Читать книгу O’TKAN KUNLAR - Абдулла Кодирий - Страница 12

“The house situated on the corner of the shoe market…” By now the reader is familiar with the master of this house. Broken down, mottled with handprints, rickety after years of labor, the main gate screeches and moans as if calling for help; in short, if we tried to classify this long-suffering gate, we might put it in the “ancient as history itself” category. After three or four steps through the opening, we are immediately beset with the terrors of Bukhara’s dungeons, only finding relief from the light filtering in at the end of a dark corridor – and the hope of an exit. Avoiding a tumble by feeling our way, one shaky step at a time, through the dark prison passage, we happen upon the bank of a flowing stream that meanders through a stone courtyard, and, sighing in relief, we are finally delivered to freedom. It is at this point that we notice a beautiful house with a veranda built on the east side of the enclosure, with its facade facing west; though today it is nothing to boast about, during its heyday the building was considered an example of great architectural refinement and taste. No one is present in the yard or the encompassing building, and so it can be assumed that these initial living spaces are detached from the main abode and function as guest rooms. Small cells with padlocks on their doors stand along the west and east walls. We can surmise that they are intended to store goods – a sure sign that the owner is a man of means. The southern section of the yard is the back wall of the store and is obscured by overgrown cherry trees.

Now we say our farewells to the outer enclosure, move around the Mehmon Khana, and enter the Ich Kari, or inner courtyard, of the complex. The connecting passageway leading to the interior is as dark as the previous one since it is enclosed on all sides. If we turn right at the end of the corridor, we will reach the stables; if we take an immediate left, we will arrive in the main area with an opening as grand as the first one. The four sides of the enclosure are surrounded with buildings serving different functions. The two sides of the main building, the centerpiece, are flanked by large wings that form separate living spaces. Blue, green, and white ornamental tiles juxtaposed with carved wood panels redolent with geometric and floral designs embellish the front veranda, which is supported by four wooden pillars in the center and two pillars on each side, giving the whole architectural piece a sense of balance. In the middle of the pillared veranda sits a man on a raised platform in the place of honor facing the door, wearing an otter jacket lined with black velvet. He sits before a sandal covered with multicolored atlas blankets.

A second introduction for this person is unnecessary, because this man is already familiar to the reader as Mirza Karim Qutidor. On either side of the sandal, a woman reposes. One is wearing a long dress of khan atlas inside a sleeveless silk robe. Over these items hangs a loose white silk scarf. She is about thirty-five, beautiful, and slim. She has a face that personifies kindness as well as modest deference to her husband, without any sign of artifice. She is Qutidor’s wife – Oftob Oyim.

As for the second woman, she is an elderly lady of about seventy years, the mother of Oftob Oyim – Oysha Bibi. Near a stone stove sits a woman busy boiling water for tea. She is a tad rougher than the rest and is about forty-five years old. As for her, she is the family servant— Toibeka. For now, we leave our introductions to these ladies and enter the room through a small door that also acts as a window, to the left of the veranda. In the center of this room we see a girl sitting on silk blankets. While lazing on feather pillows, she seems distracted. Perhaps the cold has made her lethargic, or maybe reasons not yet revealed to us hint at a young woman pining away.

Her dusky locks, arrayed carelessly over the pillow, her jet- black eyes under thick curly eyelashes, fixed on one spot as if having a vision… black brows… two thin brows arched, quivering… her face like a full moon, pearly white, slightly blushing, as if embarrassed by someone’s presence… recounting the moment, considering it all… At the very moment when her delicate hands twist the blanket, she touches her beauty mark, then takes her head from the pillow and sits up.

Her yellow silk dress cups her petite, well-formed breasts as they heave and fall. After sitting up, she shakes her head, grinning innocently. This movement makes her locks spill over her face— disheveled, as if meant to break your heart. This belle, the very picture of a maiden angel, is the daughter of Qutidor – Kumush Bibi.

For several days, she had complained of a headache and spots in front of her eyes, perhaps the result of catching a cold. Her mother did not wake her from her deep slumber, not wanting her to overexert herself – not even for prayers.

