Off the Beaten Tracks

by Irina Bogatyreva

  “Aren’t you on your own then?” The driver is chubby and for an instant reminds me of my brother. “No, there’s two of us,” I say and stick my head out the window, looking back at the meadow, the road and peering back further, down to the willows. Grand is nowhere to be seen. “Just a moment, he’s here somewhere, must have gone off for a moment, of course.”

  “I haven’t got time to wait for you, I’m already behind schedule. If you want to wait for him, climb out now.” “No, no, just a moment…” “Well then, are you coming?” “Just a moment…” The road is empty. There is no movement in the grass.

  The truck lurches, snorts, moves off, and the whole scene jumps and begins receding. I watch spellbound. Will at least a twig move? What if he really has just gone off for a moment. But no. Zilch. It’s as if he’d never been. “Your friend’ll catch up with you. You wouldn’t both have fitted in here anyway.”

  Shaking like the picture on a broken TV, my very own piece of road disappears behind a bend. I can no longer see it even in the rear-view mirror. “Let’s get introduced then. My name is Igor,” the driver says after a pause.

  We’re completely worn out. Evening is drawing in and I can see I need urgently to save the situation for both of us. Otherwise we’ll have to go back to the town and stay overnight at the station. I’m not going to risk hitching at night with Sergey.

  “Go and sit over there, Seryozha,” I say. “Where?” he asks in puzzlement. “Move away and sit down.” “Hide?” “No, you need to be visible. Stop thinking about the road, relax, do something. I don’t suppose you brought your violin with you by any chance?” “I’ve got a flute. I haven’t had it long. I’m still only learning.” “Excellent! Sit over there and play.”

  Sergey goes off, sits down in the dusty grass and pulls out a wooden flute. He starts blowing, tuning it, runs up and down a scale. I feel the heavy rucksack being taken from my shoulders and can now devote myself wholly to the road.

  “I’ve only practised one song so far. Shall I play it?” he shouts. “Play anything at all. Just don’t look my way, please!” “Okay. It’s about a woodchuck.” Cars go rushing by as I hear the familiar tune.

  “Smile, look them in the eye and say to yourself, ‘Stop!’” I murmur, only moving my lips. “It’s easy. I’m just about to succeed. Come on, sweethearts, do me a favour, I really don’t fancy spending the night out here.”

  “Through many lands I’ve wandered and my woodchuck came with me…” The tune forms itself into words in my head and I smile. I smile and turn to look at Sergey. He is playing, concentrating, his eyes half closed and looks a completely different person: happy, inspired… “And gay I was and happy, and my woodchuck came with me…”

  I turn back to the road and I feel it: right now I love everything around me.

  Its tyres screaming, a strange vehicle that looks like a Gazelle, only bigger and squarer, brakes sharply. I run over as fast as I can, look inside and say, smiling, “Give us a lift, please?”

  “Where are you going?” “To Moscow, but anything’s a help.” “Sure, hop in.” The driver, a young, pleasant guy, nods. Familiar rock is playing on the CD player and that makes me happy. I open the door and say, as I’m clambering in, “Just a moment, there’s my friend too.”

  “Aren’t you on your own, then?” “No.” I look out the window. Sergey is sitting in the grass, oblivious. I can’t hear the flute because of the loud music in the van. “Okay, where’s your friend? There’s room for everyone.”

  It really is a spacious van. In the cab, between the driver and passenger seats, there is access to the rear area, which has enough room to swing a small cat. I look quickly round in the semi-darkness and again look out the window.

  Sergey is sitting motionless, by now looking at the van. He does not budge and seems totally bewildered. He is back to looking like a square peg in a round hole. I suddenly feel a great urge just to say to the driver: “Okay, let’s go”. He can carry right on sitting there if he can’t even work out that our lift, our one and only lift which can be right here and now, has arrived. The road has smiled upon us and we need to respond in kind. Let him stay there. He wanted to learn all about hitchhiking. How better than on his own?

