The Mountain and the Wall

by Alisa Ganieva

  With the milky folds of the bride’s hand-worked lace dress at its center, a crowd of hands, feet, and heads whirled in a mad dance. They began tossing the groom into the air. Two young men performed somersaults in unison.

  At the height of the festivities someone beckoned Khanmagomedov the elder to one side. Kamilla overheard an insistent whisper:

  “Khalilbek is calling, it’s urgent. And take Alikhan with you…”

  Elmira in her lacy dress didn’t even look at Kamilla.

  “She’s become one of them, the show-off,” thought Kamilla resentfully.

  The tiger-print women kept on whispering. One of them, jingling massive earrings in her big ears, was sharing her wisdom: “I can tell who’s who on sight. When people start looking for a bride, I’m the one they ask. Want to know my method? I go to some house where there’s an unmarried daughter, right? Before I go I get my shoes really dirty. If I’m going with my husband, I get his shoes dirty too. We sit there a while, chatter and whatnot, then, when it’s time to go, I take a good look at our shoes. The right sort of girl will have washed and dried them, and left them in the entryway all polished and ready. But if our shoes are still dirty, then I don’t leave it at that, I’ll let everyone know what a slob she is.”

  “Vababai, Kalimat, you’re a crafty one!”

  “There’s more: when I’m at someone’s house I always go to the bathroom and look into the john to see whether it’s clean. If it’s dirty, I go and find the cleaning supplies and wash it myself without saying anything. With my own two hands. Give them something to think about.”

  “And you’re right, too, Kalimat. Girls have gotten so lazy these days.”

  “They’ve gotten so high-and-mighty, let me tell you!” exclaimed Kalimat, giving her earrings a shake. “But it’s not like our dzhigits are any better. My friend’s son got married. A decent guy, but then he started going to religious lectures somewhere, and got a little big for his britches. He won’t even let his wife go to class. Or she’ll have to study for an exam, and he’ll bring friends home late at night and make her stop what she’s doing and cook khinkal for them. She’s a handful herself, though—she finally packed up and went home to her mother.”

  “What about the guy?”

  “U-u-u, he dug in his heels. ‘I don’t need my wife to be educated,’ he says. Says, she doesn’t need that stuff she’s studying. Arabic is another thing. I’d get that!’”

  “Ua, those kids have basically lost their minds.”

  “It’s all for show. Anyway, his parents knocked some sense into him—served him right, the dimwit!”

  Kamilla let the conversation wash over her, catching scraps of words here and there through the din. The microphone went to some tall man from the neighboring republic, who began with wishes for the couple’s happiness and then skipped to the vexed topic of the Wall, pointing out the need to seek diplomatic paths and not to fall for any provocations. Then, claiming urgent business and mentioning Khalilbek’s name, the man made a quick exit. Crazy Maga and the other dignitaries had also vanished. Bowls of black caviar and an entire baked sturgeon languished on their abandoned table, forlorn as orphans.

  “Some of our esteemed guests and hosts have a small, terribly pressing meeting they have to go to—we all know, of course, that in the republic we have not only joy, not only weddings, but also many worries,” the tamada announced, speaking slowly, and looking around him.

  Kamilla decided to go down and take a look in the mirror; she felt that her carefully sprayed hair might have begun to droop. At the exit stood a man in a black T-shirt, letting no one through.

  “I need to go to the restroom,” declared Kamilla.

  “Not right now, just hold on a little bit,” said the man, without a trace of a smile.

  Nothing had changed in the hall. Some breathless guy darted up to her with a flower and an invitation to dance, but this time Kamilla turned him down, claiming a sore foot. The man was offended, of course, but she didn’t like his looks, and anyway, she wasn’t in the mood.

  “Father of the groom, come forward!” someone at the microphone shouted cheerfully, emphasizing every word.

  “Just wait, they’ll be back in a minute—they’re out serving the People,” explained the tamada.

  The crowd responded with a restless though good-natured rumble of indignation.

