Treasury of Russian Short Stories 1900-1966

by Wassner, Selig O. ;

  Rita rose meekly, tossed her things into the knapsack, changed and walked up to him. “That’s it, Prokhor,” she said. “If you want it this way …” her lips trembled as she tried to form a smile.

  Prokhor had to look aside. Then taking her hand into his palms, he told her, “So long, Rita-Margarita. If you think it over. Well … you know yourself what I mean.”

  He walked with her to the road, then stood there, watching her blithe, fair figure until she disappeared behind the turn. “She won’t come back,” he uttered to himself. “She surely won’t come back …”

  1965

  The Golden Month

  by Nazir Safarov

  Nazir Safarov, a meritorious member of arts of the Uzbek SSR, was born in 1905, and began his literary activity in 1930. Published a collection of feature stories, Fellow-Countrymen, in 1958 and plays in 1961.

  It isn’t easy to talk about your own wife. It isn’t easy for a man to speak evil of any woman for that matter. We have a saying: a jigeet who divulges a secret about his beloved ceases to be a jigeet. That’s why I don’t talk. That is, I didn’t talk. Now I can’t keep quiet anymore. I just can’t.

  See for yourself the kind of predicament my wife has put me in by her actions. And what actions! Had it all been about trifles, say a family quarrel, when jars are being broken and a bowlful of soup is spilled on the husband’s head, one could still stand it. You can restore peace by buying a new jar or cooking another potful of soup. But my situation is quite different, my plight is hopeless. There can be no talk of peace; I am in for a war, a war for life or death. That’s why I’ve got to tell my wife, “It’s either I or …”

  But not right away. In order to understand my despair you’d have to follow my story from the start. And the start coincides with that very day I saw Altin-Oy in our office. I saw her and fell in love with her.

  Why did I fall in love with her? This, too, isn’t something a jigeet should be talking about. Besides anybody who knows Altin-Oy will understand and won’t wonder why.

  Altin-Oy’s eyes are capable of conquering any youth. They’re round like ripe plums but darker. But that’s not all. They glow. When the morning mist is blown off the plums, they sparkle with the beauty of the sun; and when mysterious shadows are cast by her long eyelashes, you have an enchanting play of light and darkness. Oh, Altin-Oy’s eyes are capable of touching the most hidden strings of the heart and making it resound in song. It wouldn’t surprise me if my flute that hangs quietly on the wall broke out some day in a song of love for Altin-Oy. But even her eyes don’t tell the whole story. The story of Altin-Oy lies somewhere else. Having fallen in love with her, I became like the nightingale of the poem that cried because of a proud rose. I cried. It’s true my tears were silent; they were the tears of a self-respecting man who was past the turmoils of youth. After all, I was thirty-two and an accountant. I’d sigh. But my sighs were silent, too, because I didn’t want to disturb the peace of other self-respecting men working with me. Yet whenever Altin-Oy entered the room, my heart would numb from ecstatic admiration and slip away into feelinglessness. It might have even stopped beating. You can imagine my torments.

  Still, I wasn’t the only one who suffered. There were others, like our mechanic Rassoul, the foreman Karim, who pined for Altin-Oy, and even our senior agronomist Egrash-Aka would lose his equanimity, blush, and talk softly whenever she’d come in view. I was seeing everything from behind my desk; I’d click the beads of my counting abacus and keep an alert eye on the agronomist. He’d not only redden, this Egrash-Aka, but he’d constantly praise Altin-Oy, marvel at her exploits, and each time he addressed the village folks he’d start by mentioning her name. Maybe he didn’t have her eyes in mind at those times, probably not, her work-team was famous throughout the district for the record crops it harvested, and this enhanced Egrash-Aka’s prestige. He was a man who knew whom to like and on which side the sun rose. And Altin-Oy’s sunrays were bright enough to cast some fame on the whole kolkhoz.

  Nevertheless, it wasn’t Egrash-Aka who conquered Altin-Oy’s heart. It was I at whom she peered with her dark, plum-ripe eyes and smiled. She smiled at me and everybody knew that this proud girl had chosen me, the most reticent and modest of them all. Modesty—quite an asset, it’s something that people appreciate.