  “Right, shall we go?” the driver asks. I look at Sergey, and still hesitate. Then I open the door and call him. He runs up, climbs in, and immediately goes in the back. He is so out of it, he even forgets to say hello. The van shakes and moves off. I look in the rear-view mirror as, shaking like the picture on a broken TV, the scene recedes and our piece of road disappears behind a bend.

  “Let’s get introduced then, since we’re going to be together till the small hours,” the driver says, turning the music down. “My name is Sasha.”

  Quiet, dark, chilly Yakimanka. Your days are passing and fading. Roma Jah is sitting at the piano and inscribing new rules for you in felt-tip pen on a piece of wallpaper.

  “Roma, there’s nobody here yet. Who’s going to read that?” “They’ll come, Titch. They’ll come.” I sigh. The piano gleams dimly in the light from the bare lightbulb. “Roma, did anyone ever play it?” I ask. “Other than Sonya?”

  “I remember my mother playing, when I was little. My grandmother played it well, but that was before my time. It belonged to her.” I want to ask more about them, his forebears who once occupied these rooms, this house, but I keep quiet. The silence of Yakimanka quells me, so I lie and listen to its corridors.

  I seem to be walking through them. They are dark and ghostly, and as I walk I see that all the doors have been thrown wide open and the slanting light from street lamps is falling on the black floor. There are no people, no memories of them. The furniture is shrouded in white dustcovers, but then I hear a tune. Our piano is sighing – sad, slow sighs.

  I go to where the sounds are coming from, to the open door of our room. The window is open too and the piano has been moved to the middle of the room. It is gleaming and out of its ghostly white keys Cara flies up and perches near the ceiling on the window frame and caws, swaying, “It’s Me, Car-ra, the last dream of Yakimanka.”

  I shudder and open my eyes.

  “Well, Titch, dozing off?” Roma asks. “Quite right, it’s bedtime. I’ll switch off the light and lie down too.”

  The piece of wallpaper lies on the piano covered in writing and a corner has curled up towards me. In large red letters I read the final admonition of The Rules, which have changed a little:

  “ALL OF YOU, LOVE ONE ANOTHER.

  MAY JOY BE YOURS, AND EVERYONE NEAR YOU BE HAPPY.”

  Translated by Arch Tait

  Tatiana Mazepina

  TRAVELING TO PARADISE

  To Egypt by Land

  “There are two ways to live: it is entirely proper and respectable to walk on dry land – to measure, to weigh, to look ahead. But one can also walk on the waters. Then one cannot measure or look ahead, one must only have faith. Lose faith for an instant – and you begin to sink.”

  Mother Maria Skobtsova, 20th-cent. Christian ascetic

  I had left the house hundreds of times, walked past the pond with its little central island, down the overgrown crooked lane to the light-rail station. I had left the house hundreds of times on my way to university, to work, downtown… Today, 29 December, I am leaving it once again but this time I have a different purpose. I walk across the small square in the direction of the pond; the weight of my backpack forces me to look down but at the same time it gives me wings. I lift my head and it seems to me that I see, or maybe I really do see there, beyond the horizon, the sharp minarets of mosques rising proudly and invitingly heavenward. Pale blue, lavender, grey. I can already hear the muezzin’s call to prayer.

  I am going to the Middle East. Eastern Turkey, Kurdistan, Syria, Jordan, Egypt…

  Step by step, day by day, country by country I will walk along and come to mosques and minarets that I can see even now. To come walking is not the same as to come by plane. And even though I won’t be walking very mu
ch, my chosen means of transportation will afford me the opportunity to not just fly by, dash past or drive through, the opportunity to experience my journey to the fullest. I’m going by random cars: hitchhiking.

  To live as our Lord commanded, even just for a short while, even for not very long, even for only a month, to place everything in His hands, everything, my very being, really everything I have. To give myself completely. To accept the priceless gift of His care, to accept that His will is upon everything. What is free will anyway when you place everything in His hands…

  But it’s time to begin my story.

  Chapter I. In a Turkish family

  Early in the morning, the ferry brought me from Russian Sochi to Turkish Trabzon.

