Buch lesen: «Test-&-mend»
© Juanna Artmane, 2021
Preface
“Let one who witnesses a fault, change it with one’s own hand and if one can’t do that, let one change it with his language.
And if one can’t do that too, then let one do this within one’s heart – this will be the faintest manifestation of his faith”
Abu Said-al-Hudri
The story within the covers of this edition is a reflection of lives – partially of my own and partially the combined image of those, I grew up surrounded by.
I was born and cultivated in the culture, where national wisdom spreads the following proverbs: “Those, who don’t beat their daughters, will beat their knees”, “Girl is a burden, like salt”, “Let a girl free and she will marry God knows whom!”. All these examples absorb the accumulated through centuries “wisdom of sages”.
Raising me, my family orthodoxly adhered to these words, which I despise and find ridiculous. Now, being a mother of two girls myself, I categorically refuse to follow these guidelines in their upbringing. I do take pains to shield them from the conventions! Unfortunately, I cannot change the situation for others!
The aim of this book is to address my nation: do you feel, it is high time we steered clear from the cliches of the past? Do you see the evil in the whole structure of our existence?
This, produced from the bottom of my heart, monologue is targeted at hundreds and thousands of those, who still fail to see the situation from aside. The story line explains in detail, what might happen to the apple of your eye – your precious princess – while you are sticking to the pecking order of these outdated rules. However, mothers, mine included, do not see a single fault and whole-heartedly support the thing, which breaks trust between them and their off-springs.
However, I do believe, they do it unintentionally! I do believe, they are blinded by the cultural taboos – they simply cannot see what harm they are doing. Probably, if I stayed in that social medium, I would think the way they do.
Thanks God, my siblings do not suffer from the broken trust; they do not witness all the domestic cruelties I had to overcome; they will not be forced to sort out the consequences this blindness entails for the rest of their lives!
People! Cruelty does not exist outwards – in some given Testament! Sadly, it exists within our hearts and not only in one sphere!
The story will take you into a city, where there are layers upon layers of violence; where the government put binds on those, they make a cat’s paw service of; where there are numerous cunning schemes to clench common people on those binds; where each family is a pyramid of cruelty that copies the brutality of the whole State. Up until now, the scheme is an uninterrupted chain…
To finish my introductory word, I would like to turn to Abu Said-al-Hudri’s catchphrase, where he suggests that we could at least change our own attitude to the things going around. This is the minimum, each of us can afford!
I plucked up the courage to write this semi-autobiographical book and share the story, which, I am absolutely sure, is and will be an eternal food for thought for many more generations to come. I must admit that my task would not be completed but for some God-blessed people that cropped up on my severe path to maturity:
– My University Teacher and the editor of this story
– Pugacheva Elena Y., who supported me through the whole process of writing;
– The person, who inspired me to undertake this responsible enterprise and to whom I express my deepest gratitude – Feshchenko Ruslan M.;
– Each member of my family, who endorses my prospects, though still not totally shares my point of view.
Do not be harsh on me!
Author
Chapter 1:
The City of “N”
“The previous time it didn’t take this much,” – despairingly said a shivering with cold man.
“By George! 7 f*cking hours!” – commented another, hotching from foot to foot. “Look! The cars are coming!”.
The crowd sighed with relief at the sight of the approaching engines. They were expecting to greet President, while he was being driven in his respectable cortege.
“Raise your flags! Be ready to cheerfully welcome!” – commanded well-padded police officers at the fatigue-stricken faces. The latter obeyed.
“Pre-si-dent! Re – si-dent!.. i-dent!” – chorused the herd, by order waving free flags.
The polished porches speedily passed by, splashing slush on the salutes. A glimpse of glumly grudging gazes was caught by the Leader, who was comfortably perching at the back seat of his black limousine.
“Free!” – vociferated the gendarmes, as soon as the automobiles disappeared. With heavy kicks and punches, they started to disperse the crowd that blocked the street like a flock of sheep. At the announcement, the creepy countenances, numb limbs, hungry stomachs started to scatter slowly through the muddy streets of the city “N”.
