Читать книгу O’TKAN KUNLAR - Абдулла Кодирий - Страница 8

It was the year 1264 of the Hijra, the seventeenth day of Dalv, a winter day. The sun descended into the horizon as darkness set in, and one could hear the call to prayer resonating in clear tones throughout the still evening air…

Built to face the southeastern gate of the city, a well-known caravanserai teemed with merchants hailing from Tashkent, Samarqand, and Bukhara, all of whom were settling in for the night. These traders, finally free of the day’s burdens, had just returned to their small cells and were preoccupied with the cooking of supper. Compared to the still daylight hours, a lively atmosphere permeated the caravanserai: it was as if the rooftops themselves were lifted to the sky by the raucous banter and the merchants’ roaring laughter.

At the far end of the main yard, a room stood apart from the others through its singular beauty: while the other rooms bore only felt rugs, this room displayed deep-red carpets; while others laid their heads on cotton quilts, here the owner slept among silk and adras bedding; while the other living quarters reeked of the soot of blackened lamps, this small room was lit with a single brilliant candle; and while the other tenants displayed a carefree and facetious nature, the occupant of this room appeared to be cast from another material altogether: He was a young man of thoughtful mien whose downy moustache had just recently emerged. An imposing build lent him gravitas, and he had a light- skinned, handsome face with dark brows and pensive eyes that seemed perpetually lost in thought.

We must not linger too long on frivolous worldly concerns, yet the young man’s room drew one’s attention not only through the finery so lavishly laid out in it, but also because the room itself seemed to mirror the thoughtful quality of its inhabitant. The man we describe is Otabek, son of Yusufbek Hajji; a man born from a line of well-respected Tashkent notables.

On this particular evening two men entered through the main gate of the caravanserai, one of them inquiring from a local denizen:

“Has a man who goes by the name of Otabek stopped here?”

The man motioned toward Otabek’s door in response. Taking their cue, the travelers made their way in the direction of the room we described a moment ago.

The first of the two associates had a small frame and a round face that bore a newly matured beard. He might have been entering his twenty-fifth year, barely a man; he went by the name Rahmat. He was the son of Ziyo Shohichi, a notable well known as one of Margilan’s cultivated elite. The second man was about thirty-five years old, gangly, with a swarthy, pockmarked face, beady, stone-gray eyes, and a tangled beard; he gave off a vague sort of unseemliness difficult to pinpoint but nevertheless present. Even though he possessed considerable means, his notoriety grew not from his wealth but more from the carnal aspects of his nature – he was a well-known womanizer. In fact, nobody would recognize him from his name alone. When people gossiped behind Hamidboi’s back, they added the epithet “the womanizer.”

Hamid had never met Otabek. Since he was Ziyo Shohichi’s brother- in-law, he had felt compelled to accompany Rahmat on this trip, fulfilling his duties as an uncle.

When the two entered the small room, Otabek greeted both as welcome guests.

“We are sorry, dear Bek,” Rahmat apologized, “we regret inconveniencing you.” Otabek appeared unperturbed by the disruption and motioned for them to sit in the place of honor.

“You do not bother me in the least bit; on the contrary, you lighten my heart with this unexpected visit. This is my first time here. I have no friends or relatives in Margilan, and my unfamiliarity with the city and inclination toward reclusiveness has driven me to distraction.”

An older man entered the room, greeting the guests with salaams as he did so. The man, known as Hasan Ali, was approximately sixty years old, with a long, solemn, pallid face, a pronounced forehead, and a long snow-white beard. He had roun black eyes, and though the whites were yellowed with age, they seemed to pierce through all artifice.

Though the feathery down of his beard attested to years well spent, one would never have been able to guess that he was of advanced age. His youthful vigor and ageless complexion did not betray his years. After reciting the Fatiha for the guests sitting around the coal sandal stove, Otabek asked Hasan Ali, “Are you well, Father?”

“Thank God,” said Hasan Ali. “The coal smoke made me a bit queasy.

I am much better now.”

“If you would do something for us…”

“What is your command, my son?” Hasan Ali asked Otabek. “Thank you, Father. I would be grateful if you would prepare us some tea.”

“Fine, my Bek,” Hasan Ali replied, leaving the room to complete this request.

After once again conveying their heartfelt greetings and good wishes, Rahmat asked Otabek, “What is your relation to that gentleman, Bek- aka?”

Otabek looked at the door, hesitating before answering Rahmat’s question. With Hasan Ali a safe distance from the room, he spoke quietly so as to not offend him.

“He is our slave.”

Hamid was surprised by Otabek’s explanation. “Your slave?”

“That’s correct.”