  At night, the ferry still on the home shore, I look towards the line that separates sky and earth, towards that other world that I want so irresistibly to reach but still do not dare believe I will. I had spent five days in Sochi waiting for the ferry that, like everyone else, was celebrating the 2009 New Year. And every day brought the same disappointment: my call to the port was invariably answered with “There will be no ferry today. Call tomorrow.”

  I got on the ferry in the end, but was nearly convinced that my native land would not let me go, that it would keep me tied to itself just as it held the boat, and that the dream of minarets in that other world would remain only a mirage.

  But this morning I’m on deck breathing in the salty sea air with great pleasure and that other world is already in sight! The horizon parts – in front of my eyes lies the land of Turkey.

  * * *

  I am standing in line for a visa. With my big backpack I am a conspicuous presence among the crowd of identical suitcases on wheels. Masking her shyness with arrogance a Russian woman asks me:

  “Where are you going?”

  “First to Erzurum, then to Diyarbakir.”

  The woman’s seriousness changes to surprise and she exchanges glances with her grown-up daughter.

  “Are you traveling alone?!”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you know that it’s very dangerous to go to Diyarbakir now?”

  “But maybe not as dangerous as they say on TV,” I say, expressing my usual skepticism towards the media.

  “It is, of course, only right that you should wear a kerchief,” she notes with a studied air of expertise, and she turns back to the other women, a more grateful audience for her fantastical creepy tales.

  Diyarbakir is the capital of Kurdistan, but no Turk will let you call it that. The Kurds express all too clearly that they have long wanted to establish their own state, and in response the Turks ban the Kurdish language and music and build military bases with large Turkish flags fluttering red and bold above them. All across Turkey, Kurdistan is known as a land of bandits and terrorists. But I know it isn’t so. Two years ago I was there with friends.

  I am much more worried about the Turks. I have heard one too many unappealing reports about the behavior of Turkish drivers towards women traveling alone. Though the reports have been mainly about Turkish truck drivers working in Russia; and everyone knows it isn’t right to judge a whole nation based on those who come to your country to make a living.

  * * *

  I’ve finally found my way out of enormous Trabzon and am now on my way to Erzurum. I haven’t had breakfast yet, and I don’t even want to. I should look at the map but I don’t feel like it. I better figure out how to wave down a car, why bother? I just want to walk and walk. To look around me at the pink and blue five-story houses and breathe the special smell of Turkey which I know so well and which awakens sensations, ideas and experiences I gained during my trip two years ago.

  I feel so fine that I decide: “I won’t go by car today. I’ll just walk.” Hitchhiking is not really so easy: you have to talk with the driver in who knows what language. I did write down a few Turkish words in my notebook but that’s not really enough.

  A big truck with a trailer, slow and tired, stops in front of me. The door opens and a 40-year-old Turk with a black moustache asks me something in Turkish.

  “Erzurum, Diyarbakir,” I say the only words that come to mind.

  He waves his hand inviting me to get in the car.

  In the cab it turns out there are two drivers. The one who hailed me moves to the sleeping area – a place in the back of the cab where the drivers sleep. The other, in his sixties with a grey moustache and a three-day growth of beard, sits behind the wheel. The truck moves swaying slightly. I look ahead at the road and it feels like I’m still walking, except that now someone is carrying me.

  The drivers calmly continue their trip as if a young foreigner with a big backpack hadn’t just joined them in the cab. Where is she going? What for? They picked me up not out of greed (which I fear), not out of some other personal interest, but simply because why should someone walk when you could give her a ride. Indeed, very simple.

  I open my notebook to tell them who I am and where I’m going. “Russian” in Turkish is Rusum, “to travel” is gidiiorum, “road” is yol. The drivers become curious and then concerned: am I maybe hungry?

  You know, sometimes it seems like you’ve never eaten anything tastier. This is probably what happens when you’re truly hungry. And maybe when the food is simple and natural, for instance, cheese, fresh bread, olives. And maybe, when you share this meal with people you met just half an hour ago and for some reason feel that there is no one dearer people to you in this world.

  A hair of the Prophet Mohammed

  I’m walking again, now on a road trodden through the snow. Tall, wind-swept snowdrifts, and no more smell of the sea. The sea is far from here, this is mountain country.

