At this unhappy hour, news came from Osh reporting pitched battles in the streets. There too, Kirghizi and Uzbeks who had once been friends were fighting each other.
Frunze however remained peaceful. With a sad heart, I decided to move my small and vulnerable family from Kegeti, to find refuge in Frunze.
25
Snow in the Desert
The express train slowed and came to a halt again at this juncture in Haydar’s narrative. Snow fell beyond its windows. The lights from the train revealed the desert with its huge limbs embalmed in white.
Burnell had risen to stare out of the window at curtains of snow against the fast-moving carriages while the unwinding narrative went on behind his back. He found himself seeking some unifying symbol for climate and story. Now that the last poisons had ebbed from his system and he was leaving this land in transition, he felt a necessity to make sense of what little he had learned. The white veils of storm outside were made up of individual snowflakes, each fashioned in unique complexity; they paralleled the wholesale displacement of individuals which followed the decline and fall of the Empire of the Soviets.
Unable adequately to bear witness to that disruption, he was going home, not much better or worse for the small tragedies on which his own life had impinged. And yet—the crooks at the Antonescu Clinic, the artful Romanian himself, who had burgled his brain, had set up a private enterprise following the collapse of state control; Burnell was himself an indirect victim of this particular human snowstorm. It affected everyone.
Fleetingly, as the train slowed and the lighting-system flickered, he grasped the interplay between historical processes, the pitfalls of national life, the variousness of human relationships, and the immutable laws of nature against which ambition constantly scraped elbows: all those elements which together drained into the sewers of human dreams.
Small wonder the Ghvtismshobeli Madonna had looked with apprehension into her future—or that she had been smashed when she reappeared in the hard world of men.
Elmira’s small shriek brought him back to the present. He turned from the window.
Although Dr. Haydar had paused in his story-telling, he continued to hold the stance he had adopted: legs apart, the better to rest his bulk, hands clasped under belly, head lowered, he stared at the floor of the compartment with an unmoving bullish stare.
In Haydar’s attitude, stubborn yet perplexed, fixed enough to recall a minotaur pent, Burnell saw a problem related to the social turbulence and ethnic struggles in which Central Asia was embroiled: confusion and loss of identity. In the whorish arms of commercial technology, confusion was compounded.
All except Haydar were astir, rising to see what had caused the unexpected halt. Elmira and the Russian woman were talking together. Elmira’s boys hammered excitedly on the window.
One of the inspectors was walking along the embankment outside, his coat collar turned up against the wind. Already his beard was glistening white with snow. It was the man who had earlier thrown the youth and his older companion off the train for having no ticket. Passengers called to him; their voices were puny against the whine of the storm and the crackle of cooling metal. The inspector made no response, but trudged along towards the rear of the train, flashing his torch back and forth as he went.
Despite the weather, men were spilling from the rear carriage, shouting, beckoning. Soon others were climbing out into the desert, leaving their tracks in the snow.
After a brief dispute with Elmira, her boys ran from the compartment, pushed along the crowded corridor and scrambled down to the embankment. They waved to Burnell and followed the inspector along the line. Elmira said something to Haydar in a complaining tone; he did not look up.
She stood close to Burnell to peer from the window. He inhaled her perfume, identifying it as patchouli, a scent favored by whores. The heavy fragrance, so familiar to him, caused him to move an inch closer. Elmira moved away, giving a bracelet a rattle as she did so.
More people were pouring from the train, glad to take an opportunity to stretch their legs, even if it entailed turning white in the process. A German couple, a man with a younger woman by his side, saw Burnell’s European face. They called up cheerfully that a young beggar had fallen off the roof of the train. They might have been announcing Christmas. Burnell responded in German.
