment that it expected the door to be opened, is put under a lock as big as its head.⁹

The anxiety of both girls, particularly Zebi, hit its peak as the sufi slammed the door. Had they not become absorbed in their game and forgotten everything around them? Had the misery left over from the black winter days, the congealed torment of living inside four walls for months, the suffering endured from their fathers, the troubles brought on by the matchmakers not reached an end? Had the powerful waves of youth not washed over and purified them like a spring rain? Confronted with her friend’s sweet manner, had Zebi not forgotten about her strict, stubborn, backward father? Had Saltanat, when she took the fraying broom, not forgotten her parents, her home, and the promise she made upon leaving the house to return quickly?

They say the stick shames the most those whose heads it catches unaware. These two girls, caught up in their mischievous game, were certainly unaware. They came to after the sufi’s club-like blow of a voice; he stood in front of them like a big mountain, and they were struck dumb despite themselves. The mountain would have to be climbed, but it wasn’t one that young girls could ascend. The two read the great burden of their fear in one another’s eyes.

After Razzoq’s yell, the two of them ran hurriedly into the house, took cover behind the window, and started to observe Razzoq-sufi. Though their eyes were on him, their ears were trained on Qurvonbibi. Her words would either untie the tightly secured knot in their hearts or tighten it into a noose, and the two young things would be separated from one another for months.

Before coming into the house, Razzoq-sufi stopped by the door and turned starkly pale. He handed his turban to Qurvonbibi, took his yellow robe off and threw it on the table across the room. He said in his normal voice, that is, he screamed, “Bitches!”

“If young things play, what is the problem? Are you really that bothered by them?” said Qurvonbibi.

“Don’t speak, ass!”

Qurvonbibi fell silent. Razzoq-sufi looked over towards the table. The table was set for breakfast, and a dish with bread and a teacup with jam sat upon it. He sat down at the table, while Qurvonbibi brought him tea from the hearth.

Seeing the expression on Razzoq-sufi’s face, what little optimism the two girls had disappeared. Zebi couldn’t hide her hopelessness.

“We should just die now and forget fun. Now father will never let me go. …”

Saltanat too expressed her worry.

“What can we do now? If you don’t go, I won’t go either. … Enaxon will be upset!”

“If we had sat quietly, do you think he would have been lenient?” asked Zebi.

Saltanat said nothing. After a moment Zebi added:

“Damn him. I have never seen him be lenient. They say demons throw big stones into rivers. They must have thrown the biggest one on my father’s chest. ‘This is your heart,’ they must have told him, wretched things!”

That last comparison affected Saltanat; she let out a chortle. Zebi quickly covered her friend’s mouth.

“Voy, be careful now! You’ll only make it worse!” she said.

Saltanat controlled herself only with difficulty. The two of them unblinkingly stared at the old man and woman.

The sudden laugh of the old woman, who had for some time been sitting silently and looking at her husband, returned some hope to the girls. “Did you see?” they mimed at one another.

Truthfully, Qurvonbibi, as if she was looking for a word her husband would approve of, kept smiling bravely and calmly. She started speaking.

“I want to send Zebi somewhere. …”

Though Razzoq-sufi didn’t yell this time, he asked coarsely and angrily:

“Where? Why?”

“Xalfa eshon’s young daughters at Oydin lake invited a few friends to a ‘spring welcoming’ party. She invited Zebi and her friend Saltanat. Saltanat has a cart ready, she came here to tell Zebi. How can we say no?”

Razzoq-sufi, who normally said no, this time didn’t say no but fell into thought. The girls were elated with Qurvonbibi’s efforts and became hopeful.

“Qurvonbibi did it!” said Saltanat.

“My mother is a master of words. Look how she mentioned an eshon. You need only say ‘eshon,’ and my father wouldn’t notice if he died. God made him for the eshons.”

After Saltanat heard these words of Zebi’s, she suddenly believed that Razzoq-sufi had said “ok.” She threw her arms around Zebi and embraced her.

“That’s it, friend, that’s it! We’re going!” she said.

“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched! My father is not a person to so easily agree to anything. Look at how silent he is: he still hasn’t said a word.”

After a lengthy silence Qurvonbibi made a serious face.

“Why don’t you say something? Just say ok! You’re a grown man. It’s shameful. Some good women and some proper girls are there. If it’s them you’re worried about, you know them,” she said.

Razzoq-sufi for some reason said, “I know, Fitna, I know,” and became silent again.

Qurvonbibi took on a serious countenance once again.

“Then say no. Let me tell Saltanat so she can leave!” She’s been here since morning. Suddenly her husband’s tongue twitched.

“Wait, Fitna, don’t tell her no—she should go. When will she come back?”

“The day after tomorrow in the morning or evening.”

“Have her do as the eshon’s wife wishes.”

Razzoq-sufi got up from his place and put on his shoes.

“She shouldn’t be singing while there,” he said, “if nomahram people hear her voice, I am not agreed to it.”

After his few words, Razzoq-sufi, who spoke like a real person this time to Qurvonbibi’s joy, returned to his usual silence. A little later he donned his turban and took his robe in his hand.

“Bring me the farm bag, Fitna! If you can’t find it, bring me two bags!” he yelled.

Just as Qurvonbibi handed him the bag, she sensed that her husband had come into some money and that his pleasant mood was due to thoughts of whatever he was going to buy.

Razzoq-sufi cleared his throat and left. The two mischievous girls in the house embraced each other once again.

..............................................................................................................................................

The cage’s little door had opened!

The bird’s wings were spread: all that remained for them to do was to take flight with a coo into the open space, into the wide blue skies. They had to move quickly, throw on that paranji for all to see (that is, to not see), and get to the cart.

How could they not be elated at the opening of that little door? How could they not feel joy? How could they not taste the sweetness of freedom? How could they not be grateful for a mother who overcame such a stubborn man with a masterful solution? How could they not embrace her, kiss her?

The two girls ran out of the house and each hung themselves on Qurvonbibi’s neck in gratitude for her benevolence. Hurrying to express their appreciation in a measure equal to the act, they poured out their limitless joy. They so hung on the old woman, so nuzzled up to her, so roughly made her a part of their game that the old woman suddenly felt weak and tumbled onto the table. They screamed with the force of a whistling tea kettle. They so played with the old woman that she gasped for air from exhaustion and could barely breathe.

“Enough, you damn girls. Enough, I said, enough. You’ll be late!” she said.

As the old woman begged, the two girls reached the apogee of their excitement. One let up while the other continued on. They teased each other:

“Is that how it is? Voy, repent! Xalfa eshon’s daughter invited us? Voy, repent,” they said as they tickled one another.

Finally, the girls were dead tired and they ceased to torture the old woman. They each sat down with an “uh!”

When they opened the door with a bang and hurried out into the street, the cotton factory let out a thin, piercing whistle signaling that it was twelve o’clock.

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