The settlement was located in the fraternal country of the post-Evil Empire. One must have a sharp eye not to take it for a rural area, as there were barely enough modern comforts. The so-called “metropolis” was scraping through the standards, typical of a city, to be called one itself. The place would offer no lanes or theatres, though it had two railroads around it, several stations of regional account and a central district, at heart of which there was a public square, surrounded with business and entertainment facilities (including a cinema house, showing no films).
Right in the middle of the square, which was considered the most significant part of the city, there were several benches, placed in such a way, that the sitting inevitably faced the main and only attraction – a grandiose masterpiece, a giant sculpture of the president. Made of clay, the monument felt grey and cold, with an air of indifference in its posture. Instead of looking at the citizens, relaxing on the wooden benches around him, the artefact rested its eyes on the Court House, located in the opposite direction. It seemed to be reading a tattered slogan over the porch: «Truth cannot be concealed!». Due to the thick layer of white glue under the thin poster, the last two letters of the word «not» looked greyish and blurred, making the whole phrase unreadable – especially at dusk.
Occasional lampposts, standing on both sides of the central avenue, laid path to a view of the town’s modest architecture. Constructed during the times of the Evil Empire, small featureless houses stayed unaltered. They were mostly built of clay, either.
In one of such habitats in the western part of the town, there lived a family – a traditionally eastern one. By local standards, the family was quite well-off. Abdul Husein, the father, kept a post of an investigator in the Central Public Prosecution Office. He was a man of Power, who could easily twist anyone's arm to make them do things in the way, suitable and lucrative for him. This particular feature of his personality allowed to line his pockets through every case, entering his office “for further investigation”. If put together with his declared income, it was a small fortune, but it could barely cover Abdul’s indulgences in cars and women. The first were used to impress those around with his authority; the latter served a substitution for the lack of natural attractiveness. By appearance, he was a man of no great stature: with pale-grey eyes framed by heavy bushy black brows. His thin brownish lips gave the right finish to an arrogant narcissistic dandy. Despite the infinite love of his wife Leila, he appeared to heighten his self-esteem only by conquering other women's hearts.
Certainly, Abdul took an exceptional pride in the office he occupied. The moment he put on his uniform with glittering shoulder straps, he slipped into his second skin. He wore his epaulettes even to family gatherings. His manners, gestures and eyes exposed a deep sense of superiority, which he carried wherever he was invited.
Now, resting in the circle of his extended family, Abdul was showered with questions about the news, which saddened his nation. The head of Intelligence Department of General Prosecutor’s office – Abu Abumov – was assassinated at the entrance to his house in March 2002. He was one of those few people, who had not lost humanity and remained in the System, serving his nation truly. For a whole week, newspapers were roaring with condolences; black boxes were mourning the loss. People wanted to learn the name and reasons of the killer, but every loophole for information leakage was thoroughly blocked. That is why for relatives Abdul was “someone from the System, who should know the truth” about the nature of this murder:
“Well, nothing surprising,” – coughed Abdul to give more severity to his tone of voice. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know.” Then he tried to cut short the conversation, but his kin were eager to suss out more: “Why do you think the assassin was called by General Prosecutor – Lunar Basitov – just before being killed?! They say, the victim had been talking on the phone with him for about a minute. Do you think it is a mere coincidence?”
Abdul was picking his teeth with a toothpick, removing scraps of kebab, at the same time carefully listening to the continuous inquires. The subject was delicate: he was personally involved in work under the guidance of General Prosecutor in question. Some two or three years ago, now a prominent politician Lunar Basitov had been Local Prosecutor in Abdul’s current workplace in this very city of “N”; and only in year 2000 he was promoted by President to become General Prosecutor of the whole country. Although Abdul served Lunar Basitov for only two years, he felt that he should not say anything derogatory about him at that moment. After all, wolves never prey upon wolves. Therefore, he answered brusquely “Sure”, clearly showing his indisposition for further discussions of the subject.
