Rock, Paper, Scissors

by Maxim Osipov

  The short-lived enthusiasm brought on by the changes passes Ruhshona by: she can see that these changes are spiritually unsustainable, and that everyone is now ruled by hollow men, by candy wrappers. A giant chocolate bar has appeared on the facade of the capital’s most important library: a sweet treat a day helps you work, rest, and play. These chocolate bars and their giant posters are the main byproduct of these hollow men and the way they run the country. “We all want something sweet and tasty,” as Anna Karenina says. “Well, Mother Russia, you’ll get your fill of sweets, but it’ll make flunkies of your children,” thinks Ruhshona, and leaves Moscow.

  Her road eventually leads her back to Khujand, with a knowledge of Russian literature apparently unsurpassed by any of her compatriots. She could have applied to the Institute of Education—now a university—but they don’t pay; they don’t pay anywhere, and there is no demand for her private lessons. It isn’t the time for literature; there’s a war going on; one hundred thousand dead in 1992—the previous year—alone. The opposing sides are known as the Vovchiki and the Yurchiki, “The Yurchiki are the communists,” her mother explains, “named after Yuri Andropov, would you believe? Their support comes from the Kulob region, from here in the North, and from the Uzbeks and the Russians. The Vovchiki are from the Pamir Mountains and the Gharm Valley, led by democrat reformists.”

  “But why such a Russian name—isn’t it the communists who should be the Vovchiki?” Ruhshona asks.

  “No, it’s not Vovchik as in Vladimir. They’re Wahhabites—somehow they got Vovchiki from that.” Her mother is clearly confused. “And we still haven’t found a husband for you,” she adds. So that’s what she’s really worried about: Ruhshona is already twenty-two.

  The task of finding a suitor would normally have fallen to her father or her brother, but her father is dead, and her brother will be moving to China any day now. He has his own family to think of. Besides, how could he find her an Alexander with no one around but Vovchiki-Yurchiki?

  And soon enough there won’t even be any Vovchiki left—at least that’s how it seems. Ruhshona’s sympathies, if she had to choose, would lie with the Vovchiki: partly because they are Pushkin’s blessed, fallen in battle—virtually decimated during a false cease-fire—and partly because there aren’t any of them in Khujand anyway. Ruhshona begins searching for something, and she searches for it in religion, something she seems to have been born with, but had not previously given much thought. She travels to Gharm, to Samarkand. She picks up Arabic easily, but her encounters with those who describe themselves as Muslims disappoint: with them, the tribal takes precedence over the spiritual; they give their Adat—their traditional customs, the laws of man—precedence over the laws of God, Sharia. She wants to tell people that life should be lived as prescribed, in accordance with the laws laid out by the Most High, not with tradition; sin and crime are one and the same thing. However, jihad has freed the Vovchiki from their laws. And besides, who wants to listen to a woman?

  Her brother sends what he can to her and her mother, but they still go hungry. Ruhshona despises the idea of economic migration, but when your mother has nothing to eat, migration is no longer a question of economics. So to Moscow again, this time without excitement, nor any great hope. There she hardens, tires, for ten years—well-fed ones, admittedly. She is placed with families, works with their simpleminded children for two, three, four years at a time, and then moves on to the next, neither bad nor good, normal, nondescript. The only time she has to herself is when the children are in school, and even then their mothers, who don’t work, fuss about day in, day out, keeping their Roxanochka busy. She even stops learning Arabic. These are apathetic, listless years, but they must have been necessary, somehow.

  Her most recent employers are a small, stocky, smiley man and his endlessly panic-stricken wife, who has no tolerance for hearing about illness, death, or other unpleasantness, as though they are contagious. The TV is constantly on: For strong, healthy-looking hair and nails. “Insomnia. Homer. Taut white sails6. . . ,” Ruhshona wants to retort, but she knows that she won’t find a kindred spirit here—no one will know the poem. Ruhshona’s memory still retains hundreds of Russian poems—but for what? The poets who wrote them now seem to her like distant relatives, ones she had ceased to love long before their deaths. “Poor poets,” she thinks, “life didn’t go your way.”

