Even his patting sound was unique, just like his belly scratching. I can’t say that Grandpa’s head was shallow. No, it was lucid and wise; he was brainy. But that joyful lively sound reminded me of the clear resounding thump of a ripe watermelon being tapped.
Grandpa was soaping his head thoroughly, the large bar of soap sliding over it like a skater around a skating rink. It would now and then slip out of his hands and fall into the sink with a clang, as if protesting, “All right, that’s enough!” I agreed. I was tired of standing next to Grandpa and listening to his commands, “Pour… more… right here… now wait.”
Grandma Lisa, who was busy at the stove, was glad deep down that her responsibility had been temporarily handed over to her grandson – that was me – but she watched closely to see if I served Grandpa diligently. To let me know that I was being monitored and to let Grandpa know of her unceasing care, Grandma would guide me now and then, “ValeRRy, you’re pouring past his head. You won’t have enough water… Don’t hurry, he’s still soaping.”
Finally, I poured water over Grandpa’s head for the last time. Then he would get busy on his ears. His index fingers entered the ears like moles digging borrows. I sometimes feared that those two diggers might meet in the middle of his head. What would happen then? But, fortunately, Grandpa would busy himself with one ear at a time.
After reaching a certain point, Grandpa’s finger would begin to shake in his ear like a vibrator. The finger, the ear and Grandpa’s beard would all shake very fast, just like Jack during his morning scratching. It was hilarious.
After washing and breakfast were over, I was free! I had the whole day ahead of me!
It was July. By noon, the terrible heat forced all the residents of the yard to hide in corners and cracks where the sultry sun couldn’t reach them, where the meager remains of morning coolness still lingered. No wonder, it got up to 104° F in the shade. The dry climate gave some relief – heat was easier to tolerate when the air was dry.
The heat gave Yura and me some advantages: who among the adults would want to keep an eye on children in that heat? Overcome with heat, they would all take a rest. While our Grandma and Valya, Yura’s mother, were hiding in the back of their houses, my cousin and I discussed our options.
“Let’s go to Anhor Swimming Pool. We can take a swim,” Yura was enticing me.
“We should let the adults know.”
“Oh, no, they’ll never allow us to go there alone.”
Yura was quite right, and I knew it just as well as he. But I was ten, and he wasn’t yet eight. It was nothing for him, but I got cold feet. If my deeds were reported to Father, the punishment could be terrible: immediate return to Chirchik, for the rest of my vacation.
But even so, my avid desire to go for a swim won out over my good sense. I made up my mind.
“Let’s go!”
“All right. You go first,” Yura ordered, “and I’ll distract Jack.”
We ran to the gate, casting glances at the windows and doors. Grandma’s tulle curtain didn’t stir, thank God. It was a good thing Grandma didn’t have an extra pair of eyes, and the ones she had were shut. Grandma must have been sniffling in her bed. Everything was also calm at Yura’s. Jack remained the only danger.
Jack acted as a guard. Besides, he was a devoted friend of Yura and me, and he couldn’t keep silent as he saw us leaving. It was clear that Jack would raise a fuss, shake his chain and bark. How could we explain to him that he was interfering in other people’s business, that he would be better off staying in his kennel lapping water?
Our countdown began when Yura approached Jack. I had fractions of a second to sneak over to the gate. Yura patted Jack as the dog wagged his tail, flattened his ears and licked Yura’s hand. But at that moment, our old wooden gate squeaked treacherously, and Jack squinted.
“Jack, my friend,” Yura said in a phony tender voice. “C’mon, Redhead, hurry up! Jack, good boy, don’t bark.”
Ah, that damned gate! I failed to hold it, and the gate slammed loudly, but I managed to sneak through. What about Yura? I squatted and looked through the crack. Yura was still petting Jack, as he kept up his heartfelt conversation.
“You’re a good dog, my shaggy dog. Forgive me for throwing stones at you. Do you want me to give you sausage?”
Jack took those words very well. Wagging his tail, he began sniffing Yura’s pockets. Unfortunately, they were empty. But Yura raised his fist and began waving it around to signify “You’re looking in the wrong place.” Jack stretched his neck, ready to jump and snatch the treat.
“Who do you want to tell on us to? Grandma? She only gives you bare bones. If you don’t bark, I’ll give you sausage when I come back,” Yura finished his pompous lying and rushed to the gate. On his way there, he waved his hand as if throwing something to Jack. That simpleton believed him and began looking for it near his kennel. Yura rushed outside. Before we could run a few steps down the lane, we heard Jack’s loud barking. He had come to his senses and realized he’d been cheated.
We exchanged glances: what was going on in the yard? Ah, it didn’t matter. The sooner we got far away from here the better.
Here we were on Herman Lopatin Street. The wide, shady street with water babbling merrily in ariks on both sides had recently been rebuilt and renamed, in 1969. It was named Shelkovichnaya (Mulberry) before, and everyone knew why. Now, it bore the name of some revolutionary who hardly anyone had ever heard of. But everyone quickly got used to its new name. At the corner of the street, where our Korotky Lane ran into it, a new four-story building made of pre-fabs with balconies stood out. It was no common building. The locals called it tsekovsky (Centcom). Only officials of the Central Committee of the Party could reside there and, perhaps, a few who were members of the government. There was a grocery store on the right side of the building for the convenience of those honored people.
So, Herman Lopatin Street, formerly Shelkovichnaya Street, was greatly admired by our “bosses.” A bit further along, on the left-hand side was the dacha of the President of the Republic himself, Comrade Rashidov. The locals knew when the “big boss” was in his residence. When a line of long black ZILs came rustling by, it would mean that Rashidov had arrived, either by himself or to entertain guests.
But we, after going around the Centcom building, walked in a different direction. First, we crossed a shady grove of fruit trees. You could see a cylindrical stone tower in the grove. They said it was part of a partially destroyed nineteenth-century military fort. Then the path, winding among adobes and gardens, led us to the clay fence I knew so welclass="underline" Firefly Kindergarten.
“Remember when Emma and I used to go there?” I asked Yura. Then I suddenly realized that he couldn’t possibly remember that. I had been a little kid, and he was still in diapers.
However, my cousin knew how to get to the swimming pool, and he also knew the neighborhood quite well.
After we passed by the kindergarten, we reached a more open space, the embankment of the Anhor.
The Anhor was the short wide canal that flowed through our part of Tashkent. It was one of the smaller canals flowing out of the big city canal, the Bozsu. The Anhor, in turn, split downstream into two smaller canals that flowed beyond Tashkent.
All of these many arteries of the city existed thanks to mountain rivers flowing from the spurs of the Tian Shan. That’s why their water was ice cold, even in summer. It’s difficult to imagine how the city would have survived without them. For almost half the year the city is in the grip of summer heat that burns the soil, the vegetation, and the leaves on the trees. It’s water, and water alone, that rescues the city. Thanks to the water, Tashkent is very green and beautiful. It’s dotted with parks, small and large. Almost all the streets are treelined. The planting of trees and sowing of lawns accompany the construction of practically every building. The city’s residents, no matter what part of the city they live in, cultivate any small plot of land they have at their disposal.