Accompanying Abdul in various family get-togethers, Leila easily sensed her husband’s irritation at uneasy conversations and could immediately introduce an array of other topics for discussion. She seemed to lay herself out to be a good wife to her high-flying husband.
A daughter of a former GP in the city of “N”, she had never been abroad. She was raised in the Evil Empire and, being a part of the system, witnessed the prosperity – as well as the downfall of the regime – with ambiguous feelings. From time to time, she nostalgically recalled little heart-warming moments of the past, successfully omitting the miserable ones. That was her nature: to see the sunny side even in the ugliest things. To feed her over-romantic soul, she would lose herself in poetry, occasionally trying her hand at writing one. She took across her love for beauty to almost everything: to their grey house, which she kept impeccably neat; to the beds of flowers, she planted on the front porch of their abode, and to her trimmed into perfection appearance. Even after giving birth to two children, she was still petite in figure. Her silky black hair, which she wore long, gave her a girlish look. Indeed, she frequently received compliments on looking young in her mid-thirties. She liked to be sometimes mistaken for her daughter's elder sister. She rejoiced at those moments and would later retell those experiences to her neighbors – with some exaggeration.
Abdul was irritated by his wife's “juvenile behavior” and found it inappropriate for a married woman with children to pay so much attention to style and fashion, but he had enough tact to keep his resentment to himself. He adored his wife’s patience and gave her way in most things. He cherished the way she ran the household, feeling free from any disturbances related to chores. He was even more satisfied with the way his wife handled the kids, without involving him into their tedious routine. The only time he participated in his children's life was when choosing their names. As a person who hated being bothered by minor stuff, he without much thinking called them after his grandparents: Ali and Hannah.
Although Abdul took practically no interest in the upbringing of his children, he did not miss any opportunity to talk about them to others – especially when his relatives were around. He dwelt upon Hannah and Ali to such an extent, that if one heard his detailed narrations, they would definitely take the speaker for a truthful father. All the information he shared was obtained through his talkative wife. Actually, being married for twenty years, they had a limited number of common topics for small talk – mainly about children. Indeed, Abdul could tolerate endless discussions about Ali’s future life, as they heated both his pride and imagination. Being the only male offspring in the family, Ali was looked upon as the succeeding heir to everything, Abdul had achieved.
Hardly living up to his Parent’s expectations, Ali was poor in constitution, anemic in development and pale in face. His raven-black hair in contrast with ghostly complexion made its look even more sallow. Despite his constant struggle with asthma, Ali was industrious and reflective, and would do anything to take after his deserving Dad. From the very early age Ali was made clear, that all the breadwinner’s responsibilities would one day befall his slender shoulders; and he had to bear the brunt till his very death with dignity, inherent of the Bahtulovs’ House. He was also expected to financially support his parents in their ripe old age; as well as to marry a girl, thoroughly chosen by his scrupulous mother, and raise his own sons under the same roof.
In eastern culture, it is a rooted tradition to determine children’s destiny from infancy, or even better – before they are born. When it comes to the child, his duty is to vassally obey and not to disappoint those who bring him up, otherwise he can be easily disinherited.
However, Ali had luck to deviate from some unwritten rules, as he was given the freedom to choose his future profession. To everyone’s astonishment, the adolescent’s choice was connected with the sphere, totally alien to his parents’ generation. There was hardly anyone, who could grasp the desire to work with such outlandish machines, as computers. Nevertheless, being put through the mill of the pick of trade by his own father, Abdul decided not to force his son into anything as well. Although with reluctance, he still went along with his son’s option – to become a programmer.
Less lucky was the fate of his second child – Hannah, for whom everything was settled from the day of birth. She was betrothed to a man fifteen years her senior; and the perspective marriage was due to come into force as soon as she reached physical maturity.