  The child she is looking after is told lies—constant lies—by his parents, even though he no longer asks any questions. “The meaning of life,” his father teaches him, “lies in life itself,” citing one of those much-revered Frenchies as proof. He’s proud he stopped being self-conscious about his small stature. When was that? When he got rich. “So you never actually came to terms with it,” Ruhshona thinks, without pity. “You spend your life giving orders like a little lord, but you have no real power over your own life: you’re a freeloader. A couple of quotes; that’s all your universe is built on.”

  And then, the summer before these events, this family brings her to their dacha, one not on the outskirts of Moscow—like her other families’ were—but in the very depths of Russia. It is here that Ruhshona learns that her mother has moved in with her brother; her mother’s apartment has been sold, and Ruhshona now has nowhere to return to, and no reason to return. Day in, day out, she sees the cool sky, the river, the sunset, and suddenly she understands: life is such a simple and austere thing. And all of these little decorations, this tinsel we wrap our lives in—music, philosophy, literature—are completely unnecessary. There is some form of truth to them, in parts, but they themselves are not the truth. The truth can be put very simply.

  On the one hand, there is the Most High: the First, the Everlasting, the All-Merciful, Giver of Life and Bringer of Death—Ruhshona knows all ninety-nine of His names. He is supreme, unknowable, master of all thoughts. And on the other hand there we are: insignificant. There are many of us, and we are capable almost exclusively of ill. The gulf between Him and us is boundless: we are, by far, closer to ashes, to the dust underfoot, for we are mere creations. He is One. He is Allah, the Eternal Refuge. He neither begets nor is begotten. And no one is equal to Him.

  Ruhshona speaks to her boss, gathers her things, and moves to the pelmennaya. Her brothers by blood, the other Tajiks, waste no time in stealing all the money she has saved, but she discovers this only much later—money no longer means anything to her. Physical work awaits her here, as does silence—and the daily, hourly attempts to divine His will. The name of Ruhshona’s faith, translated from Arabic, means submission.

  She is woken by the door. “Hello, Ksenia Nikolayevna.” She knew it—knew that Ksenia would come. Ksenia is not like the others: unlike the dacha owners, those guys from the gas station, that lowlife that got himself cut down today, she isn’t empty inside. She is a flawed creature, yes, and strange, but . . . here she is.

  •

  And so their meeting begins: Ksenia falls to her knees and, arms outstretched, she tries to hug Ruhshona.

  “We can do without the Dostoyevskian dramatics. Stand up please, Ksenia Nikolayevna. Here, get up—wait, are you sloshed?”

  Lord, what a miracle—the girl has spoken! Must be the shock.

  “Don’t stop, keep talking,” Ksenia encourages her. “Look, I’ve brought you something to eat. And your Russian—you actually talk well!”

  “Thank you. Russian’s my native language.” Ruhshona scans the contents of the bag. “Thank you for the clothes, too. I don’t eat sausages.”

  “So what should I do with it?”

  “I don’t know, give it to your husband.”

  “Did Isaikin also try to seduce you?” Ksenia suddenly thinks to herself, “That man also deserves a . . .”

  “But it’s Lent,” she says to Ruhshona.

  Ruhshona shrugs: So what? Ksenia can give it to her workers.

  “I don’t reckon they’d eat it either.”

  “I reckon they would. What do fools know about laws? They. . . they
’d eat anything, Ksenia Nikolayevna.”

  What sort of law is that anyway?

  “Roxana, dear Roxanochka, please, let’s drop all these formalities—just call me Ksenia. We aren’t such strangers now, are we?”

  Ksenia wants to be like Roxana, to be on the same level as her. But is such a thing possible? She feels stupid and old next to this Roxana, this child so suddenly all grown up: Roxana’s act has raised her so impossibly high, taken her so close to the secrets of the world! Ksenia had always been cunning and quick thinking, had always sought out little opportunities here and there, taking baby steps, bit by bit, negotiating with these . . . but Roxana: one act—done. And all on her own. Justice and punishment—all taken into her own hands.

