Finished with sweeping the floor, I took up the mop. The floors in Grandma’s rooms were scrubbed like the deck of a ship. If you rubbed them with a handkerchief after mopping, the handkerchief had to be clean. To tell the truth, when I rinsed the mop, the water in the pail turned dark.
“You see?” Grandma said. “The water is black, right? Change it. Ah, how dusty it is here!”
Tashkent was a dusty city, just like Chirchik. The heat, arid climate, winds – dust was blown around the streets and yards, came in through windows, filled every corner and crack.
“Don’t twist the mop! Don’t smear dust around!” Grandma’s attention didn’t slacken for a second.
That was it. The floors were mopped, and they shone; the house smelled fresh. I received more praise. May I go? Oh, no. I had to help Grandma make the preserves – I had to shake the basin now and then, among other things.
I have to admit that it’s rather interesting to watch preserves being made. The cherries, immersed in the red syrup, come to life as the syrup simmers. On the surface, near the center, a pinkish-white foam appears and bubbles. And the cherries begin to rotate slowly, as if dancing a waltz. They jump and tremble slightly from time to time. A thick aroma of cherry preserves rises from the basin and spreads through the kitchen.
Grandma would remove the foam, which was called kupik in our parts, with a spoon. That’s when it was time to shake the basin so the foam would go to the center.
At last it was done. As a reward, Grandma gave me a treat, a slice of bread generously covered with warm kupik.
“At last!” Yura, tired of waiting, greeted me in the yard. “What are you having?”
A grimace of disgust appeared on Yura’s face.
“Phooey! Kupik! It’s filthy from the cherries. You worked the whole day, and all Grandma’s treated you to is kupik!” Yura laughed.
I believed him then, and the pleasure of the tasty bread with the foam was spoiled.
I don’t think I have ever again eaten the foam from preserve making.
I still don’t know who cheated my poor cousin, and me, or why. Whoever did it might have wanted to keep him from eating too many sweets.
Chapter 29. The New Nickname
An event was imminent in the Yuabov family: Robert, the youngest of Grandma’s sons, Yura’s and my uncle, was going to marry.
Robert lived in the part of the old house where my parents and I had lived before moving to Chirchik. At the time of the aforementioned event, Robert was a young man of about twenty-five, so he had decided to start a family. I was not aware if the older members of the family considered Robert ready and mature enough for family life, but I know for sure that Yura, who was one-third the age of his uncle, was sure he wasn’t, for he didn’t feel any respect for him. He addressed Robert as tou rather than vou, which was not permissible when addressing an older relative. He skillfully attached varying shades of familiarity and gibe to his tou. Sometimes, it seemed to me that Yura considered Robert a creature created especially for his entertainment, so it was clear why relations between uncle and nephew were so tense and complex. And it was definitely Yura who developed those relations, guided them, turning them into a game for himself and a torment for Uncle Robert.
We could say that a period of truce had arrived, in other words, a time when Yura stopped tormenting Robert for a short while. He even became benevolent and called his uncle “Chief.” Considering that up until that time the contemptuous nickname “Forelock” had always been on Yura’s lips, it was easy to understand that addressing his uncle as Chief sounded like a declaration of peace, maybe even a capitulation. What was Forelock? A common nickname for an unattractive lad with a ridiculous haircut. Robert, who wasn’t exactly tall and handsome, would become enraged about that nickname. But what could he do with Yura? However, when Uncle’s rage reached a dangerous limit, which was clear by the look in his eyes, Yura took a break and Forelock became Chief. Obviously, “chief” means leader or boss. In other words, Yura recognized his uncle’s seniority and showed him respect.
I thought that, in fact, my cunning cousin took particular delight in giving his victim a chance to relax, only to subject him unexpectedly to some new ordeal. Even a calf destined for slaughter is treated better. Unfortunately for him, Robert was simple-hearted and forgot about his nephew’s treachery. He perked up during those short happy moments of calm that were granted to him. The grimace of anger and tension disappeared from his face. It even brightened, his big eyes under their thick eyebrows looked kinder, his short moustache smoothed out.
Uncle Robert, who was, in general, very conscientious about his appearance, took special care of his little moustache. I watched that wonderful spectacle many times, and I always enjoyed it enormously.
Before beginning to trim his moustache, Robert would open his mouth in a special way, turning it into a long, narrow letter “O.” Then he would freeze as he unblinkingly scrutinized the moustache. He reminded me of an eagle soaring high in the sky, surveying a wooded landscape, trying to spot its prey.
Clip-clip, the scissors would begin to click, which meant that he had found his prey. It was a single little hair, which, like a lamb that had strayed from the flock, was grazing apart from its relatives. Clip-clip, another one… clip-clip. The scissors clicked unhurriedly, with pauses, as the little black moustache over Robert’s upper lip would become perfectly straight.
That impeccable straightness was especially visible during those happy moments when Yura wasn’t driving Robert crazy. His moustache, along with his nose, a Jewish nose that was quite long and broad at the end, formed an upside-down letter “T” on Robert’s face.
Just such a truce coincided with the preparations for Uncle’s wedding, which had distracted Yura.
Those who have never seen a family celebration in Central Asia don’t completely understand Central Asia. They’re held at home, without fail, and, if possible, in the yard. A yard is just as good as a spacious hall. Hundreds of guests can be accommodated there. Not only relatives and friends are invited. All acquaintances on both sides are also invited – and acquaintances of acquaintances, and so on. In a word, the guiding principle is not to forget to invite anyone. And, God forbid, you should disgrace yourself. Everything had to be perfect. They feast in grand style, sometimes several nights in a row. This custom, a very old one, had been adopted by the Bucharan Jews over their hundreds of years of living in Asia.
Robert’s wedding was a big event for the family. They planned to feast for two days, one day at the groom’s place and another at the bride’s. That meant dozens, possibly hundreds, of guests. Now, they had to decide how to accommodate so many guests. Yura and I were hanging around, listening to their conversations with interest.
Our spacious yard was very comfortable for entertaining guests. One could set up two long tables and seat guests on both sides of them in the big area between the apricot tree and Grandpa and Uncle Misha’s houses.
“I think about a hundred people can fit around the tables here,” Robert said, scrutinizing the ground and moving his fingers as if marking it out.
“Certainly, we can also put tables in the lane, up to the gate. That will accommodate another hundred people. We should begin arranging the tables and benches tomorrow.”
Robert looked around the yard like a military leader reviewing the battlefield before a battle. Then, he suddenly hailed Yura and me.