In Hasan Ali’s youth, Otabek’s grandfather had bought him for fifteen pieces of gold from a Turkmen slave trader who abducted people from Iran. Hasan Ali had been a slave in Otabek’s household for approximately fifty years. Over the years he had earned a place as an honored member of the family. He exhibited great devotion to his owner Yusufbek Hajji, but even more so to his master’s son Otabek. In his care for Otabek, he was the personification of duty and devotion; one could see that they held each other in high regard by their camaraderie and mutual affection. Although when he had turned thirty the family had procured a wife for Hasan Ali as due reward for his devotion, he had yet to sire a child who survived infancy. As solace, Hasan Ali was loyal to Otabek as only a father could be toward his son. He wished only one thing in return.

“After my death, if Otabek recites the Quran on behalf of my soul, commemorating the fact that at one time there lived a man named Hasan Ali Ota, that would be all I need to rest my bones in peace.”

It could be said of him that he was an Oq Kungli Odam who humbly beseeched Otabek to fulfill his final wishes and in turn received assurances that they would be fulfilled.

Once the tale of Hasan Ali’s origins had been relayed to the group, Rahmat asked Otabek, “What did you bring from Tashkent, Bek-aka?”

“Just some trifles: fabric, leather boots, and a few pots.” “Margilani fabric and leather boots sell quickly in the bazaar,” commented Hamid.

Otabek leaned forward with a pair of scissors and intently trimmed the wick of the candle so that it would burn brighter.

At that moment a palpable uneasiness descended upon the guests, stealing from them the initial joy of meeting and causing them to cast furtive glances at their host.

An intractable silence persisted upon each attempt to move the conversation along, and, as each failure mounted, a pregnant pause ensued, compounding everyone’s mutual embarrassment. Rahmat sought to move the discussion forward by prodding the others.

“How do you find Margilan? Do you like it?” he asked.

Otabek fidgeted and hesitated to answer the straightforward question.

“How to put it… as a matter of fact, I like Margilan… Indeed, Margilan is the best city in all of Turkistan for silk weavers and such,” Otabek answered.

Hamid and Rahmat looked at each other: had that been an attempt to brush off the question? Sensing that they might have been offended, Otabek seemed to snicker at his own clumsy, half- hearted reply and explained, “From the moment I arrived, Margilan began to wear on my nerves. Perhaps it is because I have no friends here… I immediately felt like an outsider… Presently, Margilan pleases me because I have dear visitors such as yourselves…”

“Please forgive me, Bek-aka,” said Rahmat. “I heard just today of your arrival in Margilan from my father. If I had known sooner, I certainly would not have left you to your own devices or allowed you to sink into boredom like a stranger.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, that’s the proper thing to do in this situation. When my father goes to Tashkent, he immediately heads to your house, but you stopped at this caravanserai instead. No one would blame us for taking insult.”

“You are right to be offended,” conceded Otabek. “But first, finding your home was a challenge; second, the camel drivers were appointed to this serai, leaving me no choice but to follow.”

“That is no excuse for your remaining aloof…” said Rahmat.

Hasan Ali entered with a teapot, spread out the tablecloth, and offered a basin so that the men could wash their hands. With the time-honored exchange of compliments, inquiries as to one another’s health, whether they found themselves too bored, how life treated them, and various other sundry pleasantries, the hosts began the custom of attending to their guests’ needs.

Hamid absentmindedly mopped up shinni with a piece of bread and asked, “How old are you, Bek?”

Before Otabek could even move his lips from the cup, Hasan Ali answered for him.

“If God grants him life in this Year of the Monkey, Bek will turn twenty-four.”

“I have reached my twenty-fourth, but truly I am not sure exactly how old I am.”

“You are twenty-four, Bek,” Hasan Ali insisted.

Hamid continued his line of questioning: “Are you married?” “No.”

Hasan Ali, unsatisfied with this abrupt answer, broke in on Otabek’s behalf once again. “We wished to find a girl for the bek, because, first of all, he is destined for matrimony, it is the natural course of things; but previously he resisted the idea, so we could not plan a wedding for him until now. The honorable Hajji’s hope is to arrange a marriage for Otabek upon journey’s end.”

“My thoughts lead me to believe that there is nothing in the world more disastrous than marriage,” said Rahmat, turning to Otabek. “After marriage, if your wife’s character is suitable, all is well. Otherwise, it is the most painful ordeal anyone can undergo in this world.”

Otabek seemed to warm to Rahmat’s view. “No doubt your words carry some truth,” he said, “but we must add that although the woman must be suitable to the man, the man must also be suitable to the woman.”

“As far as I am concerned, from a man’s perspective, I don’t think we need to take into account whether a man suits a woman’s tastes,” said Hamid a bit abruptly. “For a woman, just having a husband is in itself sufficient; as my nephew states, if the woman suits the man, that is the only consideration that matters.”

Rahmat turned his head and flashed an ironic smile at Otabek. Otabek’s expression paid Rahmat in kind as he then looked at Hamid with a great deal of skepticism.

