The White Ship (17 page)

"Don't get your boots off, son," he said. "Seidakhmat and I will manage it."

"Why, no, aksakal," the driver objected, embarrassed. "You're a guest, and we are local folks. You'd better get behind the wheel," the old man insisted.

Momun and Seidakhmat pushed a stick through the roll of steel cable and dragged it over the water. The moment he stepped in, Seidakhmat yelled, "Oh-h! It's ice, not water!"

Orozkul and Koketay grinned condescendingly, urging him on:

"It's all right, go on, go on. We'll get you warm quick enough!"

And Grandpa Momun did not utter a sound. He did not even feel the icy cold. With head drawn into his shoulders, to make himself as invisible as he could, he walked with his bare feet over the slippery underwater rocks, praying to God for one thing only—to keep Orozkul from ordering him to return, from driving him away, from insulting him before strangers; to make Orozkul forgive him, stupid, miserable old man that he was.

And Orozkul said nothing. He seemed unaware of Momun's zeal. Momun did not exist for him. But in his heart he triumphed—he had broken the rebellious old man after all. "So," Orozkul grinned inwardly. "Crawled over, eh? Groveling at my feet. Ah, if only I had more power—I'd twist some bigger fellows to my will. I'd get them crawling in the dust. If only they gave me—oh, even a collective farm or a Soviet farm to manage. I'd show them how to run things. Giving people too much leeway. And then they complain there's no respect for chairmen and directors. Take some low-down shepherd, and he talks with the authorities as if he was an equal. The fools, they don't deserve their power! Is that the way to deal with people? There was a time, and not so long ago, when heads flew, and not a peep from anybody. On the contrary, they loved you all the more, sang praises all the louder. That was a time! And now? The lowest of the low—and takes it suddenly into his head to go against you. Go on, go on, I'll see you eating dirt before you're through," Orozkul gloated, throwing an occasional sidelong glance at old Momun.

And the old man, stumbling through the icy water, dragged the cable together with Seidakhmat, content because Orozkul already seemed to have forgiven him. "Forgive me, old fool that I am, that things turned out that way," he spoke mentally to Orozkul. "I lost my temper yesterday. Galloped off to bring the boy from school. A lonely child, how can a man help pitying him? Today he did not even go to school. Caught a chill. Forget it, don't hold it against me. After all, you are no stranger to me either. You think I do not wish you and my daughter happiness? If God would grant me the blessing to hear the cry of a newborn infant from your house —yours, and my daughter's—may I not leave the spot if I would not be happy to give up my own soul to God that very moment. I swear, I'd weep with joy. If only—forgive my saying so—you wouldn't hurt my daughter. As for work—as long as I can stand up on my feet, I will do anything. Anything. Just say the word . . ."

Standing a little on the side by the river, grandma was urging on the old man with gestures and her whole body: "Do your best! You see, he has forgiven you. Do as I tell you, and everything will be all right."

The boy slept. He woke once for a moment at the sound of a shot and instantly went back to sleep. Exhausted by the previous sleepless night and by his illness, he sank into a deep and quiet sleep. And even as he slept, he felt how pleasant it was to lie in bed, stretched out freely, without being racked by chills and fever. He would have slept a long time if it had not been for grandma and Aunt Bekey. They tried to speak in low voices, but they clattered the dishes, and the boy awakened.

"Take this large bowl. And the platter," grandma whispered excitedly in the front room. "And I will bring the pail and the sieve. Oh, my back. I'm all worn out. So much work. But thank God, I'm so glad."

"Ah, eneke, I cannot tell you how glad I am. Yesterday I was ready to die. If it wasn't for Guldzhamal, I would have done myself in."

"The things she'll say!" grandma chided. "Did you take the pepper? Come on. God himself has sent a gift to celebrate your reconciliation. Come, come."

As they were leaving the house, already on the threshold, Aunt Bekey asked grandma about the boy:

"He's still sleeping?"

"Let him sleep awhile," grandma replied. "When it's ready, we'll bring him some hot soup."

The boy did not fall asleep again. From the yard came the sounds of steps and voices. Aunt Bekey laughed, and Guldzhamal and grandma laughed, answering her. There were some unfamiliar voices. "Must be the people who came last night," the boy decided. "So they're still here." The only person he could neither hear nor see was Grandpa Momun. Where was he? What was he doing?