  “I was only the weapon,” Ruhshona protests, “just the sword. The justice is His doing.”

  Ksenia somehow hadn’t noticed Him—a glance to the ceiling—ever getting involved in anything, taking even the slightest interest in human affairs.

  “But enough of that—everyone has his own beliefs. Let’s discuss practical matters.”

  “Oh? So what are your beliefs?”

  Ksenia tries to explain, but can’t quite unravel her thoughts—in reality, she’s still slightly drunk. “Orthodox Christianity, our national beliefs . . . We honor holy men, the saints . . . observe different holy days . . .”

  Ruhshona’s eyes are suddenly ablaze. Oh yes, their national beliefs! But what does Ksenia believe in? Saint Nicholas the Wonderworker? The Tsar Redeemer? International Women’s Day? Or everything—all at once?

  “It’s all idolatry, shirk!”

  The look she gives Ksenia is impossible to bear. There’s no need to look at her like that. It’s not as though Ksenia invented all of this—she asks for the church’s blessings for everything.

  “Oh yes,” Ruhshona waves her off: we know this system. “And do your priests ever refuse you their blessings? It’s all idolatry, shirk! All things are lawful unto me, but all things are not expedient. How can you act under precepts like that? I once saw a man chase his mother through the streets with an ax. Wearing nothing—nothing but a crucifix dangling from his neck.”

  Ksenia pictures the scene, smiles involuntarily.

  “It’s true,” she acknowledges with sadness, “such things do happen.”

  Ruhshona shifts forwards to the edge of her bunk. “And the truth will set you free. But free from what? Freedom—what is freedom? Self-will? Lawlessness? Or is it your freedom to self-govern? No, we don’t have freedom. But we do have a mission, a purpose. And it’s our job to discover that purpose.”

  “And what, you’ve done that?”

  “Yes,” Ruhshona replies. “I know why I was put on this earth and what awaits me after death. None of that in my Father’s house are many mansions. There are two: heaven and hell.”

  This isn’t like anything you’ll get from a priest, from Alexander the Third; Roxana has answers—and what answers! But this is all still abstract, all philosophy; answers are a dime a dozen. Ksenia must gather her strength, ask for more.

  She tells her about her daughter, Verochka. She was a good girl. She had felt for Ksenia’s workers—pitied them.

  “We aren’t dogs or little pussycats to be pitied,” Ruhshona retorts. “Workers just need to be paid. So, this Verochka of yours? I suppose she loved books?”

  “She loved books. Never listened to her mother. She was a beautiful girl. And she finished high school. I wanted to give her a real profession, but she read too much, and listened too much to . . . men who thought they knew better, and she left me. Decided to become a writer, or, I don’t know, a scholar, a literary expert . . . and she left, and then she died. She never did anyone any harm. So why. . . why did He . . . take her?”

  These last words are pronounced in almost a whisper, but Ksenia sheds no tears. She is watching Ruhshona intently. Ruhshona looks away, then turns her eyes back on Ksenia.

  “For her willfulness. Any sin can be forgiven—any sin—but the punishment for rebelliousness, for willfulness, is death. And hell.”

  That was the first and last truth said about Verochka. Ksenia remembers her own words, “there is such a thing as having to, Verochka,” and Verochka’s reply, “But is there such a thing as unwanting?” And that laugh. Ksenia can hear Verochka’s laughter right now. Still, she pities Verochka; just thinking about her wrenches her apart.

  “It’s a pity, in human terms—yes,” Ruhshona says, “but for God, disobedience must lead to retribution. And—like a finger in a socket—the outcome is death. And there’s no praying someone else out of hell, because everyone must answer for his own actions—on his own.” Ruhshona speaks confidently and to the point; it’s how people speak when they know the truth. “The punishment for willfulness is death. Weep about it if you like, but the message is clear as day.”

