“Ts-s-s-s-s,” hissed the aunties. “It’s terrible! Scandalous!”
Marat wrote: “I had to have a real battle with my mother, but tomorrow she’ll come over. I embrace you, my soul.”
“My soul.” How strange to be his soul. And his mother would come over tomorrow. Terrifying. I’ll have to tell them about the banquet hall. That the place is already reserved for the thirteenth. That will put Papa and Mama even more on their guard; they’ll be suspicious. Why so soon? Why such haste? What, one of the old folks is dying, so you have get the wedding over with before everyone has to go into mourning? No. Can your bride be so past her shelf life that she’ll say yes to anything? No, of course not, no. Doesn’t her family have any pride at all? Why don’t they make a fuss, try to hold off for another six months or so, for decency’s sake? Why such haste?
All that would come down on me tomorrow, and the fuss and preparations would begin. And then Marat would leave, and we would be apart right up until the wedding. What if he met someone in Moscow? What if what I had seen in those tea-brown eyes were to fade away? Then Mama would make my life a complete misery, cut me to pieces. I pictured her with her teeth clenched, painstakingly working back and forth with a saw, chips flying every which way, with the aunties gawking and laughing.
Papa came home late. The cousin and uncle were long gone, they had returned to their mountain village before the aunties, who lingered behind.
After I went to bed, I could hear my parents talking on the other side of the wall. I snuck over to the door and strained my ears, but it only irritated me, intensified my agitation, and kept me awake.
Mysterious night sounds burst through the screened ventilation window. The chirring of a cricket, the solitary honking of a stray car passing by, the onslaught of the wind howling and somersaulting across the steppes to the sea, the drowsy barking of dogs, a cat’s yowl rending my soul. Soul, soul … “My soul,” he had written. If I had seen it somewhere else, I would have sneered, it was so trite. But now I melted at the mere recollection. I gazed with tear-blinded eyes into the letters gleaming on the telephone screen. “I embrace you, my soul.”
I embrace you, embrace you … My heart moaned, sweetly, mournfully, like that of some pathetic lovesick fool.
12. CONVERSATION WITH A DRUNKARD
After leaving Patya, Marat lingered by the pipeline, rubbing his hands together absent-mindedly and smiling at the miracle that had taken place. The forlorn mansions, which had eavesdropped on their happiness, eyed him from the road, frowning with envy. A torn, black plastic bag flew past, borne by the wind, and disappeared. The steppe was devoid of people.
But when Marat turned toward the dark prison, he suddenly noticed a man walking briskly toward him through the salt marsh, breathing heavily. He looked to be around fifty and wore a dingy, pale-green, out-of-season raincoat.
“Le, hold up, wait!” the stranger wheezed. A tattered canvas bag dangled from his shoulder.
Marat figured the man was a vagrant or a homeless wino. The vagrant trotted up closer and clutched onto the gas pipe with his short fingers. Sure enough, he emitted a suffocating reek of home-brew.
“Had a few drinks, Father?” Marat asked the man with a smile.
The stranger raised his shrewd, penetrating eyes and opened his bag, revealing a large bottle with a gleaming neck. Marat shook his head.
The wino looked surprised. “What, not interested? Not even to celebrate Khalilbek’s release?”
“They let him out?” Marat was stunned.
“Sure did! Today, on the quiet. Though tomorrow the entire district will be talking about it, you’ll see. Here, let me pour you some. I even have glasses.”
Marat took a closer look at the vagrant. Despite the way he was dressed, he didn’t look at all like the usual fall-on-your-face boozer.
The happiness that filled Marat stirred and shone forth, filling the air:
“All right, there’s a good reason. Pour me a little, Father.”
The stranger reflected a moment, then extracted two glasses from his raincoat pocket, handed them to Marat and filled them from his big bottle.
“To Khalilbek!” he proclaimed, taking a seat on the pipe.
Marat drank from the glass, and felt the warmth flow through his veins.
“They keep on talking about Khalilbek, Khalilbek,” he nodded to the stranger who was sitting next to him, blinking into the sunset. “But I can’t make sense of it.