  It was then that I said to Altin-Oy in a low voice, “Please have a look at this, Esteemed Heroine (she hadn’t been a Heroine of Labor yet but I was anticipating events as I showed her the statement of her summer labor achievements). “Here, Highly Esteemed, are the numbers which make a man’s soul rejoice.”

  She took a look at the statement, and why not? That statement revealed a treasure of five hundred labdays! Altin-Oy’s face beamed, and her eyes, as I was quick to notice, were full of gratitude. Yes, that had been a wonderful day! Happiness had descended upon me on the wings of spring, as poets say, although deep fall was outside. I didn’t see statements anymore; they transformed into a book of poems and each word sang praise to Altin-Oy.

  That was how the month of my happiness, the month of my hopes, had started. In honor of Altin-Oy I called it the Golden Month. How else could one name the birth of a man’s love? There is no other word for it.

  My choice had the highest approval of all of my kin. “You may consider yourself the sheik whom God has blessed with eternal happiness,” my sister said to me. Grampa Suleiman-Bobo, the eldest and wisest man in our tribe, praised my bride-to-be. “You won’t find a better girl than her in the whole world,” he said. “She works for two, thinks for three, and is responsible for ten” (the number of women in her work team).

  Our kolkhoz chairman spread his arms in astonishment. “Do you know what kind of person you’re bringing into your house?” he asked. “She’s the Heroine of tomorrow, a delegate to the district Soviet, the foremost worker of our kolkhoz”

  A person who has luck has it all the way. I knew how lucky I was and tried to keep my heart from leaping out from joy. There wasn’t a poet in the world who’d have known how to express my élan. I wasn’t crying like that nightingale about the proud rose, I sang.

  What was I singing about? I was singing about what was waiting for me—bliss, happiness, love. I sang and sang. My song would begin at dawn, when the girls set out into the fields led by the incomparable Altin-Oy. Being modest by nature I’d be singing in a soft voice, and I doubt if my beloved had heard the lofty metaphors which embellished my every stanza, but did it matter? She knew the depth of my emotions, anyway. In the evening, no sooner did the sun sink than my song would rise anew. Later in the evening I’d meet Altin-Oy on the bank of our village creek and here we’d dream of our future to the music of the whispering waters and the rustling wind. I’d praise her eyes that gazed at me with tenderness, I’d praise her hands that were tireless in their toil, and she’d laugh out and tell me in reply, “If you keep praising me too much I’ll forget the goal I’m striving for.”

  “What is your goal, my Esteemed?” I inquired.

  “That is a secret.”

  I don’t like secrets. I’m frightened by anything that is not clear or comprehensible. Isn’t it better to know one’s intentions? Whenever I have a blank sheet of paper in front of me I’m anxious to put a number on it, to make everything clear and understood. ‘So tell me your secret,” I’d insist, not without some apprehension.

  “Some day you’ll find out,” Altin-Oy would laugh.

  It is easy to say “someday you’ll find out.” A man’s patience isn’t so great as some people think. I urged Altin-Oy, insisted, because how else should a man act when his beloved is hiding something from him?

  The month was about over, my Golden Month was coming to an end, and so was my patience. I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. While sitting in the office I’d not have the patience to be checking on documents, the abacus beads would be dashing out from under my finger in the wrong direction, so in the end I demanded of Altin-Oy, “You ought to uncover your secret to me, my Esteemed,
you ought to do it immediately.”

  “All right,” Altin-Oy unexpectedly agreed. “Since you are so anxious, please wait a little longer. Tomorrow my secret will be revealed.” So said my beloved and she laughed gaily.

  I felt no desire for laughter. I tried to suppress my impatience; after all, another twenty-four hours of waiting would be no calamity. One more number, so what, there are many months in the year. We’ll make believe November has thirty-one days. The heart won’t mind a violation of this kind and science will not quarrel.

  I acquiesced. Wretched me, little did I know what was in store for me! It might have been better if that November didn’t have thirty-one days. My song came to an end. It came to an end that night as I was waiting at the wicket for Altin-Oy to return home.