But now Kumush Bibi rose, dressed, and left her room. She washed her face with warm water prepared by Toibeka, returned to her room, dried her face, and went out to the veranda. Greeting those sitting on the platform, she sat near her father.

Qutidor studied his daughter and asked, “Are you well, my daughter?”

“No, dear Father, I still have a headache.” Qutidor put his hand on his daughter’s forehead.

“Oh, Kumush! You still have a fever,” he said. “You need to take care of yourself, Daughter, wrap yourself up in a thick comforter. If you sweat it out you will brighten up, my dear.” He then asked Toibeka to freshenKumush’s tea with warm milk.

Oftob Oyim seconded her husband’s observation. “She still has a fever; her face is flushed and puffy.”

With her weak voice, Oysha Bovi suddenly interrupted their conversation. “Especially last night, you don’t know, but she frightened me to death. She was delirious, speaking all sorts of feverish words…”

Kumush Bibi shot a glance at her grandmother.

“This all is because of the fever,” said Qutidor. “Today I will consult a tabib. My sweet daughter, please drink some tea,” he said and again looked her over. After finishing his tea and breakfast, Qutidor recited the Fatiha and rose. To Kumush he said, “Keep in mind I have invited guests today.” And then turning to Oftob Oyim: “Please send a servant to tidy the Mehmon Khana. Prepare those newly sewn korpacha; let her cover the sandal with them. Lay out the big carpet. Is there any fruit for the table?”

“Yes, there is.”

“That’s good. In a little while, I will send you to get meat to make us some varaqi.”

From the mention of varaqi, Oftob Oyim realized this would not be an ordinary guest.

“Who is the guest?”

“You have never met him. He is a young man from Tashkent. There will be three or four other friends as well. Is everything understood?”

“I understand, I understand.”

Kumush Bibi paid no heed to her father’s instructions. Upon Qutidor’s departure for work, Oftob Oyim sent Toibeka to the guesthouse to do chores while she began to prepare the dough. Kumush Bibi seemed gripped by an inexplicable malaise whose origins evaded diagnosis; whether she was consumed by a secret obsession or just suffering from a strong headache, she was impenetrable, like a flower whose tender petals cling to each other in the cold night, refusing to reveal its secrets. Her grandmother attempted to make her laugh with stories and anecdotes, yet she remained still and distant, giving only a half-hearted smile.

Kumush remained in this state for about an hour before finally standing up, sliding her delicate feet into shoes recently purchased for her by her father, and making her way over to her mother, busy in the kitchen with her duties.

As Kumush passed from her seventeenth to her eighteenth year, she was taking on her mother’s height and had bloomed into a fuller frame, coming into her own as a woman. She helped a little bit with her mother’s duties and then went back outside. Looking out from the veranda, she watched Toibeka, who was preparing the rug in the guest room, but soon gave up on this distraction and leaned against the middle column.

This moving about eased some of her pain – her heart broke free of its burden, and her dark eyes brightened. Her swollen face returned to its natural grace and composure, losing its puffiness. She leaned her weight against the pillar, arched black eyebrows quivering as she gazed at the entryway for some time, then descended the steps from the raised enclosure and moved toward the passage that led to the stream bed.

The stream flowed under a workshop, with part of it twisting three or four steps through the yard into the open air before again disappearing under the bridge house. Kumush Bibi found a pleasant spot near the exposed stream, jumped to the other bank, and sat down. Her eyes gazed wistfully at the water’s surface. The exuberant stream purled past as the small waves lapped upward, reaching out to her as if demonstrating their reverence, worshipping her. The water slowly whirled around in circles, spellbound by her enchantments, then rippled farther out into larger rings – where her reflection only made her charms more apparent to her devotee – then slowly passed under the bridge. She stared at the endless flow of water, finally reaching out, cupping her hands, and wetting her face. A couple of drops kissed her, dripping back into the whirling pools below. As they fell it seemed as if the water held a mystical vitality, a whole life of its own.

The stream’s ardor reached a crescendo as she passed the water over her face two or three more times. The depths took on a life of their own, as if portending an evil conspiracy hatching deep within, brooding in the cold blackness, a plot to destroy the beauty of her reflection, a harbinger of peril and doom. She washed water cupped in her hands over her pearly white teeth, rinsing them two or three times, then abruptly left the stream bank.