  “A fine time they’ve come up with for a meeting!” someone grumbled.

  Kamilla got tired of eavesdropping and started watching the dancers. She spotted the son of her university’s rector, a complete womanizer. They said he’d seduced some girl, made her strip down to her underwear, and then dumped her out of his car, right on the street. Poor thing! Kamilla also saw the groom’s great-grandmother, an ancient woman, famous for her perfect memory and her love of tea. During the war, when everyone was starving, she had sold her cow to buy more tea. Marya Vasilyevna was here too, gliding majestically across the hall. And over there…

  Kamilla tuned in again to the women’s conversation.

  “Yes,” Kalimat was saying, “I just heard that those bearded lunatics have herded up all the khakims and taken them off somewhere.”

  “Khalilbek, too? and Alikhan? and Crazy Maga? Khanmagomedov, too?” they clucked. “But why?”

  “Maybe to shoot them. Or load them on a boat and send them off to Tyulen Island. Allah only knows why.”

  “Vababai, Kalimat, don’t talk that way!” exclaimed one of the women, and set off toward the exit, taking delicate, mincing steps.

  Kamilla got up cautiously and followed her out. The man in the black T-shirt was gone. She proceeded downstairs unhindered and was about to go into the ladies’ room, then changed her mind and headed outside. There was no one at the outside door either—no gawkers, no policemen, no one. Kamilla walked around outside the building, but there wasn’t a soul anywhere. She heard the sounds of a lezginka through an open window, and someone whistled and shouted, “Hey, good-looking!”

  “That’s strange,” thought Kamilla and, as though recalling something important, hastened back into the foyer. She had to check her hair.

  3

  Makhmud Tagirovich ran along the dislodged slabs of pavement in his Lak sandals, favoring his right foot a bit. Signs leaped past: “Cement milling;” “Limousine Rental for Matchmaking;” “Air Conditioners, Humidifiers, Dehumidifiers;” “Amelia’s Facials;” “Cinder block removal;” “Fine Couture;” “Glass and Aluminum Design.”

  Exhausted, he leaned against a gray spackled wall, on which someone had scrawled in chalk: CHAT 647987669. A gust of wind then whisked Makhmud Tagirovich’s straw hat off his head and bore it off in the direction of an industrial complex. Some passerby tried to snag it with two fingers, but after alighting briefly on the ground, the hat was immediately swept off to one side and barely escaped being crushed under the wheels of passing cars.

  Makhmud Tagirovich stood panting, trying to catch his breath. Anticipating how upset his wife would be, he headed to a little square where some of the trees had been cut down, figuring he could spend some time there pondering his great epic poem. (In fact his novel was his life’s work, but he’d gotten blocked and had turned to verse as an outlet for his creative energy.) The poem was dedicated to his wife, of course, and told the story of her early years in her mountain village.

  According to his outline, the “Childhood” stanzas would flow smoothly into “Youth,” at which point the heroine would meet this same Makhmud Tagirovich. Then there would be a travelogue of the wedding cortege’s journey to Makhachkala, with a detailed listing and description of all the stops along the way. In the finale, the happy bride and groom would gaze up at the starlit sky and whisper:

  Together forever, wife and man

  Nature bound us, and Dagestan.

  After some hesitation, Makhmud Tagirovich replaced the word “Nature” with “Allah.”

  He settled down on a tree stump amid a tangle of prickly blackberry bushes and took his graph-pap
er notebook out of his briefcase. Hastily leafing through the first few yellow-streaked pages, he started reading, mumbling contentedly to himself:

  The straw, a vivid fiery sheaf,

  On bended backs the women bear;

  Manured roadway, carved relief

  On dung-adobe walls, and there

  An unrepeatable design;

  The local scamps abuse, malign

  The village fool; they mock, deride:

  “Abdal, abdal!” they cry, then hide

  Beneath the leaves of roadside trees

  To dodge the vengeful stones he hurls,

  Which fall like hail that stings and whirls

  And rends their shady canopies.