  •

  The women are sitting on opposite bunks, food spread out between them, as though on a train, as though they were setting off on a journey.

  “And the USSR?”

  The USSR is a big topic; Ruhshona has stories to tell. Oh yes, recent history has taken its shots at her: Moscow, Tajikistan, war.

  “So dangerous,” Ksenia gasps.

  “I wasn’t afraid. No, never.”

  Ksenia has never trusted anyone as she trusts Ruhshona now. “How could such a country as ours fall apart?”

  “We looked to the West. The sly West. We betrayed our true purpose.”

  How to put it—how to explain it to Ksenia? “Did you ever read Blok’s Retribution? ‘But the one who moved, governing / The puppets of every state / Worked knowingly, sending forth / A humanitarian haze . . .’ ”7 Surely she doesn’t want her to recite the whole thing?

  “Why not? We’re not in any hurry.”

  Ruhshona shakes her head. “No. It’s not about time. It’s that the truth can’t be found in poetry.”

  “Well, that goes without saying. But does it even exist—is there such a thing as truth?”

  “Yes,” Ruhshona replies, “there is. It exists, and its name is short and simple.”

  “So say it!”

  Ruhshona tilts her head slightly and looks Ksenia straight in the eyes, the sort of look you can’t turn away from. She whispers, almost inaudibly: “Islam.”

  “Islam . . .” Ksenia repeats, enthralled. “But is it hard . . . to be . . . ?”

  “Muslim?” Ruhshona stands up, walks around the cell. “It’s hard, but doable. Not impossible. You pray five times a day, short prayers; you fast one month a year; you give to charity—not so much, a fortieth of your income; and at least once in your life, if you can, you make the pilgrimage—hajj. Those are the pillars of the faith. Nothing more is demanded of us, except, as the Prophet says, what is voluntary. You don’t have to give away any property, nor offer up your cheek. Just submit to the Most High.”

  “And love your neighbor?”

  “Sure, why not—if you love him. Voluntarily.”

  “And if your neighbor is your enemy?”

  “There is absolutely no reason to love your enemies. To love your enemies goes against nature. Islam forbids everything that goes against nature. Who loves their enemies? No one.”

  “How does someone become Muslim?” Ksenia asks—almost playfully, as though out of general curiosity. But she is scratching away at the mole on her hand.

  There can be no flirting with the Most High. Only honesty: complete honesty.

  “You have to declare in front of two witnesses, ‘there is no god but God. Muhammad is the messenger of God.’ That’s it. It’s called the Shahada—a symbol of our faith.”

  Ksenia has heard the word before, somewhere—on TV.

  “Laa ilaaha illaa-llaah . . .” Ruhshona recites with a lilt. It’s unusual, beautiful. “Don’t believe what you hear on TV, Ksenia. Especially when it comes to Muslims.”

  Ksenia turns towards the door—surely not for a second witness? Ruhshona hadn’t expected such speed—these people are so
impulsive!

  “Stop,” she commands, “you need to sober up first. And from now on, no more alcohol. Nor pork—it’s an abomination.”

  “Of course,” Ksenia nods, “I won’t eat it, and I’ll take it off the menu.”

  “And pay your workers.”

  “Yes, of course, I’m ashamed of myself. What else?”

  What else indeed? The thing is, Ksenia has power over people—that doesn’t just happen by chance. The issue of power is a key one—one with great spiritual significance. Politics, life, faith—all should be as one.

  “Whoever takes power and retains it has been selected by Him; that person has been chosen,” Ruhshona advises. “You must take action—yourself, not through those husks of men, those candy wrappers. Take the power—take it all.”

  “I had already had the same thought,” Ksenia admits, “but how can I? It’s a matter of who people choose . . .”

  Are they to have more local self-government, more Yurchiki? What place can He have in any of that? No, that can’t happen. He must govern them all—and He must do it through her, through Ksenia.

  This clearly cheers Ksenia up: oh yes, she will do much good for the people. There isn’t even a mosque in town . . .