Night wore on. Snow continued to swirl between heaven and earth. The Trans-Caspian was still, the constellations wheeled overhead, surreptitious behind cloud. Burnell and Elmira left the train and joined the crowd standing by the track. All round them was the great muffled world, and to one side the heavy blind wheels of the train. Elmira smoked a cigarette. She kept casting a glance up at the window of their compartment, perhaps anxious in case someone stole their belongings. Burnell spoke to her. She smiled but merely shrugged her shoulders, over which she had thrown a colorful shawl.
Talking to an English-speaking passenger, Burnell learnt that the young beggar—some said “beggar,” some “terrorist”—had fallen off the roof a way back along the track. Maybe he was one of the Three Young Men who had tried to kill the general, in which case Allah’s justice was done. His body was being collected. Another passenger was laughing: the fool must have frozen on the roof. It served him right. People had to pay their way in this life.
Out of the whirling dark came a group of men, staggering a little, carrying something between them. The inspector was there, carrying only his torch. Between them into the train lights came a stretcher, on which lay the broken body of the young man. It was passed up to hands on the train, whereupon the crowd began to scramble back aboard out of the snow, shaking themselves and their garments.
Everyone chattered excitedly. Despite the lateness of the hour, and the delay, everybody was put in good humor by the incident. The men in the rear coach, who had seen the youth fall past their windows, were regarded as heroes. All and sundry went to pat them on the back. The inspector too was congratulated, but he made a surly face and disappeared into his own cubbyhole.
With a blast of its klaxon, the express began to move, picking up speed. Burnell, Elmira and her boys settled themselves back in their places. The Russian couple shrank back from any chance contact with wet garments.
Haydar sat withdrawn in his seat. The carnation drooped in the buttonhole of his suit. To show her compassion, Elmira gave him a pastry with dates in. He ate it slowly, chewing each mouthful thoroughly while she watched, and then—without invitation—continued his story.
Both Ranisa and I were reluctant to leave Kegeti (Haydar said). But the decision was soon made for us. The Uzbeks obtained mortars, I can’t say from where. In times of war, weapons always become available. A guerrilla group established mortar positions in the western hills above our town, from which they could bombard its eastern, Kirghizi, side. Before long, the museum was hit and a fire started.
When the mortar shell struck, I was in the basement of the museum. I was packing some of our more precious artefacts away for safety, working with the faithful Pikuli. You remember Pikuli, my illiterate odd-job man? We ran upstairs, got the fire-fighting equipment, and managed to extinguish the blaze.
Pikuli was a clumsy creature. In the excitement, he fell over a large ammonite and burnt both his hands in the fire. He whined to go home, but I bandaged up his hands in my office and made him stay on. I was afraid the building might suffer another hit.
Later, in the afternoon, I did a foolish thing. Upset by the miserable turn of events, I still hoped that old bonds of friendship might reassert themselves and sanity return to our valley. I hoped that even our enemies would cease to be enemies if we treated them kindly and justly—turned the other cheek, you might say. For so it states in the Koran, “Good and evil deeds are not alike. Requite evil with good, and he who is your enemy will become your dearest friend.” So before returning home to Ranisa, I wrote a note to Turav Serov.
Men like Turav Serov had been our friends for many years. I refused to think of them as enemies—that would only
perpetuate the conflict, to my mind. Innocent fool that I was, I never understood bitterness. Not then. Now, yes, but not then. I held the view, quite apart from my Communist beliefs, that we must all suffer in life. The demon rat of death and decay always gnaws away in the foundations. There’s also an old saying—Kazakh in origin, I believe—which states, “Never trust the tussock of grass you sit down on: it does not understand you, you do not understand it.” Well, I didn’t understand enmity at that time. Pikuli was the tussock I happened to sit down on.
I gave him my note to deliver to Serov. I have gone over that foolish well-meaning gesture every week of my life. I blame myself one day, I exonerate myself the next, only to curse myself again on the third day. Injustice is part of natural law. It’s the way the universe is constructed. Holy books never tell you that.