“Of what?”
“Of his logic. All right, I get murdering competitors, thievery on a massive scale, that kind of thing. But why all the petty stuff?”
“What petty stuff?” the drunk squinted.
“Well, for example, building a gambling house in town. It ruined the youth, and he didn’t particularly profit from it. Just threw away money.”
“I can explain it,” announced the drunk, taking a sip. “Look. He built a casino, right?”
“Right”
“Then what?”
“What?”
“They closed down the casino, then gave the building to the children’s arts center. If they hadn’t built the building, there wouldn’t have been an arts center. So everyone benefited, right?”
“So? How could Khalilbek have known that that would happen?”
“Well, he knew,” the drunk giggled.
The plastic bag reappeared and soared past them in the opposite direction. Though who knows, it might have been a completely different one. Marat took another sip and continued:
“All right. Let’s say that he knew everything in advance. So why didn’t he let my father sell his stocks at the right time? He harangued him all night long, persuading him it wouldn’t be profitable. And then it turned out he was wrong. My father lost out, and this other guy, Magomedov, who did sell, made so much money that he was able to build himself a house in the city.”
“Then what?”
“What?”
“I know about this Magomedov. What happened to him?”
“He was murdered, I think.”
“There you have it. Murdered because of his wealth. And if your father had also sold his stocks, then he would have been murdered, too. So Khalilbek actually saved your father!” The drunk shook his index finger in the air.
“Ah, so that’s it.” Marat took another swig of wine. This was getting interesting. “Benefactor of children, savior of fathers … But what about Adik? Why did he run over Adik? Pure chance?”
“Not at all,” replied the drunk thoughtfully. “On purpose. Ran over him intentionally.”
“What?!” Marat sputtered.
“Here’s what: that boy was destined to be a terrible villain as an adult.”
Marat stared at the drunkard. What did it mean? But the man didn’t look at Marat, just sipped his wine. His dingy green raincoat radiated iridescent reflections of the sunbeams. His canvas bag lay in the dry, prickly grass by his feet, surrendering to the power of the gray grasshoppers.
“Can I hear a little more about Adik the villain?” Marat probed cautiously, as though afraid he might frighten the drunk from his perch.
“Well, it’s all very simple. Adik had been recruited by the guys in the forest. Terrorists, basically. It was for them that he built that guesthouse in the yard.”
“I remember some kind of construction project.”
“Well, he was building them a hideout. He provided them with food. And they gave him money. The boy bought himself a Lada Priora. He felt needed, like a hero.”
“What are you talking about! Adik didn’t even pray! How could he get involved with the militants in the forest?”
“They didn’t need his prayers. What they cared about was how he could be of practical use to them. Shelter them, aid and abet. They were planning a big action in town, and were going to rope Adik into it. Cannon fodder. And Adik’s involvement would have led to the deaths of a large number of people. So what Khalilbek did was remove him from the path in time.”
“Do the police know about i
t? Do they know that Adik was involved with the militants?” Marat pressed the stranger.
“Of course they do,” the drunk shrugged lazily. “And your father even bribed them to keep their mouths shut and not ruin your family’s reputation. And Adik’s wife, have you asked yourself why she ran away to the kutan? Because she was all mixed up in it, too. And the police got Adik’s house and his car, basically, for free.”
“Colonel Gaziev.”
“Yes, that’s him. He told your father Aselder: ‘If you want things hushed up, then keep your distance, and I will take the criminal’s house for myself.’”
“So Adik was a criminal. And my father knows and hasn’t said a word about it.”
“That’s right. And he thanks Khalilbek, too. If Adik hadn’t died and the militants had succeeded in their plan, your family would have been branded as the family of a terrorist. Everyone knows that Adik is your father’s son. And they’ve known it for a long time. You’re the only one who didn’t know.”
Marat was silent. He stared at the quiet guardhouse on the roadside, and beyond it at the horizon shimmering in the blinding light of the setting sun. Then he turned to the drunk and asked:
“How do you know all of this?”