Then, being a girl of thirteen, Hannah started gradually acquiring exquisite features, inherent to a stunning beauty. The only thing, constantly drilled into her head by her mum, was about getting married and having children – as the final aim of all women’s existence. This kind of conversations evoked indignation in the rebellious nature of Hannah’s. Provoked, she would inquire the origins of this antiquated belief. The answer she got failed to satisfy her curiosity: “It is by God's will”. Observing ever-complaining wives around her, the young mind could not get a grip on why the supposedly kind God imposed such a gruesome fate on his beloved children. No one seemed to be able to give a reasonable explanation to the burning question of hers. Her rare beauty accompanied with an inquisitive mind only fuelled her growing resentment and made detest her status of the most sought-after bride. Hannah's snowwhite skin and shoulder length brown hair, which was a good match to her fair complexion, arose much envy among sun-burnt girls of her age. Inheriting grey eyes from her father’s line, she took after her grandma, who used to be a recognized paragon of beauty in the good old days of her youth. They say, once her grandma’s stunning charm was on everyone's lips. Unfortunately, Hannah was slow to witness that fact: when she reached a conscious age of thirteen, she could see a withering woman of fifty with a whole bunch of flourishing diseases. The ex-beauty sorrowfully condemned childbirth as the main culprit of her fading good looks.
Inwardly, Hannah followed her mother’s line: she found delight in burying herself in poetry; her sense of beauty was a match to Leila's. A bird in flight, a tree in bloom, the starry sky could easily take her breath away. She shaped her admiration for the stated things into poems. Over time, writing became her obsession. She was convinced that literature was up her street; and she wanted to devote the rest of her life to Euterpas, the muse of lyrics.
The question, whether or not she should attend high school, was on the family agenda daily. Her aspiration for knowledge and cultivation disturbed her uncle Mohammad, who was an ardent adept of the traditional way of life of worthy Mohammedans. He was eager to participate in his niece’s life through putting restrictions on almost everything related to her development. Her father saw nothing but a good will in her uncle’s attitude. The latter used to say that it would be better for her to learn something more practical rather than stuff her head with “nonsense”, which would be of no use for her coming family life. Living next door to Abdul’s, Mohammad kept an eye on Hannah, so that she could not cross the threshold of her house into the big world. In the local community, this way was regarded as a decent upbringing for a girl. Additional praises followed if families prohibited girls from socializing or going out or even speaking, unless they were spoken to. These were the qualities, which potential husbands looked for in their future wives: taciturnity, obedience and complaisance.
Actually, all neighbors kept an eye on each other, so one could barely escape attention, if they did something unacceptable or violated the code of unwritten rules. The street itself was stimulating this type of existence by its snake-like shape. A long narrow alley, with typical of eastern cities’ adjacent houses, encouraged people to observe their neighbors’ lives unintentionally. Almost all of the buildings were constructed with low communicating fences, so it took no effort to witness, what was going on behind the closed doors and windows. It was like living behind glass walls. Such a notion as “privacy” was a lacuna in the vocabulary of the locals. Everyone knew everything about one another in the area.
As if this openness was not enough, people kept their doors unlocked at all times. It was common for neighbors to drop in for a cup of coffee, whenever they felt bored. This was accepted especially among women, who dragged a homely existence, and in order to brighten their dull days, they paid visits to each other. One more entertainment they were addicted to was gossiping. The topicality of their whining was due to being sorely tried by their husbands.
Chapter 2:
The long-expected message
During three months, since Ali sat for the exam, the whole family were on tenterhooks, waiting for the result. Discussions of how to arrange everything in the best way, once they got the positive answer, burst out over and over again – on every possible occasion. The question of the main concern was, whether they should allow Ali to study abroad, as he had applied to MachineLearning Faculty at Munich Engineering University. Each member worried in his or her own way.
For Abdul, the prospects were “pretty clear”. He was determined to support his son, whatever the latter chose as his future trade. More than once did he challenge his son’s desire to become “the thing”, as he put it. He was not able to memorize the name of the profession and he used to refer to it as “the thing”. He agreed to Ali’s staying away from the Family for three years, but on condition of his return, once he received the degree.
