Читать книгу O’TKAN KUNLAR - Абдулла Кодирий - Страница 15

Ziyo Shohichi’s broad, toothy grin gave Qutidor pause: to what did he owe the pleasure of this unannounced visit?

“Leave off with building your fire and prepare the tablecloth for your newly arrived sovchi!” Ziyo Shohichi’s zeal forced Qutidor to leave the smoldering branches in the fire and go order tea.

Upon Qutidor’s exit, Hasan Ali murmured half-aloud, “If fate would only bless us in this matter.”

“If God wills it, all will be well. We will not consider him human if he doesn’t accept such a man of quality for his son-in- law,” said Ziyo Shohichi firmly.

Qutidor returned. Ziyo-aka and Hasan Ali exchanged meaningful glances. Qutidor expected an explanation to emerge from Ziyo-aka’s mouth, since an unexpected guest of his stature augured a weighty matter… An interminable silence persisted, compelling Qutidor to resort to pleasantries with Hasan Ali: “Is Bek all right?”

In this moment, Ziyo-aka perceived his opening to state his intent in the most diplomatic manner possible. Gesturing to Hasan Ali to hold his tongue, he answered, “The reason for our abrupt appearance is – well, one could say Otabek’s health demands it.”

Qutidor did not catch the insinuations beneath this bumbling, asking again, “Is Otabek in good health?”

“Until now Otabek has been in good health,” said Ziyo Shohichi, weighing each word, “but it appears Bek’s future health is in your hands.”

Again, not comprehending his intent, Qutidor looked with surprise at his guests. “I don’t understand…”

“I mean Otabek has been in good health until now,” said Ziyo- aka again. “But his future health is in your hands.”

“In my hands?” “By your will.”

“The health of a young man of Otabek’s quality is the concern of every wise man,” said Qutidor, surprised. “But what you say is interesting, that one man’s health is determined by another man’s will.”

Ziyo-aka didn’t change his expression; his persistence betrayed some other purpose.

“Don’t be surprised, my friend,” he said. “Bek’s future health is indeed subject to your will. This is not some game or play at words. It is true.”

Suddenly Qutidor divined about whom and what the matter concerned – and as a result, he broke into a cold sweat. Ziyo-aka smoothed the tablecloth laid out by Toibeka and broke some bread into pieces. He then offered a piece of bread each to Hasan Ali and Qutidor, and let his words flow freely.

“Love is such a precious pearl, fated for very few people,” he began. “The son of your closest friend, Yusufbek Hajji, for several days has lamented some hidden pain. His servant, truly Otabek’s spiritual father, Hasan Ota, has been searching for a cure to his secret agony. But as for Bek, he veils his sickness, revealing it to no one. Ever faithful to his master, Hasan Ali observed him closely one night, and the truth of Bek’s torment came to light.

“ ‘Observance of the Shariyat confers no shame,’ they tell me, my friend. Though this wisdom rings hard on our ears, I recall it for good reasons: One day, the wind of fate blows and raises the veil of someone’s daughter sitting under the curtain of innocence and, at the same time, reveals that innocent girl to Otabek. At that moment, real, true love was born in Bek’s heart toward her.”

Adding some words on his own behalf, Ziyo Shohichi let the words sink in as Qutidor sat flustered. Qutidor was not alone in his troubles – the sovchi also shared in his disquiet. All three understood the gravity and delicateness of the situation; an agreement was suspended in their thoughtful silence. Though the purpose of their visit was as clear as day, for some reason Qutidor pretended to not understand: “And whose daughter is this?” he asked.

Ziyo Shohichi replied, “Your beloved daughter.”

Qutidor bowed his head, looking sheepishly toward his feet— perhaps embarrassed now by his own naivety. An impenetrable chasm rose up between the three of them as Qutidor emanated a glacial calm – he was stubborn and not forthcoming with his feelings on the matter, further compounding everyone’s unease. Ziyo-aka was forced to break the impasse: “Our visit gives you a son worth the world and, if God wills, on our return we will present to Otabek a companion who is the very ideal of innocence – the best wife imaginable in the world.”

Ziyo’s insurmountable argument made Hasan Ali’s heart flutter in anticipation of an agreement. At any moment he would hear consent or refusal from Qutidor’s mouth – would he acquiesce or not? As for Qutidor, he remained dumbstruck, unsure how to respond to these two people waiting impatiently for an answer, shifting their weight from side to side.

“I would count myself the happiest of fathers if Otabek honored us as our son-in-law,” said Qutidor finally. “But the decision is not entirely in my hands. My wife, who nourished my daughter on her own milk, her feelings must also be taken into consideration. Not consulting with her on this matter would be the greatest insult. If you don’t mind, I would like to speak with her first.”

Qutidor showed undeniable sincerity and devotion to his wife in his reasoning, and the two sovchi could feel their blood quicken as they gained new hope for success.

“This is not horse trading; this is dealing with our beloved children’s lives, my friend. Consult with your wife. Tell her what you know about Otabek and his father, and after careful deliberation, give us an answer.”

After these words, Qutidor left the Mehmon Khana, entering the Ich Kari. Kumush lay asleep. Toibeka snored in the small alcove near the kitchen, loud enough to shake the whole room. Opening the door, Qutidor said to Oftob Oyim, who was sitting and waiting for him, “Take a candle and follow me.”