The drunk laughed, fussed over the bottle, splashed some of the dark pink liquid into his glass and wheezed:
“Because I drink wine. In vino veritas. So what shall we toast to?”
“To my wedding!” Marat suggested, returning to life.
“Vakh, so you’re getting married? Soon?”
“August thirteenth.”
They clinked their glasses and raised them to their lips.
“You know,” Marat opened his heart, “even before I found my bride, I knew that my wedding—if there was going to be one—would be on the thirteenth.”
“And now?”
“Now I know for sure that there will be a wedding. I’m marrying for love. I met her myself. Here in town. I’ve only seen her three or four times, but it feels as though I’ve known her for a long time.”
The drunk drained his glass and tossed it into his bag, got up from the gas pipe, stretched, wheezed, and scratched his sparse, reddish-gray hair. Grasshoppers scattered, bending their strong legs and leaping through the air.
“You can’t know anything for sure,” he suddenly said, in a sober voice.
“Meaning?” Marat glanced at the stranger.
“There might not be a wedding. It depends on predestination.”
Something rustled in Marat’s memory, and he suddenly recalled sitting with Rusik-the-Nail in the cheap seats on the train, traveling through wasteland, clinking their metal tea-glass holders. That conversation had been about predestination too. Marat couldn’t remember what had started it.
“What comes to pass was not destined to pass you by. What passes you by was not destined to come to pass,” the stranger intoned, scratching his head again and picking up his bag.
“What about man’s free will?” asked Marat.
“Free will and freedom of choice remain.”
“So how does this freedom mesh with predestination?” Marat smirked and downed the rest of his wine, then slipped the empty glass back into the drunkard’s bag.
“It’s forbidden to probe into the question of predestination. Abstain from such conversations.” The drunkard frowned.
“Sure. So if we can’t explain something, we just put it out of our minds,” laughed Marat, getting up from the gas pipe and extending his hand to the stranger. “All right, Father. Wishing you all the best.”
“You too,” the drunkard said, gruffly. He suddenly seemed to shrink and fade.
Marat left him at the gas pipe, turned his back to it all—the prison, the field, the stranger—and started off for home. The wine lingered in his stomach, evaporating and sending its fumes upward into his lungs, filling his vessels with life. In one of the alleys, Marat noted Shakh’s car passing by. He waved, but it didn’t stop, just rushed past. Shakh probably hadn’t seen him.
Along the way, he recalled all the weddings he had ever attended. Hundreds of guests, deafening music, the tossing of the grooms up in the air. At one of them the groomsmen had lifted an entire table onto their shoulders, with the groom dancing on top of it. It had been terrifying just to watch. The groom had twirled and jumped on the table, waving his fists and kicking his legs out to the side, while below his friends had kicked up the toes of their polished shoes, holding the table by its wooden legs. No one had fallen or gotten hurt.
Another time a group of daredevils climbed up onto the bride and groom’s platform, and did backflips onto the floor. They somersaulted the whole length of the hall, from one end the other—one flip, two, three, four …. And when the bride entered the circle, each dancer tried to outdo the others. The riskiest move was when the dancer clasped his hands behind her back without touching her waist. Rusik-the-Nail wouldn’t participate in that kind of dance. He would lurk in the corner and then leave early. He probably would have done the same thing at Marat’s wedding.
Marat pictured himself driving along the streets to Patya’s house at the head of a long line of cars filled with his family and friends. Children would stretch a rope across the road to try to block the cortege from reaching the bride, and would extort sweets from the groom’s party before they would let them pass. A man would get out of his car with a tray and toss pieces of chocolate to the children, like bread crumbs to pigeons.
And the path would clear. And Marat would follow the path. The main thing—he understood this now, after his conversation with the stranger—was to follow the path. Turning this thought over and over in his head, Marat felt his happiness grow. And the birds circling in the air over the town understood this too, and flapped their ragged wings overhead.