  It was a long wait. My anguish was shared by Altin-Oy’s old mother, the patiently wise Moucarram-Bibi. Of course, a man is not eager for the company of a grey, toothless, hunched woman, but what can he do when everybody considers him her son-in-law? In any case, even there I showed my typical modesty and reticence, although Moucarram-Bibi didn’t appreciate those qualities and kept pelting me with questions, trying to soften me with numerous “ouches,” sighs, and I-told-you-so’s. There was no need to I-told-you-so me. Her daughter and my wife had gone to a board meeting of the Disexecom at five in the morning and hadn’t returned as yet, long after midnight, as the roosters had already had their first crow, and the morning sky had peeked out from behind the horizon. Could a loving heart remain restful? No. And yet I told Moucarram-Bibi; “Really, Mother, you’ve got no reason to worry. Altin-Oy will be home soon.”

  “Eh,” she reminded me, “you’ve told me this ten times before and she isn’t home yet. Instead of trying to coddle me with empty words you’d better start walking up to the Kishlak House to meet the truck. You don’t think they might let her walk home, do you? There aren’t many girls in the whole district who could light a candle to my daughter.”

  I had thought of going to meet the truck but was it fitting for a respectful man, the accountant of the kolkhoz, to be running along a kishlak street and stare into the darkness at every passing pick-up truck? Hence, I politely told the old woman, “True, Altin-Oy is the most unique girl in the district, they’ll no doubt give her a lift home.”

  As they say, a mother’s thoughts revolve around her prodigal son and the thoughts of the son revolve around his own business. As she peered from behind my shoulder, straining her tearful, feeble eyes, Moucarram-Bibi thought of all kinds of dangers lurking in the narrow alley among rows of young trees. Yet what can one see on such a dark night except thousands of stars in the sky? And while my mother-in-law worried about her daughter, I was concerned about the secret my beloved was hiding from me. What will she say when she sees me? She may even be a Heroine by now. If so, a great happiness is awaiting us. Anticipating the taste of joy, I tapped the old woman’s shoulder. “Our worries, mother, will soon be rewarded,” I assured her. “I’m convinced that Altin-Oy is going to bring us good news.”

  My mother-in-law had no time to reply when a harried patter of feet came from the alley and the next moment Altin-Oy’s bright kerchief burst out of the deep shadows. She dashed up to her mother. “Oh, Mom dear,” she shouted with tears of joy in her voice, “I’m so sorry for making you worry, but please I had an exceptional day today. Days like this don’t come without anxieties.”

  “Pray to God that He doesn’t create slaves in the form of mothers,” Moucarram-Bibi replied, hugging her daughter’s head to her chest. “This is what mothers are for, what’s there to forgive? You stayed late, you probably had to. I’m only concerned about one thing: no matter where you are, just be healthy and wealthy.”

  While mother and daughter exchanged pleasantries I stood there, burning with impatience. What was her secret? I wanted to know. Since Altin-Oy had said it was an “exceptional day,” I was sure something important had been decided at the board meeting. “All is well that ends well,” I said trustfully. “Let’s go inside and listen to what dear Altin-Oy has to say.”

  “Yes, yes, let’s go,” the old woman chimed in.” The ploff has very likely overcooked.”

  “Oh, Mother,” Altin-Oy fluttered her arms in annoyance. “You haven’t eaten supper on account of me. I don’t like it.”

  I tried to calm my beloved. “What’s supper, nothing. I’d be willing to fast three days if it made you happy.”

  Naturally, my beloved’s reply was a gracious smile followed by a look of affection as warm as that first look in the office. I was sure her eyes glowed with pure love for me.

  A while later, as the savory aroma of the ploff wafted in from the table, I asked Altin-Oy, “My Esteemed, have you achieved the goal you have been striving at? Isn’t it time to reveal your secret?”

  She blushed with the color of the reddest tulips. “Today I’ve made the most momentous step in my life, and yet my soul feels light. I’ve acted according to the voice of my heart.”

  “I know,” I said joyously. “You’ve taken upon yourself a new obligation, the right move toward receiving the title of Heroine. The tallest mountain won’t stop you now, my Esteemed.”

  A shade of apprehension overcast Altin-Oy’s face. After a moment’s thought she said, “The path to any peak is difficult. If one starts climbing from a valley it is even more difficult.”

  “Allow me to give you a helping hand, my Esteemed,” I said. “She who is already on the mountain needs no more than to make the last step.”

