by Banine
He sat on Grandmother’s bed, tired and pathetic. The sagging flesh, trembling hands and bags under his eyes all signalled his defeat. But after just an hour he was beginning to recover; the trembling was less pronounced and his gaze was firmer.
‘It doesn’t take much to defeat a man, or to revive him,’ Andrey told me one day.
It took only one hour of freedom to revive my father. Andrey was right as always. Looking at one and thinking of the other, I put my finger on the dilemma I had been wrestling with since the man I considered my true fiancé had left for Moscow. Andrey would be back in a week and spend just three days in Baku. Everything had to be sorted out with my father by then. I was gripped by panic at the thought of it. I knew I was timid, especially with him: I was still afraid of him, though he had never spoken to me harshly, only with an icy reserve that made cowardice of my timidity. It was madness to imagine talking to him about my fiancé in the revolutionary committee.
‘So, are you happy?’ my father asked me, something he rarely did. ‘Are you happy with your work at the conservatoire? You’re all grown up now.’
‘You need to marry her off, son, and soon,’ Grandmother intervened. ‘She’s gadding about on her own, her face uncovered, with all these men around. It’ll be no surprise if they all end up loose women. Huh, much good it’s doing us, all that damned European influence! And you’ve gone through so much! Why? Why, I ask you?’
My father shrugged. Grandmother began to cry, but they were strange tears—tears of fury interspersed with invective against Christians in general, whether Bolsheviks or not; she still considered life in religious, rather than political, terms. She’s behind the times, I thought, but how could I explain it to her? And why explain it to her? To confuse her even more? What would she say if I married Andrey, a Russian? A Russian, A RUSSIAN! It was a crazy enough idea that her granddaughter might marry a non-Muslim! But if she found out that that Russian was one of the mob that took away her house, her money, her son, what would she say then? It was better not to think about it. But I had to, as Andrey would be back in a week. I broke out in a cold sweat at the thought of what I had to tell my family. I would rather die! But if I didn’t tell them and did nothing, Andrey would leave without me. I was racked by indecision, which must have shown on my face.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ my father asked. ‘Are you ill? You’re shaking.’
‘It’s the cold, and I’m not feeling very well either.’
An inner voice told me to seize the moment—to plunge into the icy abyss and say my piece, come what may. I was about to speak but lost my voice. ‘You’ve lost your voice, so you can’t speak,’ my cowardice rejoiced. There was a knock at the door and friends came in. I didn’t have to fight with myself any more. My voice returned immediately and so did my courage… just when I couldn’t use either.
Jamil saw no reason to delay his marriage request and spoke to my father the day after his release from prison. To me at least, it looked as though he were demanding payment for services rendered. My whole family seemed to think his behaviour perfectly natural, though, as they already considered Jamil my unofficial fiancé. My father summoned me after the visit to tell me of Jamil’s request. He made the following speech:
‘Jamil obtained my freedom. Without him, God knows how long I would have been in prison. That’s not all. I want to leave the country and you know how difficult it is to get a passport. But his friend the commissar might be able to get hold of one for me. I don’t want to twist your arm, but I am asking you to think about it. I would like to add that Jamil is a fine young man. He’s educated, broad-minded, resourceful and he loves you. Why not marry him? But let me repeat it, nobody is forcing you to marry him. Sleep on what I’ve said and give me your answer tomorrow.’
Why not marry him? Because I love someone else, I should have replied, but I looked down and said I would think it over. I hated my father as I left. By telling me that he still needed Jamil, he was blackmailing me; he was profiting from my sense of duty and gambling on my filial affection. But I didn’t feel affection for him, quite the opposite, and I didn’t want to sacrifice myself so that he could leave the country, while I had to stay behind with the hated, detested, execrable Jamil. I clenched my fists as I walked out, weeping tears of rage, though I realized how powerless that rage was.