“Within the institution of marriage, freedom of choice belongs solely to our parents,” said Rahmat. “It falls to our parents to marry us off. They are unconcerned with whether their selection of a bride pleases the son or not. If the parents find the bride pleasing, that is enough. It is unseemly for the daughter or the son to say no to their parents; it is against our Shariyat. Let’s say I married in order to please my parents, but my wife is in keeping with my parents’ tastes, not mine; and, as you have said, maybe I am also unsuitable for my wife… you have a point, Bek-aka.”

Otabek listened attentively to Rahmat’s views and turned to Hamid as if to say, What will you say to that?

“Nephew,” said Hamid, looking at Rahmat. “First, of course your marriage is for your parents; it is not your place to take offense at your parents’ decision. If your first wife is not suitable, take another one that suits your tastes – have two wives. If this does not work, take a third. Complaining that one’s wife is not to one’s taste and whining aloud to everyone is unmanly.”

Rahmat again smiled knowingly at Otabek, replying, “When you take another wife, your suffering will be only greater. What good will that bring?” he asked. “It is fitting to pass through life devoted to one wife. I seem to recall… aren’t you yourself one of those men with two wives? In your house, hostilities are an everyday affair and shake the roof; no peace can be had, not even for a minute.”

“For a stripling such as yourself, of course, even one woman is too much,” said Hamid, sniggering. “What do you mean, I am tormented by too many women? If blood falls in drops from the horse whip, you can enjoy life among even a hundred women. I am not tired, the fires of conflict and strife are inconsequential to me, and presently I am even entertaining the idea of making room for a third woman in my household!”

“You have no peers in this regard, Uncle…”

Hamid beamed proudly at Otabek as if offering a challenge. As for Otabek, he only sat, bemused by the colorful exchange. Hasan Ali made his exit again to prepare the plov and Otabek poured the guests more tea once Hamid’s screed came to an end. Upon Hamid’s final word, the debate cooled. The three of them stared off in different directions, deep in some hidden recesses of their minds, pondering some unseen issues. Moments passed lost in contemplation, until Rahmat asked his uncle, “Have you heard whether Mirza Karim-aka has given his daughter’s hand in marriage to a suitor?”

For some reason known only to Hamid, this casual gossipy question transformed his face, ruining it. He set his jaw, as if preparing to confront the unwelcome topic, which perhaps threatened some hidden, tender hope. He sought to dismiss the subject, muttering under his breath, “I haven’t heard a thing. It’s probably just rumors, probably nothing has happened.”

Rahmat, attempting to keep the conversation from falling into a lull again, declared to Otabek, “There’s a girl in Margilan… Such a beauty! I think she has no equal; in all our city, I have seen no beauty to rival her own.”

Hamid glared at his nephew and affected calm as he attempted to mask the signs of a gnawing obsession. Oblivious to his uncle’s demeanor, Rahmat blundered on. “In our city there is a merchant, Mirza Karimboi. She is his daughter. Maybe you are familiar with Mirza Karimboi – he used to work in the bazaar as a tax collector when he was in Tashkent?”

“No, I don’t know him.”

Hamid’s countenance now appeared stricken, as if he were losing his patience. Nevertheless, Rahmat continued. “His house is situated on the corner of the shoe market. He is very wealthy, and he is well known among Tashkent’s elite – because of that, your father may know him.”

“Perhaps,” said Otabek, seized by an involuntary shiver as if chilled by an unseen draft. His face shifted from its usual calm to a strange, slight swaying from side to side. Rahmat seemed oblivious to the onset of Otabek’s nervous condition, but Hamid noticed the subtle change, discreetly following every move of Otabek’s face, every change in posture that seemed to betray some secret torment. It was difficult to discern whether Hamid’s notation of the seemingly inconsequential ripples of emotion coming from Otabek revealed some unknown design. Perhaps it was just an innocent curiosity. They lapsed into another unfortunate silence.

“Now, when will you be our guest, Bek-aka?” Rahmat’s question shook Otabek from his trance.

“When time permits, God willing.”

“No, Bek-aka,” said Rahmat. “You must arrange a day. We came here with the express purpose of extending an invitation to you.”

“Calm down… what is the hurry?”

“There is nothing to worry about. If you agree, we intend to move you from this serai to our home. Let us agree on a day suitable for you to be our guest. My father is eager to sit with you and talk about the situation in Tashkent.”

“It is inconvenient for me to leave this serai at this moment,” said Otabek, “but I am ready to visit your father anytime.”

“Fine, Bek-aka. Can you name a time to visit?”

“As you know, in the evenings, I am free. At the same time, I would never refuse your father’s hospitality, nor his convenience.”

“Fine,” said Rahmat. “I would like to ask one more question: Would you be offended if people unfamiliar to you attended our gathering? But I would like to add that they would be our closest associates, such as Mirza Karim…”

Otabek flushed a shade darker at this last request but quickly recovered his composure. “To me it makes no difference.”

After the plov was finished, the guests said their farewells and parted ways.