Listening to the voices outside, the boy waited for his grandfather. He was very eager to tell him about the deer he had seen yesterday. It was almost winter. Enough hay must be left for them in the woods. Let them eat. It would be good to tame them, so they would not be afraid of people at all. Perhaps they'd come across the river right to the post, into the yard. Then he and grandpa could feed them something nice, something they liked best of all. He wondered what they liked best. He might train the fawn to follow him wherever he went. Wouldn't that be great! Perhaps he'd go to school with him, too?

The boy waited for his grandfather, but he did not come. Instead of him, Seidakhmat suddenly entered the house. He was very cheerful. He swayed on his feet, smiling to himself. And when he came nearer, the smell of alcohol struck the boy's nostrils. The boy hated that ugly, acrid smell, which re-minded him of Orozkul's cruelty, of the suffering of grandpa and Aunt Bekey. But in contrast to Orozkul, Seidakhmat became kinder and merrier when he drank. Alcohol somehow made him inoffensively silly, though he was never very bright even when sober. Whenever he was tipsy, Grandpa Momun would ask:

"What are you grinning about, like a ninny? You've gotten pickled, too?"

"Aksakal, I love you. Honest, I do, like my own father."

"A-oh, at your age . . . Other fellows drive cars and trucks, and you can't manage even your own tongue. If I was your age, I'd be a tractor driver at the very least."

"Aksakal, my commander in the army said I was no good at that. But I'm infantry, aksakal, and without infantry an army is neither here nor there . . ."

"Infantry! You are a loafer, not a soldier. And your wife . . . God has no eyes. A hundred like you aren't worth a single Guldzhamal."

"That's why we're here, aksakal—there's one of me, and one of her."

"Ah, what's the use of talking to you. Strong as an ox, and the brain of an . . ." And Grandpa Momun would shake his head hopelessly.

"M—moo, m—moo," Seidakhmat would bellow and roar with laughter.

Then, stopping in the middle of the yard, he would start up the strange song he had brought from heaven knows where:

"From the red-red mountains

I have come on a red stallion.

Hey, redheaded merchant, open the door,

We shall drink red wine.

"From the rust brown mountains

I have come on a rust brown ox.

Hey, rust brown merchant, open the door,

We shall drink rust brown wine."

And the song could go on and on without end. He would come from the mountains on a camel, a rooster, a mouse, a turtle, anything that moved. The boy liked Seidakhmat drunk even better than he liked him sober.

Therefore, when the tipsy Seidakhmat appeared in the room, the boy welcomed him with a smile.

"Hah!" Seidakhmat cried out with surprise. "And they told me you're sick. You aren't sick at all. So why aren't you out in the yard? That won't do, it won't do at all."

He flung himself upon the bed. His breath heavy with alcohol, his hands and clothing giving off the smell of raw fresh meat, he began to shake the boy and kiss him. The rough stubble on his cheeks scraped the boy's face.

"Stop it, Uncle Seidakhmat," the boy begged. "Where is grandpa? Did you see him?"

"Your grandpa's out there—I mean . . ." Seidakhmat waved his hand in the air. "We . . . oh, we dragged the log out of the water. So we took a drink to warm up. And now he's . . . you know, he's cooking the meat. Get up. Come on, get dressed—and let's go. It isn't right! We're all there, and you are here alone."

"Grandpa said I wasn't to get up," said the boy.

"Forget what he said. Come on, let's take a look. Such things don't happen every day. Today we've got a feast. The bowl is fat, the spoon is fat, and the mouth is fat! Get up!"

With drunken clumsiness he began to dress the boy.

"I'll do it myself." The boy tried to push him aside. At-tacks of dizziness came over him. But the drunk Seidakhmat would not listen. He felt he was doing a good deed, since the boy had been abandoned at home, and this was a day when the bowl was fat, and the spoon was fat, and the mouth was fat. . . .

Unsteadily, the boy followed Seidakhmat out of the house. The day in the mountains was windy. Clouds scudded fast across the sky. And while the boy was crossing the porch, the weather changed abruptly twice—from intolerably bright sunlight to unpleasant murky gray. The boy felt that this gave him a headache. Driven by a gust of wind, the smoke from the burning fire struck his face. His eyes burned. "They must be doing the laundry today," thought the boy, because on big laundry days a fire was made in the yard to boil water in the huge black cauldron for all three households. No one could pick up the cauldron alone. Aunt Bekey and Guldzhamal usually lifted it together.