13. WEDDING
I awoke at dawn with a throbbing head. Everyone was up already, slamming doors, cooking chak-chak, setting up festive tables in the yard. On sleeping pads that had been laid out on the floor of my room, wedding guests were getting dressed, shivering in the chilly morning air.
I had managed to see Marat only once, in passing, after his trip to Moscow. He noted with some concern that I had lost weight and looked peaked. He comforted me, saying that it would soon all be over—all the anxiety, preparations, hassles, and waiting. The thirteenth would arrive, we would break away from the clamor, and would escape to a place where we would finally be alone, free of meddling and unwanted advice. And, finally, the day had come. Just one more day, the ordeal would be over and we would be free at last.
The days leading up to the wedding were excruciating. Initially, Papa and Mama put up a strong resistance, and would not yield to Marat’s side. They asked us to delay the wedding. They felt that this haste was unseemly, that it cast a shadow on me: a good girl would not say “yes” until the matchmakers had completely worn out their shoes. All the squabbles and demands added to the stress, and of course it didn’t help that Marat was away in Moscow the whole time. I recall how long it took his mama, Khadizha, to fasten a gold bracelet on my thin wrist. The clasp refused to work. Afterwards, Khadizha complained to her cronies that her son’s bride had stood there like a dummy and hadn’t deigned to help her. Whereas I had simply thought that it was not proper to help, that it would have seemed presumptuous or greedy to pounce on her gift like that.
Ultimately, my visit to At Zarema’s with Marat turned out to be a real godsend. The shocking news had spread like wildfire through the suburb’s drab neighborhoods. Gallivanting around the outskirts of town alone with some guy! Pigging out on baklava with him and a pack of ex-cons! Given the circumstances, Marat was simply obligated to marry me, and as quickly as possible, to put the story to rest.
On the eve of the wedding, Papa and Marat went with the witnesses to the mullah to complete the religious formalities. My Moscow friend Marina kept asking, “What’s in the contract? What’s written in there?” but I really didn’t care. She bought tickets the moment she learned about
the wedding, and flew down a few days before the ceremony. She just had to be a part of it all. She brought heaps of clothes in a leather suitcase and threw herself into the fray, rushing around the house with my relatives and friends, asking constantly about the wedding customs:
“Do they have to ransom the bride here? Will there be competitions? No? Why not? How is everything done?”
Every day Aida would come over lugging stacks of fresh glossy magazines and dress catalogues.
“You know, Patya, you should go for the ‘Mermaid’ silhouette, you have the perfect body for it.”
“I don’t want to!” I fended them off, exhausted from sleep deprivation, all the rushing about, and the vague fears that oppressed me.
Granny was afraid that I would choose a dress with a low-necked, strapless bodice. Marina insisted on a gold-trimmed one with lacing. Lyusya, who came with my brother for the wedding, advocated for a simple, satin, ivory-colored gown. The girls leafed eagerly through the colorful pages, marking their favorite photos with their fingernails—luxurious wide skirts, fleurs d’orange, a long, trailing bridal veil …
Every day we went into the city and rushed from one bridal salon to another. In a panic, impatient, we sorted through endless arrays of rhinestone-spangled diadems and barrettes. Mama was strained to the breaking point. Half-terrified, half-proud, she dashed around the house, assembling my trousseau. Granny languished over the fabrics in the ironclad trunk. Papa kept out of my path and pretended to be nonchalant.
Ultimately, we decided to rent a straight-cut, embossed lace gown with no train. We engaged hair stylists and make-up artists to come to the house. I’d barely gotten up and washed before they arrived and sat me down at the mirrored dressing table just as I was, rumpled, with dark circles under my eyes. They rubbed toner on my skin, warming it with the pads of their fingers, and applied makeup using brushes, powder puffs, and their bare, dexterous hands. They shadowed my eyelids, brushed my cheeks with rouge until I looked like a wax doll, thickly penciled in my brows, and pasted on sparkly eyelashes.
“You should have ordered mink lashes,” Aida whispered, awestruck, nodding her tall turban. “That would have been perfect.”
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