  Moucarram-Bibi understood the wisdom of my words in spite of her senility. “He’s right,” she said. “The person who has covered ninety-nine steps is closer to making the hundredth than the person who has only opened the wicket to go out into the road.”

  “I have opened the wicket tonight,” Altin-Oy declared.

  I found nothing better to do but laugh out at my beloved’s joke although my heart was stabbed by a dire premonition. What kind of a strange talk is she leading into, I wondered? I don’t care for foggy expressions. Isn’t it the time to put a distinct number on the sheet, I asked myself? So I said: “Altin-Oy, please stop teasing us; tell us what your secret is.”

  “All right, I’ll tell you,” she said.

  It would have been better had she not told us. What I heard made my hair rise from fright. I don’t know how I managed to bring the spoonful of ploff into my mouth. My hand trembled, my lips quivered.

  “I’ve left my work team,” Altin-Oy announced.

  “You left it?” the old woman groaned. “What do you mean you left it?”

  “That’s not all,” Altin-Oy resumed.

  “That’s not all?” the old woman interrupted. “Heavens, she abandons the most famous team in the district and that’s not all!”

  “I’m taking on Rozya Karimova’s team …”

  That was all I could take. I couldn’t swallow my spoonful of ploff, a lump of rice got stuck in my throat, and the lovely, radiant picture of a Heroine which I had envisioned in my dreams withered in an instant. With it withered the number 500 for 500 labdays which I had projected onto the ledger sheet.

  “Why’ve you become so quiet?” Altin-Oy wanted to know. “Don’t you like what I’ve done?”

  Moucarram-Bibi and I had been gaping with our mouths open. I didn’t know how the old woman felt, but myself, I had lost my tongue. What a scandalous folly! To switch from the top team to the most backward, impoverished and shame-ridden team in the district! That hapless Rozya Karimova had never been able to collect more than thirty tons of cotton per acre. What a poor joke! And Altin-Oy wants to know if we like what she has done!

  “Esteemed, you can’t be serious,” I finally succeeded in stammering out. “You’re trying to play a game with us, aren’t you?”

  “I’m serious,” Altin-Oy assured us. “Quite serious. All delegates including our kolkhoz chairman have approved of my request.”

  “What about the minutes of the meeting?” I asked, clutching at the last straw
. “Maybe …”

  “Everything is a matter of record now,” Altin-Oy stated in hard voice.

  Ay, wretched me! And I had been hoping, dreaming I’d be a Heroine’s husband. Everything came to naught! “Oh, well,” I mumbled a crestfallen utterance. “What can you do, life has strange things happen to you sometimes.”

  “Not happen to you,” Altin-Oy corrected me. “I made them come to me.”

  When the inevitable is upon us, and there is no more hope left, the philosopher within arises to pronounce wise truths in an extraterrestial voice. I must have sounded like him when I declared, “Our tongue is made to utter all kinds of words. Once it has said ‘yes’ it can also say ‘no.’ “

  Altin-Oy smiled. Her smile kindled a ray of hope in my heart, but, alas, it was premature.

  “A tongue is no cow’s tail,” she replied, “to be wagging in all directions chasing flies. Aren’t we supposed to be thinking things over before moving our tongues?”

  What did she mean? Was she referring to my philosophy? It worried me. Still, my natural modesty took the upper hand, my lips sealed up.

  “You’re right,” the old woman reasoned. “You’ve got to think before you talk. A tongue’s not to be wagged like a cow’s tail.”

  My mother-in-law clearly had swung to her daughter’s side. There was no doubt in my mind that the two of them were going to advance on me now in a united front. But I was wrong this time.

  “You’re right, too,” Moucarram-Bibi glanced at me, “a tongue can say ‘yes’ and can say ‘no,’ too.”

  The old woman hasn’t lost her wit yet, I thought. Her reason encouraged me. Now the two of us are going to move in on Altin-Oy. But there was to be no battle. Altin-Oy jumped up from the table.

  “Mom dear,” she said, “I’ve always listened to your advice, when to say ‘yes’ and when to say ‘no.’ Thank you for your supper. I’ve got to get up early tomorrow; the chairman and I have to leave for the fields.”