  It’s already dark when my mustachioed companions bring me into Erzurum. Plaintively furrowing their eyebrows, they pleaded that under no circumstances I hitchhike to Diyarbakir. They even took me to the bus terminal. And what did I do? I immediately went to the edge of town and I’m now standing by the roadside, hitchhiking fearlessly and without success. People rarely pick up hitchhikers in these parts and there is no one hitchhiking anyway. For some reason, no one wants to go to “the land of bandits and terrorists”, especially not at night. Yet, here I am.

  Eventually, a car stops in front of me. Yes, I’ll make it to Diyarbakir today after all! I’m in a hurry: the goal of my trip is to get to Jordan and Egypt, and I need to get across Turkey and Syria as quickly as possible. Pleased with my success, I get in. The driver is a 25-year-old Turk. He understands quickly that he won’t get anything out of me besides ben gidijorum Diyarbakir – “I am going to Diyabakir.” He starts the car and drives back to Erzurum! Oh well… I won’t make it to Diyarbakir tonight.

  It happens often when you’re travelling that a local offers to help, asks a lot of questions and then, having satisfied his curiosity, discovers that he can’t actually do anything to help you.

  This guy has already spent twenty minutes trying to understand why I’m going to Diyarbakir, why on my own and in what capacity. Soon he’ll make me learn Turkish. With the help of my notebook I’m learning the language quite intensively. Five times I wrestled with the thought of just leaving him there. I’m annoyed: I want to get a ride not a chat. “And why does he care? So annoying! He isn’t even going to Diyarbakir! Is he just interested in talking to a foreigner?” I’m pressed for time: today I should already be in Diyarkabir. In the end, the guy calls someone and passes me the phone. I hear the voice of a man speaking Russian:

  “Hi! Where are you going?”

  “First to Diyarbakir, then on to Syria.”

  “On your own?”

  “On my own.” I sigh and shrug my shoulders expecting warnings to start falling on my head.

  “And what is the purpose of your trip?”

  “Are you with the police or what?”

  “No, no…”

  The Turk takes the phone back and listens carefully to his Russian friend, while I cast an eye towards the door handle and then back to t
he Turk. I notice his eyes: serious and slightly sad, those of someone who is genuinely concerned. I forget about the door… What drives this guy? Why didn’t he just let me be? Did he not believe me in the end when I said that I know what I’m doing? Why didn’t he leave me, why didn’t he just go home to his family, to warmth and dinner?

  The guy tears himself away from the conversation and looks at me, a look full of compassion and care, concern and anxiety. I can’t hold back – rays of happiness replace the lightning-bolts of anger on my face. In response he breaks into a luminous smile that chases away the storm-clouds of anxiety.

  I take the phone back.

  “The guy who picked you up,” says the translator, “is inviting you to his home for dinner.

  “And then he’ll bring me back here? It will be even harder to find a ride later on.”

  “No, he’s inviting you to spend the night at his house. Tomorrow he will take you back to the road, if you like.”

  “OK.”

  The Turk immediately starts the car. At last we introduce ourselves. His name is Nurula. Before he starts the car he turns to me with the words:

  “Mama, baba…”

  Baba in Turkish means “father”.

  He shows me the ring on his finger. He is married. He does this to dispel my concerns and fears, unaware that he’d already done so wordlessly.

  * * *

  Several women came out to meet me. At first it was impossible to figure out who was related to whom and in what way.

  On the way home Nurula picked up his elder brother Ahmed from his antiques store. In his long beige coat and a checkered sweater Ahmed looked impressive and impeccably elegant.

  The women help me take off my backpack. As I unlace my shoes, I look out of the corner of my eye and can’t see all the way to the end of what looks like a huge apartment. The women stare at me point-blank unceremoniously.

  They lead me along the corridor. The living room is at the other end. Nurula goes in with me, while the women remain on the threshold. The living room is skillfully and tastefully furnished with a table of dark wood, sofas and chairs with elegant gold-painted legs. The walls are bright yellow. Three men are sitting there. The oldest of them is about 55, the second one around 40, the third very young. They are busy with their own conversation; I sit on an unoccupied ottoman and pretend to observe my surroundings.