  All this your mind preserves, and more:

  Dreams, images, and village lore!

  In olden days, timid and shy,

  You’d visit gray-haired matrons there;

  And then their muddied boots you’d spy

  And gaze with eyes of dull despair.

  So much of it you could not bear:

  The women’s greased and plaited hair,

  Their nosy questions and the speck

  Of slobber where they kissed your neck.

  A crowd of frisky naiads throng;

  They shout, they praise, they draw you in;

  They whirl you round, they make a din;

  And then they carry you along.

  To your soft cheek they all are drawn,

  Each wanting it to touch their own.

  With hasty steps you’d rock the floor,

  And bring to each new guest a treat;

  You’d greet them warmly at the door.

  And when your father shared a sweet,

  You’d take it from his calloused hand.

  The touch, the feel, the taste was grand;

  And at those times, in home’s warm nest,

  You felt that you were truly blessed.

  But learned, noisy guests would flaunt

  Their learning, overwhelm your head,

  Would puzzle you and young Akhmed,

  With musty erudition they would daunt;

  And then they’d sit you down to chess

  And teach you both what moves were best.

  Before your childish, fresh young eyes

  The road’s long dusty path unfurled;

  Above, the eagles in the skies,

  Below, the hens in their cooped world;

  The men stroll homeward from the club;

  Tobacco smoke, manure, a rough…

  Makhmud Tagirovich extracted a crumpled handkerchief from his pants pocket and blew his nose with a satisfying honk.

  Tobacco smoke, manure, a rough

  Young ruffian jostles you, and you’re

  Entrapped, his reckless eyes a lure;

  His gang of leering, laughing toughs

  Observe your grimaces, your fumbles,

  Your hand takes up a stone, it trembles;

  They block the road, they fix their eyes.

  Miraculously the rock you throw

  Glances across his egglike brow;

  The village aunties’ bossy cacklings,

  The strands of hair across your cheek,

  The road’s dry dust gets on your stockings

  As down the village streets you streak

  And enter gardens, newly seeded,

  Their shade, the rows all neatly weeded;

  To roosters’ raucous cries you run,

  To fading rays of melting sun;

  The beehives on the woodshed walls

  And someone’s shouted call, “Chchit!”

  The cat, disgruntled, flees from it;

  The hinny trudges by, hee-haws,

  And where this childless creature strode,

  The ram casts pearls across the road.

  In morning often you would tread

  Your father’s porch, outside its door,

  And in the winding streets ahead

  You’d hear the bustling village roar.

  With languid, idle eyes you’d seek

  The sun’s bright ray beyond the peak;

  Neglected, your buruti tipped;

  And down the water spilled and dripped.

  You pushed the prickly, restless broom,

  And with a growing sense of dread

  In fear of blows you bend your head,

  Your mother’s slaps and pinches loom.

  And fearing that you’ll hear the cry:

  “Azbar bak’ararbi, yasai?”‡

  The heroine then runs to the godekan to look for her father, and ultimately finds him. (Makhmud Tagirovich skipped ahead a few pages:)

  The brow’s sharp wrinkle comes in sight

  The shoelaces, the lofty gaze,

  The trouser leg, and what a fright:

  The craggy profile of his face,

  The prickly stubble on his cheeks,

  His mouth’s abyss, the words he speaks,

  The mop of locks with which he’s crowned,

  Behold, behold, your father’s found.

  The people were alarmed by talk,

  Of toppled mansions, riots, coups,

  Of evil, kolkhozes—strange news;

  The men locked shoulders, set to walk;

  Axes in hand, the boughs they chopped,

  And Marlboros from fingers dropped.

  The dusty trucks roared as they sped;

  Women made spindles wind, unwind

  Great strands of endless flaxen thread,

  When all around was dark and blind.

  The truck dripped gas, a hulking brute;

  Its honk shattered the air, fell mute.