Recovering some of her lightheartedness, she returned through the passageway, and her lithesome frame gained a spring in its step. Oysha saw her and was happy about the change she detected. “Are you feeling better now, Daughter?”

“Thanks to God, I am.”

“Don’t do anything for now, Daughter. Get some rest.”

Short winter days meant that one could barely accomplish anything before sundown. This day darkened like the others, almost without a word. Half an hour after the sun dropped from the silvery, overcast sky, the guests arrived. Qutidor solemnly welcomed them with the openheartedness that was in his nature. Toibeka moved quickly between the male and female rooms, serving refreshments, changing the tablecloth, and handing tea to the guests. After she had finished serving, Toibeka sat down near Oftob Oyim and ate her cold food.

“Who were the guests? Did you recognize them?” Oftob Oyim asked.

“You have not lived until you have seen the youngest guest,” said Toibeka, quickly chewing her plov on the left side of her mouth while talking out the right side. “So handsome, so intelligent, so clever, sitting in the seat of honor… it seems that he is not yet twenty years old, his moustache is just now growing. He is a worthy son-in-law for us,” she said, laughing, and looked at Kumush Bibi. On hearing this description, Oftob Oyim also laughed and glanced at her daughter.

“Oh dear, Kumush Bibi,” she said, “did you hear that? Toibeka has already found a husband for you, but all you know how to do is complain about a headache.” Kumush Bibi’s slight smile allowed them to glimpse her pearl-white teeth through her ruby lips, yet nothing but cold sarcasm surfaced. “As if your ultimate duty was only to find a husband for me.”

Toibeka ignored Kumush Bibi’s sarcasm. “My sister, you still don’t know,” she said. “You should take a look at that young man. You will be left saying ‘vai, vai, vai’ At my age, I could only hope to have him as a husband,” she said, bursting out with laughter.

Kumush Bibi quickly turned her face from Toibeka, who continued, “Marry as soon as you can. I wish I could marry. I am not worth even one of his hairs. But you would equal him. Equal with equal, type with type, dung in its very own bag! Ha ha ha!”

At other times Kumush enjoyed these kinds of jokes from Toibeka, but now they displeased her. Feigning anger, she left for her room. Oftob Oyim considered the guest and his visit to be a momentary distraction – as if he were nothing more than a Bacha providing some diversion… so she gave this exchange no second thought.

“Aunty, could you please check if they need anything?” said Oftob Oyim to Toibeka. “Maybe they need tea.”

Quickly swallowing a last taste of her food, Toibeka went outside. After a short while, she returned to their spot on the veranda, quaking in her shoes as if she had seen a ghost.

“God damn it, I nearly died from fright.”

Ticking away at her beads on her prayer rug, Oysha Bibi only gave Toibeka a distant look and continued on with her prayers. Oftob Oyim smiled indulgently and asked, as she sat down near the sandal, “What happened? What gave you such a fright?”

Taking deep breaths to calm herself, Toibeka sat down under the column. “I took a tablecloth outside into the yard in order to freshen it. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I discovered someone concealed under the cherry tree. I gave a shout from the shock. It seemed to me he was spying on the guests!”

“Who was it?”

“I couldn’t recognize him in the darkness. He looked like Hamidboi the Black. Maybe it was him or maybe it was someone else. God knows, he scurried into the undergrowth and fled…”

After they had seen off the guests and while Qutidor disrobed, Oftob Oyim asked, “Beautiful boy this, intelligent boy that… Toibeka crowed on about him. Who was he?”

“Our guest,” said Qutidor, “the son of my close friend from Tashkent, Yusufbek Hajji.”

“Is he worthy of Toibeka’s boasts?”

“Yes!” said Qutidor, perking up a bit. “May God bless everyone with such a son.”

Laughing, unable to control herself, Oftob Oyim told Qutidor what Toibeka had said to Kumush and what her reaction had been. Even Qutidor could not resist laughing.

“Her ravings are well founded. May we be blessed with a son- in-law like that.”