Читать книгу The Caucasian Captive 2.0, or The New Adventures of Shurik - Александр Александрович Малькевич, Александр Александрович Винниченко, Александр Александрович Носов - Страница 2

A day passed, and Shurik had time to get a bit settled in the aul. Together with Ali and other children, he went to the river to watch how the old-timers catch trout in the cold rapids. They showed him the terraced fields on the slopes, where corn and barley ripen on narrow strips of land. He saw how women baked fresh lavash in a clay oven—a tandoor—right in the yard. They deftly took out the hot flatbreads using a special long stick, and the aroma of bread spread throughout the area.

In the evening the whole aul gathered in the square—the little flat courtyard in front of Jabra’il’s house. The neighbors organized a small celebration in honor of the visiting guest. The tamada—the toastmaster of the feast—turned out to be a mustachioed neighbor named Ruslan. He announced loudly:

“Today we welcome a dear guest from afar! Let’s show him our dances and songs, so he takes away a piece of our soul with him.”

In the square they lit a small bonfire and set up long wooden benches around it. The women brought treats: roasted lamb, vegetables, herbs, fruits—cherry plums and peaches, fresh cheese and, of course, flatbreads. The children milled around in anticipation of fun.

With the first sounds of the garmon (accordion), it became clear that Shurik had stumbled upon a true dance evening. There were claps in rhythm, the melody sped up—and suddenly a young man dashed into the center of the circle. He swung his arms, crouching low, then straightened sharply—and began striking a rapid staccato rhythm with his feet. It was the Lezginka—the famous Caucasian dance. The young man moved like a proud eagle: swift, precise, with fire in his eyes. After him, a girl in a long dress with a narrow belt gracefully stepped into the circle. She glided like a swan—smoothly, softly, her gaze modestly downcast. The young man circled around, tapping his heels on the ground, now approaching her, now springing back without touching—since in this dance the young man must show respect and admiration for the girl without ever laying a hand on her.

Shurik watched, entranced. He had taken out his camera to record the dance, but then decided to just enjoy the moment with his own eyes. When the Lezginka ended, everyone applauded. The children squealed with delight, begging for more.

“There will be more!” laughed Ruslan the tamada. “But first—a song!”

A short, slender old man with silver at his temples came to the center. In his hands was a stringed instrument—a saz. He sat on a stool and plucked the strings, tuning them. Silence fell. Shurik realized that this man was an ashug, a folk singer-storyteller.

The first sounds of the melody rang out—sad and beautiful. The old man began to sing in a low voice, a song in an unfamiliar language. Shurik didn’t understand the words, but he felt each note with his heart. It seemed as if the very soul of the mountains was singing of love and separation, of the bravery of jigits (mountain warriors) and the beauty of maidens. The wind caught these sounds and carried them to the peaks, and the stars appearing in the sky twinkled in time.

When the song ended, many stood with moist eyes—so deeply it had touched their souls. Shurik quietly asked Fatima, “What was that song about? I didn’t understand anything, but I feel as if I lived a whole life in those minutes.”

Fatima smiled. “You felt it correctly. The song is about a brave young man who, for the sake of saving his bride, rushed into battle against enemies. About how his love gave him the strength to overcome all obstacles. They say that legend took place somewhere here in our area, many years ago.”

Shurik sighed. How that resonated with his own dreams—to witness a true story of love and courage in the mountains. He thought that such songs are the heart of the people, their unspoken code of honor.

After the song came games. The youth organized playful contests: tug-of-war, sack races. Everyone laughed and cheered each other on. They invited Shurik to participate as well, but he modestly declined, preferring to watch.

Then the tamada raised his hand again: it was time for another toast. A large carved goblet filled with homemade grape juice was handed to him. The tamada stood and proclaimed: