One of them was my cousin Yura. He zigzagged among the trunks, disappearing under bushes and tables. Robert was destined not to catch up with him. He ran with all his might. Sometimes he seemed about to catch Yura, and then, waving the hose, Robert cried out a strange word, an expletive, perhaps formed of two words, “Su… Su-ka… Sukatina!” (Bi… Bi-tch… Bitch-itina) and tried to hit Yura.
But no, he couldn’t catch up with him, and the laughing Yura was already at the gate. Before disappearing behind the gate, he waved to his uncle with his fingers, which he held in front of his nose, his thumb pressed to its tip.
Panting, the enraged Robert yelled after him one last time:
“Bitchitina!”
The way he looked, it was good that he didn’t run out into the lane in pursuit of Yura. The poor fellow didn’t yet know that the strange swearword he had invented, “bitchitina," would become another of his nicknames.
Chapter 30. Kosher Chickens
The day that followed Yura’s unruly behavior was far from happy for him. The stricken groom, along with all the witnesses to the scandal, complained to Misha, Yura’s father, and Yura was given a good beating. Uncle Misha had a very heavy hand.
On top of that, the slighted party and his witnesses emphasized that it was Misha’s duty to bring up his son properly and that Yura must apologize to his uncle.
It was Aunt Tamara who was particularly indignant about her nephew’s behavior and demanded strict methods of upbringing. The whole family knew Tamara, a moralist who had neither the time nor desire to take care of her own children. They were raised by the street.
But this was not a question of Tamara’s children. In a word, Misha gave Yura an ultimatum – under pressure from the Yuabov family – and Yura had to make a public apology.
The ceremony was arranged with great solemnity. All the members of the family gathered in the yard: Grandma Lisa on the porch, Misha and Valya at their door, Robert, pointedly gloomy, on the trestle bed, and I on a chair not far from him.
Very attentive and with necks outstretched, we all watched “the protagonist of this drama,” who, shuffling his feet, crossed the yard toward Robert. Would he play another trick? I’m sure that was what each of us was thinking.
But Yura didn’t play any tricks this time. He knew how to control himself when necessary. On top of that, the apology ceremony fit well into the usual cat-and-mouse game he played with Uncle. He didn’t mind letting his uncle feel like a winner for a short period.
Pretending to be somewhat embarrassed, but leering at the same time, Yura came up to his uncle and mumbled something not quite comprehensible. “If you don’t bother me, I won’t bother you,” I thought I heard.
“Louder, so that everyone can hear!” Misha demanded.
“Chief, forgive me, all right?” my cousin said loudly.
Robert’s gloomy face brightened up. He smiled like a warrior who had managed to gain the upper hand in tough hand-to-hand combat. Winning an apology from Yura was an unprecedented feat.
As soon as that moralizing ceremony was over, the adults resumed preparations for the wedding.
A few relatives arrived to help with the cooking. A kaivonu, a cook who specializes in serving family celebrations involving many guests, stopped by. Somebody had already gone to the market to carry out the difficult task of buying and delivering the great quantities of groceries.
However, Grandma Lisa, to maintain her reputation as a good hostess, had decided to add her own poultry to the store-bought provisions. It should be mentioned that on that day Grandma Lisa was kinder and merrier than usual. Preparations for the wedding, the general bustle, the presence of outsiders – all that livened her up. She felt she was the head of a big family, and that definitely enhanced her feeling of her own importance. Standing near the henhouse, Grandma called to Yura and me cheerfully:
“Valery, Yura, bring the baby carriage. It’s near the pantry. Hurry up! Hurry up!”
The old baby carriage, its big wheels large enough to accommodate twins, used to be Yura’s. Now, it served as a cart. We rolled it to the henhouse and were given another assignment.
“Let’s catch five hens. No, four hens and a rooster. Take them to the synagogue to get their throats cut. Yura, do you remember how to get to the synagogue?”
Sure, Yura remembered. A trip to the synagogue with chickens sounded like a pleasant entertainment to him. Unlike me, he was glad to take on the task of catching the chickens. I felt disgusted. I was sorry for the snow-white cacklers, my interlocutors. Yura entered the henhouse alone. Some excited, cackling chickens were caught, one after another, and we helped Grandma tie up their legs and put them in the carriage.
It took forty minutes to walk to the synagogue. From Korotky Lane we reached Severnaya Street and, from there, Shpilkov Street. It was wide and shady, like Shedovaya Street.
There were a few stores there, as well as the Museum of Applied Arts, famous throughout the republic, where amazingly beautiful jewelry, embossed design products, embroidery, carpets and other works by old and new Uzbek craftsmen were exhibited. An Intourist bus was parked in front of the museum. Foreign tourists were brought here all the time; a visit to the museum forming a part of many a tourist’s itinerary. That’s why there were always kids around the museum entrance, shamelessly trying to coax chewing gum and souvenirs out of foreign visitors. “Please, gum! You have gum?” These English words were familiar to school and kindergarten children.
However, the police often drove the kids away, for it was assumed that foreigners would take pictures of boys with outstretched hands and then publish them in the West: “Soviet boys beg!”
The baby carriage was swaying smoothly. The big wheels creaked slightly. The chickens, almost lulled to sleep, mumbled something mournfuclass="underline" Pok, pok, Po-o-ok. Noon, with its heat, had arrived. Even though the hood of the carriage was up, protecting our prisoners from the sun’s rays, the chickens were hot and ill at ease. They lay with their beaks open, revealing their small, straight, bright-red tongues.
Passersby probably thought that we were two caring siblings pushing a baby carriage containing our brother or sister. It actually looked like that if you didn’t listen closely to the sounds coming from the carriage. They were babies all right, just not swaddled. And, by the way, it would be necessary to clean the carriage thoroughly later.
We walked, chuckling and chatting, and Yura had just begun to tell me about the wonderful knives for sale at the hardware store nearby when everything went head over heels.
The rooster began emitting strange shrill sounds, flapped his wings and shot up, hit the roof of the carriage, then fell on top of the hens, shot up again and flew out of the carriage. He came tumbling down onto the asphalt and began hopping around on his bound-up legs, flapping his wings violently, and then fell into a dry arik. Right after that, the white hens began flying out of the carriage, cackling frightfully, flapping their wings and losing feathers.
The noise was terrible. The carriage was shaking and rocking in all directions. It seemed to be ruled by a mystical force. Feathers floated around like snowflakes. We didn’t even have time to get scared. We simply froze. I came to my senses when the last hen, which flew higher than the others, rushed past my face and – pakh-pakh – swatted me twice in the face with its wings.