Most of us have within us an ethical imperative to be and do good, but that’s quite apart from any illusory God. And it is precisely this terrible natural injustice which should draw men together as brothers in understanding. Religion and ideology have brought terrible confusion to that basic situation, in which humans find themselves. OK, I accept that Communism had its faults, at least as practised. But at its core lay a belief that all men were brothers. Hypocrisy, maybe. But Christianity is no better. Christians believe in universal love—or so they say. But that certainly is not how they act. Same with all Muslim sects. What horrors are committed in the name of religious justice!
Anyhow… Where does philosophy get you? It never bought a single potato.
I wrote this damned note to Turav Serov saying I hoped that the Uzbeks would not continue to bear us hard feelings, as we bore them none. I said that I was leaving Kegeti with my family and hoped to come back when conditions returned to normal. And I wished him well.
And I gave the note into the hands of my illiterate, knowing he could not read what I wrote, and sent him off to Serov on the other side of the stream.
Then I went home with a strangely light heart. I used a back street in order to avoid sniper fire.
Ranisa and I had devised a plan the night before. Bless her, she was a well-organized lady. She had packed bags containing blankets and clothes. She had stored food, water, and necessities in saddlebags. She had made our three children ready. They sat about, playing with marbles, unusually well-behaved: Rejep, the boy, and our two dear girls, Nadja and Gulija, the youngest.
My sister-in-law, Evranileva, argued against leaving. She feared the journey and clung to what we had. I was forced to tell her that we would leave without her if she would not come. Choking back her tears, she stuffed some items into a pack—the same pack with which she had fled from Osh and her swinish husband.
I reassured our little family. There was no danger. We would leave Kegeti when dusk fell and climb the mountains to the east, taking the pass into the next valley, which was virtually uninhabited. From there it would be quite easy to continue downhill to Frunze. Once we reached the road, it should not be difficult to stop a vehicle and get a lift into the town. In Frunze, we could stay with an old aunt of mine until we found better lodgings. We should be there on the following night, safe and sound.
To the rear of the house my mare Scoundrel was tethered. I loaded her up with the saddlebags and other baggage, ready to depart. The children could ride on her in turn. I foresaw no difficulties.
We also had a big brute of a dog, Sawdust. The children begged for Sawdust to come with us. No reason why not. Ranisa and I found ourselves treating this expedition as an adventure, and smiling at each other with childish excitement. Only Evranileva was downcast.
Directly the sun was lost behind the ridge of the mountains and our valley began to fill with shadow, I told the family to file quietly out through the back door. As I walked through the rooms we had known, their dimness filled my eyes like water. Now all the happiness we had known there was to be lost. I shivered. Perhaps I felt a presentiment of what was to come. I buttoned my coat and locked the house behind me.
They all stood outside, looking trustingly at me: the two sisters, the three children, even the animals. Behind them were the few vegetables we grew, never to be harvested. Beyond that was a wire fence and then the ascent into the pine forests—the way we had to go to safety.
I thrust my sporting-gun into the saddle holster and helped young Nadja up on the back of Scoundrel. We set off without a word. Only Rejep looked back at Kegeti and waved goodbye. Already the town was growing faint in dusk and mist. Few lights showed.
Unfortunately, that mist rolled up towards us and soon enclosed us. Progress became unexpectedly difficult. Although I knew all the trails well, I became confused. The trees, pines mainly, hemmed in the fog. Not until the early hours of the next morning did we climb above the fog into clear air. We had missed the direct way to the pass.
The pale horns of a new moon rose to encourage us. By then we were all exhausted. We pressed on, not speaking above a whisper when necessary. I kept to myself the fact that I no longer knew exactly where we were. The only course was to keep on climbing.
Ranisa carried little Gulija for some hours without complaint. She had to rest at last. Evranileva was begging to stop. I left them among the trees, holding Scoundrel’s rein, while I went to scout ahead with the dog.
Night birds cried about me. The forest was thick now. It was almost impossible to make any progress in the dark.