The boy liked big laundry days. To begin with, there was the fire in the huge open hearth—you could play around it, not as in the house. Secondly, it was very interesting to hang out the wash. The white, blue, and red things on the line made the yard festive. The boy also liked to steal up to the clothes on the line and press his cheek to the damp fabric.

This time there was no wash in the yard. And the fire on the hearth was very big. Thick steam rose from the boiling cauldron, filled to the brim with large chunks of meat. The meat was almost ready; its smell and the smell of the fire tickled the nose and made the mouth water. Aunt Bekey in a new red dress, new leather boots, and a flowered kerchief that slipped off on her shoulders, was bending over the cauldron, removing the foam with a ladle, and Grandpa Momun stood near her on his knees, turning the flaming logs in the hearth.

"There he is, your grandpa," Seidakhmat said to the boy. "Come on."

And he began his song:

"From the red-red mountains

I have come on a red stallion . . ."

At that moment Orozkul looked out of the barn door, with a shaven head, with an ax in his hands and rolled-up sleeves.

"Where did you disappear to?" he shouted angrily to Seidakhmat. "Our guest is chopping wood"—he nodded at the driver—"and you sing songs."

"Oh, that won't take a moment," Seidakhmat reassured him, walking toward the driver. "Come on, brother, I'll do it."

The boy approached his grandfather, who was kneeling by the fire. He went up to him from behind.

"Ata," he said.

The old man did not hear him.

"Ata," the boy repeated, touching him on the shoulder. The old man glanced back, and the boy did not recognize him. Grandpa was drunk. The boy could not remember when he had seen him even tipsy. If it ever happened, it could only have been at some wake for one of the Issyk-Kul old men, where vodka is served to everyone, even the women. But just like that, for no reason—this had never happened before.

The old man turned to the boy with a strange, wild, re- remote look. His face was red and hot, and when he recognized his grandson, it turned still redder. It flushed and immediately turned pale. Grandpa hurriedly rose to his feet.

"What is it, eh?" he said hoarsely, pressing the boy to himself. "What is it, eh? What is it?" He seemed unable to say any other word, as though he had lost the power of speech. His agitation communicated itself to the boy.

"Are you sick, ata?" he asked anxiously.

"No, no, it's nothing," Grandpa Momun muttered. "Go, go, walk about a little. I've got to . . . I'll look after the wood . . . I . . ."

He almost pushed the boy away from himself. As though turning his back on the whole world, he knelt again before the hearth, never glancing around, absorbed only in himself and in the fire. The old man did not see his grandson shift from foot to foot with a lost look, then go toward Seidakhmat, who was chopping wood.

The boy could not understand what had come over his grandfather or what was happening in the yard. And only as he drew nearer to the barn did he notice a large mound of red fresh meat, piled on a skin spread hair down on the ground. Along the edges of the skin, blood still ran down in pale trickles. A bit farther away, on the garbage heap, the dog growled, tearing at some entrails. A dark-faced stranger, huge as a rock, squatted beside the mound of meat. It was Koketay. He and Orozkul, armed with knives, were cutting the meat into pieces, calmly, unhurriedly, throwing the dismembered parts into different places on the outstretched skin.

"What a pleasure! What a smell!" the dark, huge man was saying in a deep voice, sniffing the meat.

"Take it, take it, throw it in your pile," Orozkul urged generously. "God gave us from his herd on the day of your arrival. It doesn't happen every day."

Orozkul puffed breathlessly, getting up now and then, stroking his full belly, as though he had overeaten. And it could be seen at once that he had already taken a good share of drinks. He grunted hoarsely, raising his head to catch his breath. His face, meaty as a cow's udder, shone with well-fed self-congratulation.

The boy turned numb, as if a chill wind froze him to the spot, when he caught sight of a horned deer's head by the barn wall. The severed head lay in the dust, stained dark with blood. It looked like an uprooted stump kicked off the road. Near the head, carelessly flung down, were four hooved feet, chopped off at the knee.

The boy stared horrified at the grim sight. He could not believe his eyes. Before him lay the head of the Horned Mother Deer. He wanted to run, but his feet refused to obey him. He stood and looked at the mutilated, dead head of the white doe. The one who had just yesterday been the Horned Mother Deer, who looked at him from the other bank with kind, intent eyes, with whom he had spoken mentally and pleaded for a magic cradle with the silver bell. All this had suddenly been turned into a shapeless mass of meat, a torn skin, severed legs, and a discarded head.