Although his father continued preaching him daily and Ali nodded in consent to everything, the latter was all intention to lam, given the opportunity. After all, Ali could not be blamed for his yearning to take to his heels. He would read or watch news bulletins, from which it was evident that his Motherland could not protect its citizens. Since 2001, an uninterrupted sequence of cases of “sudden death of few politicians” or “unexpected suicides of some outspoken journalists” or even strange kidnaps – all played up his reluctance to build his own future in this city.
During those few lucky hours, when electricity was provided; and the family managed to get together, they would apprehensively listen to “hot news” on TV.
“See, papa! This is Nona Buhatova!” – Ali jumped up from his seat, pointing at the screen. “She is dead now!”.
“Well, they say, she overdosed,” – returned Abdul, waving his hand nonchalantly.
“Of course, she overdosed! She was seen at General Prosecutor’s office just a few weeks ago! Rumor has it, she knew something about Abu Abumov’s death,” – Ali argued furiously.
“Curiosity killed the cat,” – habitually commented his Dad.
Occasionally, when Ali was alone with Hannah, he used to confide his thoughts to her: “Only a fool could willingly stay in this dump. You know, if God gives me the chance to escape from here, I’ll never ever return!”. While he was talking down the country, he was rushing back and forth around the room. Every inch of his body seemed to be burning with the ardent desire to run away from the grey gloomy gruesome grip of the city “N”. – “Little poor mama! I feel sorry for her! Oh, just imagine… just imagine those pictures we have seen… Munich! What a city! What a place! With its beautiful streets and lakes! And Me! Being a student at that university! Oh, I would sacrifice everything. I would give my right arm to get there.”.
With her mother’s shrewd heart, Leila could feel her son’s inner eagerness to break away from what the family had been carefully preparing for him over years. Her heart was like a compass, catching every vibe of deviation in her children – especially in Ali, the apple of her eye – her only son. How could she let him go after all the endless sleepless nights, when she was nursing him, carrying him in her lap, giving him the best she could? “How brutal it is to let him go! He is a throbbing lifeline of my essence! And they want to snatch my heart and throw it away to God knows to what conditions! Where will he sleep? What will he eat?” – these questions were crashing her soul and boiling her blood. Anger, hatred, self-pity mingled in her mind.
Being just a feeble woman in the dominant male society, she was devoid of the standing to intervene with her husband’s decisions. Much to her resentment, her words were listened to, but never taken into consideration. Yet deep down, she kept persuading herself that her fears would not come true. Ali would not go anywhere, but stay where he belonged to – with the family.
It was not until the twenty-eighth of July, when Ali’s university exam results came out. Until then, the family had been totally unaware of the exact day, on which the notification letter was due to arrive. Absence of clarity made the last three months particularly strained.
On the evening, when the letter reached its addressee, the family were sitting on the veranda, facing an ample garden. They were dining and dwelling on the same topic. Abdul was in an inexplicably jubilant mood. A warm pleasant wind, blowing from the garden mixed up with the smell of a fatty baked lamb, put Abdul in that wonderful disposition, in which one could seldom – if ever – find him. Folded in pleasantries of life, Abdul was philosophizing about the importance of education for a male. With a goblet of refined red wine on the table and a piece of lamb in his greasy palm, he was actively gesticulating, waving meat from side to side:
“My son, for a human it is vitally important… I’d say, education is as important as honor. Look at me…” – he proceeded with praise to his own achievements.
Sitting at the foot of the table, Hannah was looking up at her dwelling Dad in the opposite end. What struck her most in his speech was his denomination of a man. Whenever Abdul talked, he used the word “human”. “What is it – a human?” – Hannah thought to herself.
The kerosene lamp, placed in the middle of the table, was dimly illuminating Abdul’s face. It was glistening with pleasure, reflected on his oil skin. The poorly lit table seemed an abyss, separating Hannah from her father. She was not close enough to him to say, how much she was in favor of the ideas, directed to her brother. Although Hannah knew that she was not included into Abdul’s philosophical calculations, she still sympathized with everything said on that evening at table.