I hadn’t told Gulnar anything about Andrey’s plans. Something kept me back from opening up to her: maybe it was fear of her cynicism or her brutality, or the impression that she wouldn’t understand the intensity of our feelings. Gulnar believed in loving men, not in loving one man. She would think I should marry Jamil first, then do whatever I liked. I could hear her say, ‘You marry Jamil, he gets your father’s passport, then you do what you want.’
The day after the night at Andrey’s she was concerned to know if I had managed to keep my virginity.
‘The question never came up,’ I replied.
‘What? It didn’t come up at all? Andrey didn’t want anything from you? You didn’t have to refuse him anything?’
When I again replied in the negative, she said, ‘What an imbecile!’
I didn’t object, but was aware of the gulf between us.
Gulnar thought about it: ‘You were right not to sleep with him. Basically, it’s always a bad idea to spoil the merchandise.’ Gulnar never suffered from stylistic scruples. ‘I like Andrey more than Biryukov. Just between us, his conjuring tricks don’t go as far as the bed. It’s a good job I don’t give up easily, or I might have been put off by my first experience of adultery.’
‘But I don’t think Andrey just wants to sleep with someone,’ I ventured timidly.
‘You poor thing, you’re so stupid! Even if he lo-o-o-oves you’ (pronounced with a sarcastic tremolo), ‘it won’t stop him sleeping with a pretty girl.’
And Gulnar gave a self-satisfied look at her reflection in the mirror.
I was drained after the conversation with my father and lay down on the couch that served as my bed. The apartment was cold, empty and silent. My mind too was cold, empty and silent. There was nothing but a void inside me. Exhausted, incapable of rational thought or further struggle, I fell asleep.
The whole family came to celebrate my father’s release, a pilaff made by Grandmother the centrepiece. Clean, freshly shaven and rejuvenated, my father was as cheerful as his withdrawn and often melancholic nature allowed. That morning he had asked for my answer to the Jamil question. Against all expectations I mumbled that I would do what he wanted and since he wanted the marriage, that was that. Jamil had been informed straightaway and now that he was officially my fiancé he squirmed around me, more like an earthworm than ever, and put all his wit into paying me compliments. With Andrey far away, I was powerless to combat my cowardice, and let destiny take its course, telling myself that it still might be changed by some unforeseen event.
In the large room that constituted my grandmother’s whole apartment, and where my father had been living for the past two days as well, two dozen relatives furiously tucked into traditional pilaff. Since the table wasn’t big enough to seat everyone, half the assembly sat on cushions on the floor. This didn’t bother anyone—they saw furniture as a dispensable European import. Ordinary people still lived their lives on the floor without recourse to tables, chairs or beds; they sat cross-legged on the floor to eat and slept on mattresses that were rolled up during the day.
Aunt Rena was there, highly strung as usual and chain-smoking; when she looked at her deaf husband she would be sure to make some nasty comment about him, but his carapace of deafness guaranteed my uncle’s peace of mind and he continued to devour enormous quantities of moist, steaming white rice.
My eldest sister, whom I didn’t see very often, felt no compunction about displaying her boredom. She had good reason not to be cheerful, as her husband was still in prison, but she did not make use of it: hypocrisy was never her forte and she did not hide her indifference towards her spouse. No, she was just bored. She
yawned all the time, pointedly looking at her watch.
Fräulein Anna was there too. She had been with our family for more than twenty years and was considered one of us, even by my fierce, traditionalist grandmother, who made an exception for her Christian religion. Fräulein Anna kept turning her kind, increasingly myopic eyes towards me. I didn’t have to tell her about my sadness, she could see it for herself; but she did not mention it, as I had chosen not to. She looked at Jamil with disapproval. Aunt Rena had told me that Fräulein Anna tried to dissuade my father from encouraging this marriage; she thought I was too young and Jamil not right for me, but her views went unheeded. I forgot to mention that Jamil was twenty years older than me.