The room, lavishly decorated, was fit for a museum. There was an array of richly colored silks and atlas-covered blankets stored in recessed shelves along with piles of feather pillows; there were rows of fine Chinese tableware, ornate cups of delicate porcelain, as well as teapots, plates, and pitchers; and the walls were covered with swords, shields, helmets, daggers, and sabres in silver filigreed sheaths. An assortment of men and women’s clothing, draped or folded, lined the walls; there were chokmon coats and travel robes as well as vibrant red carpets and silk blankets. One’s eyes were dazzled by the display of wealth.

Qutidor smiled at Oftob Oyim, who waited eagerly for his words. “Wife, do you know about the matchmakers outside?”

Oftob Oyim showed no surprise upon hearing the word sovchi from her husband. Over the past two or three years their house had been crowded daily with groups of people seeking to make an engagement. She dismissed these newly arrived matchmakers as one of these groups.

“God bless them! Who are they?” Qutidor smiled again.

“They are Ziyo Shohichi and another person unknown to you.” Oftob Oyim noticed that today’s go-betweens had affected Qutidor positively, and she sensed genuine excitement in her husband’s voice and mannerisms.

“On whose behalf did they come?”

“Do you remember we received a young trader from Tashkent as a guest about fifteen days ago?”

“I remember the young man who Toibeka crowed about.” “May you live long, wife!” said Qutidor. “They came on behalf of that young man.”

Oftob Oyim became alarmed, protesting to her husband, “But he is a foreigner!”

Seeing Oftob Oyim’s panic, Qutidor scratched his forehead and said in a hopeless voice, “I also had the same concern. Other than that, he is a perfect match, possessing all the qualities we desire in a son-in-law.”

Oftob Oyim epitomized the quintessential wife who respected above all the will and wishes of her husband – honoring and worshipping his whole being. Therefore, as an obedient wife – and even though she did not in fact agree with her husband about the betrothal— it was Otabek she chose to rail against, calling him a musafir. She sought to invent even the most obscure and outrageous shortcomings in Otabek – traits so egregious and irrefutable that Qutidor’s heart would have no choice but to grow cold toward this favorite.

“Whose son is that young man? Do you know his father?”

Oftob Oyim’s question damaged her efforts to undermine the enemy. Qutidor spoke highly of Yusufbek Hajji’s personality and his current social standing, as well as Yusufbek Hajji’s regard for Qutidor himself, all in great detail. Finally, he added, “It is impossible to criticize this young man’s family background. To be honest, the generation this young man belongs to is rather more advanced than our own.”

Now Oftob Oyim took a different tack: “Is he married or not?” “He is not married. I learned this from his servant at one of our gatherings.” “How old is he?”

“No more than twenty-five, but no less than twenty-two.” “Why does he want to be our son-in-law? Couldn’t he find a girl from Tashkent?”

“Even if there are many girls available, they say he finds them unsuitable,” said Qutidor, shyly lowering his voice to sooth her doubts.

Oftob Oyim found no way to counter her husband’s inclination to accept the offer. By all accounts, the young man was an ideal match and fulfilled the aspirations they had for their daughter perfectly, but deep in her heart, first and foremost, he was a foreigner. The realization that, after so many years of looking for a suitable son-in-law, they might suddenly hand their daughter over to a stranger from Tashkent left Oftob Oyim despondent. She felt slighted by being presented with a foreigner; it was most difficult for her to swallow.

“So, what do you say, wife?”

Oftob Oyim feared protesting too openly as her husband might become upset, but in her heart, she was dead set against marriage to a foreigner.

“I can’t oppose someone you have found suitable and hinder your wishes,” she said, after thinking awhile. “You are the father, after all, and you have more of a right to choose a son-in-law than I do. Of course, I can’t believe that you would give your only daughter, the apple of your eye, to such a dissolute stranger. From the point of view of the head of the household’s right to choose, I have no grounds for dispute, but my main issue is that the groom is from Tashkent; he will take your daughter with him to his home city and separate us from our only child… I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand this kind of separation… I think you did not think carefully about this side of the problem, my dear.”

“You are right, my wife,” said Qutidor, after duly considering her views. “But it seems like fate, or maybe something else. For some reason, I admire this young man. I’m not sure what you think of my idea, but let’s not overthink the issue and let’s give the matchmakers the following answer: that they must not take Kumush from Margilan, she must remain with us. If they accept our condition, we will have not just a daughter, but two children. If they do not agree, then they will have themselves to blame. What do you think about this, my wife?”

“But what about the fact that he is a foreigner?”

“We will not countenance any reproaches as to our choice in a son-in- law; we only seek a genuinely honorable man for her. If people spread rumors about our daughter marrying a ‘foreigner,’ so be it.”

From the very outset of the conversation, Oftob Oyim had understood her husband’s wishes. And so she answered grudgingly, “It’s up to you.” Receiving the answer he had hoped for, Qutidor went out to the matchmakers and announced the conditions. On behalf of Otabek, Ziyo-aka accepted his stipulation and congratulated Qutidor on gaining a son-in-law of Otabek’s quality. And so they ended “The Matchmakers’ Unexpected Visit” without unnecessary ceremony but with a binding agreement of betrothal. After praying for the two youngsters to love one another and to produce many children, the matchmakers were given gilded robes. Hasan Ali, beside himself, thanked Qutidor over and over, showering him with blessings.

“Congratulations on your new robes.”

“To you too: Congratulations on your new son.”

“You are most welcome,” said Qutidor, from the heart. “May all your wishes come true.”