  Its lights shone in the darkened night

  Like wolves’ eyes gleaming at the sight,

  As they roam on the wooded slopes.

  And then Volgas and jeeps appeared,

  And from inside them strangers peered.

  The people stirred and felt new hopes.

  The dignitaries sought to meet

  The locals, shake their hands, and greet.

  Makhmud Tagirovich was somewhat disturbed that his wife’s childhood, which had unfolded in the ’60s, had unexpectedly become overgrown with regalia from the post-perestroika period. But he cast aside his doubts and chalked it up to poetic license. Anyway, a candidate for deputy comes to campaign in the village. That kind of thing was still happening in the ’90s. In the poem, the description of political disputes was weak, but Makhmud Tagirovich was quite proud of the rhymes that he had come up with at the end of the stanza: “The cow, a roan, went mincing past, and left a gift upon the path.” The poet followed that up with some lyrical passages:

  But off the noisy cohort rushed,

  As Grandpa stood and watched and waved;

  And to the escort loudly gushed

  And like a moonstruck child behaved.

  Up mountain slopes, you and your dad

  After the mule, the hike you had;

  How you and he enjoyed those times,

  Makhmud Tagirovich’s rhymes,

  The house’s whimsical casement,

  The drowsy zigzags on it carved,

  Ravines below, arches above;

  The clouds, a graying regiment;

  Under the cow a future bull

  He drinks and drinks until he’s full.

  In the garden stones were knocked

  To call the swarm back to the hive;

  Two gaudy, valiant roosters squawked,

  Engaged in fierce mad feathered strife.

  As one must fall so fell the foe,

  The bloodied loser brought down low,

  Amusing idlers gathered round.

  Above, along the paths are bound

  The mountain girls, to beg the sky;

  For a rich harvest supplicate,

  Summon their gods, and tell their fate,

  A pagan chant they sing and cry.

  The men their sacred din intone

  And “God is one” in chorus drone.

  But th
en Makhmud Tagirovich’s reading was interrupted by the crackle of shots being fired, followed by the sound of automobiles honking. The poet pushed through the bushes, scratching his hands on their branches along the way, and peered out onto the street. Two schoolchildren with satchels were looking out from behind an electric pole, and in front of them on the pavement a man in a police uniform lay dead. A crowd was gathering. Gawkers emerged from their cars, waving cellphones, and within minutes a dense traffic jam had formed.

  The poetic mood was ruined. Makhmud Tagirovich stowed the notebook in his briefcase, felt around on his head for the missing hat, and strode off in the opposite direction. He tried to eradicate the scene with the dead policeman from his mind, and to direct his thoughts to his upcoming conversation with Pakhriman, the Lak.

  The two friends got together for lunch at Pakhriman’s on Thursdays. They would eat kurze with sorrel, or chudu with cottage cheese, would play backgammon and would get into passionate arguments. During their last conversation Pakhriman had been trying to convince him that the Surkhay-khan who had defeated Nader Shah in 1741 was a Lak, and Makhmud Tagirovich had gotten upset. Citing an Arabic epic poem for evidence, he’d insisted that Surkhay-khan had been a Turkish agent, and that his wife had been in Nader Shah’s harem. The argument almost led to blows, but at the decisive moment Pakhriman’s wife had brought in a bottle of Kizlyar Madeira, and the evening ended peacefully.

  But Mahmud Tagirovich realized that it was still a long time until Thursday, and he turned into his yard. His house stood behind a tangle of grapevines facing one of the main streets. Makhmud Tagirovich climbed the old wooden stairs, got out his keychain with its charm in the shape of two mountain ridges, and opened the door. With a thrill of terror he realized that his wife was still home.

  “Makhmud!” she called from inside.

  “Yes, Farida,” he replied, again reaching up to his unhatted head.

  “Makhmud,” she whined, coming out of the living room and wrapping her feather-light golden shawl around her, “Marat is having more trouble at the university. You work there, why can’t you do anything for your own grandson?”