Yura and I were walking along the shady green embankment of the Anhor. Mighty oaks, tall poplars, cherry, apple and apricot trees, weeping willows with their branches hanging almost in the Anhor’s waters – all that green beauty that alternated with the golden flashes of the sun’s rays was reflected on the smooth surface of the canal.
The Anhor’s embankment had been reconstructed recently, after the earthquake. That was when the trees, playgrounds, tennis courts, cafes, and the swimming pool, where we were heading now, had appeared.
The rectangular cement blocks grew so hot during the day that we could feel the heat through the soles of our sandals.
“Let’s walk barefoot. Let’s see who can stand it the longest.” Yura took off his sandals.
He always came up with different ideas. It was easy for him since he spent days running barefoot around Grandpa’s yard, but I had the soft feet of a city boy who wasn’t used to walking around without shoes. Yet I couldn’t admit I was a weakling.
I felt an unbearable burning sensation as soon as my soles touched the red-hot cement blocks. Yura’s soles must have felt hot too, but we walked side by side without saying a word, winking and looking at each other. Each of us thought, “If you can tolerate it, I can too.” However, without realizing it, we began walking faster and faster. Then I began to hop, trying not to touch the blocks with my feet any longer than necessary. I saw a look of suffering on Yura’s face. His eyes were about to pop out of their sockets, and his mouth was wide open… But I didn’t think it was funny. I knew that I must not look any better.
We took off… and dashed forward like two sprinters. Our feet were on fire, and the hot wind also felt fiery.
“A-a-ah!!!” I yelled non-stop as I ran with all my might, leaving Yura behind.
“Re-e-dhead, you’re such a louse!” I could hear Yura’s piercing cry.
When Yura loses, he needs to let out his feelings.
At last we had made it. There was Gagarin Park and the swimming pool in front of us. Hurry, hurry down the steps! And running at top speed, we jumped into the water. Its blissful coolness enveloped my body. My soul also felt blissful. What a miracle water could be! With my eyes half-closed, in this state of bliss, I heard Yura snort slightly beside me. He was also in a state of bliss.
After we rested, we began swimming, splashing and having a good time, not missing out on any of the pleasures that could be enjoyed in a swimming pool. We raced one another through the water; we dived, trying either to grab each other by the legs or to saddle our opponent, staying above the water while not allowing him to come to the surface.
I had just grabbed Yura’s leg when I heard his blood-curdling wail, “Ouch!” and felt that he was being pulled out of the water. I came to the surface, but, since the sun was shining right in my eyes, I could only see a dark silhouette holding Yura tightly by the ear. The next minute my ear was also grabbed so hard that I followed the hand holding it and leaped out of the pool.
Yura and I stood at its edge. Water was streaming down our bodies. Our wet shorts hugged our legs. And Valya, Yura’s mother, kept hold of our ears and shook them energetically, repeating the same question:
“Have you been taught to ask permission? Have you been taught? Have you been taught?”
Chapter 28. Kupik
“Valery, let’s go take out the garbage!”
That’s how my grandpa was. I was sitting on the trestle bed near the duval (fence). I wasn’t bothering anyone. So why was he bothering me? I was on vacation. Perhaps, all grandmothers and grandfathers think that vacations exist for their benefit, at least the ones who have houses with fruit and vegetable gardens. Though I wasn’t angry at Grandpa, I understood him. Grandpa had never had school vacations or rest. His whole life had always been work, with the exception of Saturdays and during the night’s sleep, naturally. That was all he needed. After all, how long could one be idle? I wasn’t even playing. I was just sitting there.
I understood Grandpa and loved him. I had noticed long before that he could win people over, and not just us, his favorite grandsons, but many other people, even those who didn’t know him very well. And he did it without any special effort, under any circumstances.
Let’s say he met someone on the street or in a store or at a bus stop, and the person didn’t even look at him, didn’t recognize him. He would still go up to that person and smile, his face beaming – his beard, naturally, participating – and strike up a conversation:
“Shumo nagzed? Whose grandchild are you?”
Just like that, without any prelude. And when the person answered, Grandpa would almost always figure out who his great-grandfather and great-grandmother were. Besides, it sometimes turned out that they were Grandpa’s relatives several times removed. Grandpa knew almost all of the Jews in Tashkent. He had an amazing memory.
I’m very sorry now that I heard so little from Grandpa Yoskhaim about his family, his childhood, his life in general. I only know that his grandpa who, as a thirteen-year-old lad, crossed the border from Iran to Turkmenistan on camelback to become the first of the Yuabov family on this side of the border.
I also know that Grandpa Yoskhaim had three brothers and a sister, that one of the brothers had died, and two other brothers lived not far from us. One of them was a mathematician, and he taught at the university. But Grandpa, for some reason, didn’t get an education and chose the modest occupation of a cobbler.
Why did the destinies of the children in his family develop so differently? I can’t even begin to guess. To be precise, I thought, though I wasn’t at all sure, that Grandpa, unlike his brother the mathematician, had been very religious since childhood. Had he been so absorbed in religion that it prevented him from developing any interest in science?
The garbage pails, eight of them, were placed right by the gate. Those rusted, battered, sometimes holey, garbage receptacles were covered with boards to keep small animals out. But garbage, after a few days in the Tashkent heat, emitted such an aroma that…
In a word, struggling along with two pails behind Grandpa, I was sorry I didn’t have a third hand to hold my nose.
After making our way down the alley to the corner of Korotky Lane, we set the pails down. Grandpa, after reminding me that all the pails had to be in full view of the garbage collector, said good-bye and left for work. And I ran back to get the rest of them. I ran, brushing away the green flies for whom garbage day was a holiday and a blessing. They hung over the pails put out at the corner of each house like clouds.
At last, I was back on the trestle bed. Leisure was especially sweet after that unpleasant work.
Ko-ko-koo-k-ooo could be heard from the henhouse. Hens could talk like that the whole day. It would be interesting to know what they talked about. Old women on benches in front of the entrances to buildings also talked non-stop. They gossiped, argued and discussed news. Perhaps hens did that too? It was a pity I couldn’t understand their language. It seemed to me that it was a language. Only inattentive people would think of it as monotonous cackling. If you listen closely, you can hear differing intonations, changes of speed, even different moods. Once, as I was listening to them, I heard the following conversation:
Ko-o-o-ko-ko-o. Look at it! (That was referring to a sparrow that sat on a branch near the henhouse, chirping and primping). Ko-o-k! He’s not bad! Ko-o-k-o-o-o. What a handsome guy! Koo-ko-k-o-o. It’s a pity he’s so small. Ko-ko-k-o-o-o-, ko-ko-ko-k-o-o-o-o! Who cares, he’s still cheerful and agile!