Sawdust found a deer track. Following him along it, I surmounted the ridge. The way lay downhill into the next valley. With some relief, I moved forward to an enormous rock, from the cracks of which ferns grew. I retraced my steps and brought my little party to the rock. There we settled down as best we could, to get what sleep we might. The two little girls nestled against their mother.
While I dreamed that I was still awake, Sawdust’s growl awoke me. I seized the dog’s damp muzzle and soothed him. We were snared in the moistures of a gray dawn. The trees dripped. Banked among their branches were patches of mist like snowdrifts slowly uncurling. Alarmed, I stood and listened. I could hear nothing but the constant seepage of water. We were probably no more than three miles from Kegeti.
These woods and slopes had always been friendly. The belated realization came that that might no longer be the case.
Sawdust was still growling softly. Scoundrel moved restlessly, snatching at tufts of grass. Kneeling, I shook Ranisa till she woke.
What a look she gave me—an immediate recognition of the uncertainty of our situation. Detaching herself from the girls, she stood and stretched. We held each other, for love and warmth. We held each other, and kissed, little knowing it was for the last time.
I went a short way down the trail to peer ahead. Still I saw and heard nothing untoward, and returned to Ranisa. We roused Evranileva and the children, hushing the childish voices which carry such a long way. Nadja was asking to go home. A crust of bread each, a dried apricot, a sip of milk, and we moved on our way, of necessity walking in single file. I went first, leading the mare. Ranisa brought up the rear.
As we negotiated our way downhill, the day improved slightly, though dark cloud moved rapidly over the ridges above us. Nadja was sneezing with the first signs of a cold.
At length, the path, meeting another, became wider and levelled out. A stream trickled among bushes to the right hand. To the left rose a cliff of rock. Soon there was rock on both sides, hemming us in. We waited here. Evranileva nervously said she heard voices. After a minute, we moved on.
The rock—part of a bygone avalanche—fell away. The pines thinned. We emerged into a clearing. Ahead lay more level ground, open pasturage.
And to one side stood Serov, armed, together with three other armed men I did not recognize. Their guns were aimed at us.
26
The Executioner
What happened next belongs to another order of existence (continued Haydar). Or perhaps I mean of perception, for the brain has a primitive corner which awakens in the presence of extreme danger. This must be so, because s
uch occasions are experienced in a special sick light, and events seem to penetrate the skull on a slowed time-track. Perhaps this level of perception, in its strangeness, owes its inheritance to the Eolithic, when humans were learning to think: and of course—oh, of course—such mortal threats have occurred ever since, every day, somewhere or other, in some awful part of our world.
So it was that a tableau seemed to hold for uncountable minutes. Rejep recognized Serov and half made a move towards him. Only the stillness of his parents restrained the lad. Ranisa gave me one horrified look and grabbed hold of the two girls. In that same extended moment, I was moving towards Ranisa to protect her.
Even Serov seemed frozen, with a sick smile of triumph on his face. That smile told me I had betrayed my family as clearly as if he had waved my note before my eyes.
It was Evranileva who broke the evil spell. Dropping the pack she carried, she started to run for the shelter of a clump of trees standing in the open ahead. Step by step she went, heavy skirt flickering. I seemed to see her retreating figure in that same slow-motion and ghastly light. Step by step, flicker, flicker. The distance between her and the trees scarcely diminishing.
The report from Serov’s gun sounded as if from a great way off. One of his companions fired a second later. The smoke from their muzzles was clear on the heavy air. That I saw. Ranisa clutching the children to her—that I saw. Evranileva still running—that I saw. Her headscarf fluttering from her head to the ground—that I saw. Her steps going wilder, her body toppling out of balance. Birds rising in a dark flock from the grass ahead of her. All that I saw. We all saw. We could but watch.
Until Evranileva fell forward, plunging into the ground, her legs continuing to kick.
And as I saw it all in that sick light, I too was acting without volition. I was slipping my sporting-gun from its holster on the mare’s saddle and raising it to aim at Serov’s chest.
Somewhere East of Life Page 38