This situation was not unusual for her. On the contrary, it was very much familiar. Hannah was accustomed to the type of setting, when she, being “an uninvited visitor’, was exposed to the witty conversation. In fact, not only these situations put her in the position of an “unwelcomed” guest. Actually, she was repeatedly treated as one. The very idea of “not belonging to this family” was firmly fixed in her mind by her mother, whose intention was far from evil. Leila was doing her best to prepare Hannah for the family of her would-be-husband; in that way she was trying to mold Hannah’s yet unshaped, dependent mind into the psychological state of appreciating the fact, that her genuine family was the family of the man, she was betrothed to.
Now it gave Hannah the feeling that, despite her sharing the table with native people, she was an outsider for them. Actually, this feeling had become a part of Hannah’s identity, which was skillfully molded by her beloved mother over years.
And there she was, her mom, sitting beside Abdul. In a melancholy mood, she was staring at the ripped flesh of the dark meat, served in a porcelain plate right in front of her. With her eyes fixed on one spot, she was like an ancient sculpture – elegant and graceful, speechless and lifeless. In the dark, the whiteness of her skin was shining like marble, making a striking contrast to the blackness of her gown. Her raven hair was neatly adjusted in a bun, revealing her delicate beauty in an artistic way. At that very moment, she was placid and tranquil, while deep down she was really running with hatred and loath towards her husband, who was sitting above the table and mercilessly putting the silly ideas of education of a human into their son’s brain.
“Bakhtulov!” – came the husky male voice from the iron gate, which was the main entrance to the house. Everyone turned to the gate. Due to the lack of light, it was difficult to see, to whom the voice belonged. A beam of faint light, cast in the direction of the stranger, outlined his tall bulky figure.
“Here is a letter for you!” – said the man again. Obviously, this was a postman, bringing the long-expected message.
Abdul, jumping from his seat, took the lamp and hastily approached the porch. The whole family flew up after him, anxiously waiting for the mail to be opened. Abdul, placing the lamp into Ali’s hands, tore the envelope open. Those few seconds, when he was intently peering into the paper, seemed eternity for everyone around. After a while, a smile lit his face.
“This is, what should have been expected! Expected from MY son! My genes! My blood!” – he exclaimed the words with a solemn accent, patting Ali on the shoulder. Look! Look at your scores!” – he handed the letter to Ali, who was in a state of physical shock – holding the results and not believing his eyes.
Hannah took his brother’s cold clenched hands in hers: “Ali, congratulations!”. She embraced him affectionately, landing kisses on both cheeks.
Observing all the happening as a nightmare, Leila stood petrified. She could not move, she could not speak, she could do nothing – but stare blankly into the darkness. She felt as if the foundation was shattered, leaving her head-to-head with her fears. Turning away, Leila let scalding tears out.
Seeing his mum’s shuddering shoulders, Ali came up to her. “Poor little mama,” – Ali wrapped his arms around her fragile body, – “please, don’t cry. Everything will be fine, I will be fine!”. These words meant to console her, but had the opposite effect: Leila burst into floods tears. Now both of them were standing at the entrance, clinging to each other and crying. Her tears were because of the upcoming grief of separation, his were – because of happiness.
It did not take the neighbors long to appear one by one at Abdul’s house, since they learnt the news of Ali’s admission to university without delay. Soon the whole garden was filled with full-mouth laughs, clapping hands and crying eyes – all of them were congratulating and complimenting on Ali’s success.
This was a tradition among the locals: whatever happened – no matter good or bad – neighbors were always there at the scene. This might seem a powerful community spirit for a stranger. It always looks like that from aside. But let the myth be dispelled: gathering up, the people would cheer each other or give their condolence in public, but later, safely housed, these very people turned everything witnessed into a topic of heated discussion to amuse and entertain themselves. It is not necessary to get entangled in anything scandalous or indecent to become an object for word of mouth. It is enough to cast a glance at the opposite sex, or comment on anything in a more cheerful way than others, or even attain something, which others failed – then God help you! They would put a mask of sorrow or joy, depending on what condition you are in, only to laugh behind your back or begrudge your success later. They would gossip about anything and everything, because gossiping was the only available entertainment in that grey gruesome “N”.