The redoubtable Uncle Suleyman was there with all his family, and they were soon to disrupt our gathering. I’ve already said that my uncle had always wanted me to marry Asad. He thought one of the richest heiresses in Baku should keep her fortune in the family, not squander it elsewhere. That I had lost this fortune did not trouble him. Didn’t he have it on good authority that this eclipse was transitory? ‘The Bolsheviks will soon leave’ and we will recover all our wealth.
You could tell from his sulky, glowering demeanour when he arrived that a storm was brewing within, waiting for the opportunity to break out in dramatic fashion. He didn’t look once at Jamil and even when he offered him his hand, he very rudely looked away. By contrast Asad and Ali did not stop staring at my fiancé, pulling ironic faces and sharing private jokes. Nobody could miss this insulting behaviour: only Jamil, made immune by his happiness, failed to notice and continued to pay me sickeningly banal compliments. He did not make jokes on this important day, reserved for more serious matters.
After the sumptuous pilaff, accompanied by chicken and grilled sturgeon, the samovar was brought in and tea was served. This was the moment my father uttered the fatal words: ‘You all know the good news: my daughter is going to marry Jamil.’
Scarcely had the words been uttered than Uncle Suleyman lifted his impressive head, looked at my father with blazing eyes, then slammed his hand onto the table, making the teacups jump.
‘Aren’t you ashamed to talk to us of good news? You should die of embarrassment to give such a pearl’ (he pointed to me) ‘to such a runt.’
Jamil was given a menacing stare which made him jump like the cups.
‘Be quiet,’ Uncle Suleyman shouted, though Jamil seemed to be struck dumb in astonishment. ‘Be quiet. I’ve still to settle accounts with your future father-in-law.’
He gave the table another thump, rattling the cups all over again.
‘You’ve always robbed the lot of us!’ he shouted at my father. ‘You’ve always taken advantage of managing our poor father’s firm to chip away at us penny by penny and keep our hands off the inheritance. If those poor girls’ (pointing to my aunts) ‘hadn’t found rich, model husbands who knew how to make money other than by robbing their closest relatives, they would have died of hunger. You would have reduced them to begging on the streets.’
Pandemonium ensued. Even Uncle Suleyman’s loud voice was lost in the racket. Everyone was shouting at once—begging, threatening, imploring, agreeing and disagreeing. My father got to his feet, as did my uncle, and they hurled abuse at one another, though we could make out only snatches in the general hubbub. Asad and Ali were ecstatic, as they loved nothing more than a good row, and here they were at a gala performance. It was balm for their souls, sending them into raptures of glee. Their eyes shone, as they ran from my father to theirs as though to stoke their respective fury or at least to maintain it. They behaved like devils, gesticulating and cackling with malicious joy.
With a supreme effort to shout more loudly, Uncle Suleyman made himself heard at last: ‘Yes, yes, and now you’re taking this poor girl and throwing her into the arms of this bloody fool just because he’s promised you a passport to go abroad. She has always been Asad’s fiancée! Just look at the boy’ (addressing the whole assembly). ‘He’s handsome, strong, intelligent. He’s a model son and will be a model husband. But no, this monster has decided he needs a passport and everyone else can go to hell. May Allah punish you, if there is an Allah!’
Jamil charged towards my uncle, shouting in a strangled voice, ‘Shut up or I’ll kill you!’
‘What with, for God’s sake? Your moustache?’
And Uncle Suleyman took hold of Jamil’s small, fine moustache and tugged it hard.
‘I’d give you a slap if you weren’t my fiancée’s uncle. If I had a weapon I’d kill you…’
Aunt Rena and her husband held back my father, who wanted to get at Uncle Suleyman, while my uncle was restrained by Gulnar and Selim. Grandmother yelled, entreating Allah to calm his zealots, while my sister was finally enjoying herself. A horrified Fräulein Anna held her head in her hands, groaning and repeating from time to time, ‘Ach mein Gott! Ach mein Gott!’
Suddenly my uncle broke free from Gulnar and Selim and yanked the tablecloth, sending everything crashing to the floor. In a grand apotheosis, the samovar fell with a clap of thunder, spilling boiling water everywhere, accompanied by the chime of smashing cups. Uncle Suleyman left the room, his family on his coat-tails, every inch Genghis Khan departing a ravaged battlefield. He was never to see my father again.
Four days after this memorable evening, I received a note from Biryukov: Andrey would be back the following day and asked me to come and see him in the afternoon. My heart was trembling when I rang his bell the next day. The orderly told me that Andrey had a visitor, so I went into the drawing room and sat on a sofa near the window. I looked at the view, which I had seen thousands of times before—the drawing room had been our classroom. Here I had struggled to learn the piano; here I had formed the Gothic letters of the German language, studied the Russian ABC and tried to draw the arabesques of Arabic script.
The door opened and Andrey came towards me. I threw myself into his arms, seeking in their protection comfort for my distress.
‘Let’s go to our couch, our universe,’ he said.
This couch was a hideous piece of furniture, like all the leather couches that were widespread in the Russian empire at this time. Narrow, hard and cold to the touch, it gave off a hostile air rather than inviting relaxation. But for me and for Andrey it was, as he had said, our universe, the place where our love overwhelmed us for the first time. We sat down and Andrey took my hands in his.
‘Have you done it? Have you spoken to your father? All right, there’s no need to answer—I can tell from your expression that you haven’t done anything. Why not? Are you afraid?’
I hung my head. Andrey let go of my hands.
‘So you’ve changed your mind? You don’t want to come away with me?’
‘I do, I do!’
I had shouted so loudly that I blushed in embarrassment.
‘I don’t understand. You want to come away but you haven’t said anything to your family. I’m leaving the day after tomorrow. I think you should have spoken to them by now.’
‘I daren’t.’
‘Do you want me to go and see your father?’
‘No, no, don’t.’
The idea of a meeting between Andrey and my father made me weak at the knees.
‘So what are you going to do then? Do you want to leave without saying a word? I want you to come, but I have to say I think it’s rather cowardly to run off without saying a word. Don’t you think so?’
‘Of course I do, but I am a coward.’
‘Then you will have to be a coward and leave without any warning. It might be the simplest solution after all.’
Andrey saw my dejection and tried to inspire me with courage. He told me that I needed to be braver and reject the influence of my family, who would remain stuck in the past, stagnating and growing increasingly bitter about a world to which they could no longer adapt. I should leave with him, live with him, live and not rot away with my relatives.
‘Do you know what it means to live? It means to influence things
, people, events—to pursue a clear goal in the vast complexity of a great country. It means to know one’s duty and to do it; it means to feel strong; it means to transform one’s smallest tasks into grand gestures. To live is to be intense, passionate. We will burn brightly together.’
Andrey smiled.
‘See, you’ve turned me into a poet. You’re so young, so touchingly young! I would like to make you into someone strong, fulfilled, useful. Do you want me to?’
Of course I wanted him to! The question wasn’t that, it was whether I could do it.
‘Yes, I want you to,’ I replied in a strong voice and felt that I could.
Andrey looked at me and his normally impenetrable face lit up with tenderness.
‘You’ll see,’ he said. ‘You’ll never regret your decision.’
He accompanied me to the front door.
‘I’ll send you a note tomorrow to let you know the time of departure, as I don’t know it yet. Come here, as I can’t pick you up, and we’ll leave together for the station.’
Before opening the door, he took me in his arms, holding me tight, and said for the first time, ‘I love you.’
He still held me tight. ‘Trust me. I’ll be waiting for you the day after tomorrow.’
Then he opened the door and I was out in the street, calm and sure of myself. I looked back. A ray of sunlight shone into Andrey’s eyes; he screwed them up, smiling. I smiled back and the door closed.
I laughed at Jamil’s supposed witticisms; I was even starting to like him now I had decided to leave with Andrey. Jamil was making plans too. After we were married we would go to Tiflis* for a few days, while we waited for my father to receive the famous passport that would finally allow him to go overseas. We would meet up with him in Batumi and see him off.
‘Do you like the plan?’ Jamil asked me.