Our mamas discussed everything, not even feeling awkward about having Yura and me around. It made no difference, for we knew all their secrets. We saw how other relatives treated them, and we witnessed their hopeless and timid attempts to change this small hostile family commune for the better. And, of course, we sided with our mamas with all our hearts. Yura’s open rebelliousness, his quarrels with Grandma Lisa and Forelock were nothing but a desire to express it. I was timider and, perhaps, gentler. My protest began to reveal itself later.
“Where are those lazybones? Valery, Yura, run to the neighbor’s for benches and tables! Ilya and Yasha are already there.”
Yasha and Ilya were our cousins, Aunt Tamara’s sons. Some furniture was borrowed from our neighbors, the Fazildins, an Uzbek family. Their son, Allaudin, was our friend.
The entrance to their house was unusual – after opening the door, you entered a dark room with an earthen floor located under the house. Its other door led to the yard. After entering the yard, you could get to the house. Yura and I were very amused by this ingenious arrangement.
“Hey, Akhun, be careful, don’t run into the doorpost!” We heard Ilya’s voice as soon as we stepped from the sunny street into the darkness of the room.
Akhun was the nickname of our younger cousin, Yasha. The nickname didn’t have any special meaning; it was just reminiscent of the name of a statesman of our time, Akhunbabayev. Yasha was a rather unruly boy. Every time the brothers appeared in Grandpa’s yard, their loud squabbles and the clinking of broken glass could be heard. Yasha was indifferent to the nickname Akhun, but he couldn’t stand his other nickname, “Baldy.” Yasha’s head was quite often shaved for some reason. Maybe that’s why he got angry. Ilya tried his patience several times a day.
As we entered, the brothers were bringing in a big wooden table with crossed legs from the yard. It wasn’t too heavy, but it was too wide to fit through the doorway. The table got stuck, and Yura and I arrived just in time to help. Ilya began giving us instructions immediately:
“Sideways…now to the left… more, more… Stop! Can’t you see?”
Tables and benches traveled from one yard to another and back quite often. So, we boys, who were always entrusted with this work, had long ago become experts in pulling furniture through narrow doorways. Many words, whose meanings were very particular to the task, were used in the process – “diagonally,” “into a skid,” “lower,” “more to the side,” and the like. But it still wasn’t easy not to break these old but very necessary tables and benches and not to scratch doorposts. We were wet and tired after we had gotten that damned table outside.
“How many more?” I asked, waving flies away from my sweat-covered forehead. “Many. They want to clutter the whole yard with them,” Ilya mumbled. “I’ve seen mineral water delivered, but not too many bottles. We need to stash it, otherwise we won’t even get a taste.”
Tashkent mineral water, like many other things, was delivered to stores irregularly, and we boys liked it very much. Of course, we had to stash it so that at least at the wedding we could have as much of it as we desired.
We talked a bit about various tasty dishes, which we knew were already being prepared. Ilya’s thoughts somehow switched from this “tasty” subject to the bride.
“Have you seen her? When she walks, she moves her ass so it makes a figure eight,” Ilya raised his hands and demonstrated what he meant.
“Oh yes, her buns are the best!” Yasha confirmed.
And we giggled. The brothers were older than Yura and me. Ilya was already fifteen. It wasn’t surprising that they weren’t indifferent to the spiciest details of Robert’s bride’s figure. It didn’t stir any emotions in Yura and me, but we couldn’t admit it.
“Alright, let’s go.” The elder brother interrupted this interesting conversation as he got down off the table. “Let’s go, or Robert will start yelling again.”
By evening, the yard was ready to receive guests.
Chapter 33. The Long-Awaited Day
“A few words about our newlyweds …”
Standing in front of the microphone so that everyone could see him, Uncle Misha summarized for the gathering the principal milestones in the lives of the newlyweds, Robert and Mariya. He spoke distinctly, emphasizing every word, no less skillfully than the leader of the music group who had spoken a moment before. His voice resounded over the tables placed all around the yard, up to Jack’s kennel. For tonight, Jack had been locked in the storage room.
The light of many bulbs stretched above the tables illuminated the feasting guests. There were many of them, over one hundred people. It was so light in the yard that even the lush thick green crowns of the apricot and cherry trees glistened against the dark, velvety sky. The guests looked particularly well-dressed in that bright light. The tables set for the occasion with bottles, platters of appetizers and piles of vegetables were resplendent with abundance. They were about to start serving the hot dishes… Glass and porcelain sparkled, women’s dresses of many colors gleamed, laughter and voices droned on, sometimes even covering Uncle’s monologue. By that time, the guests had split into groups, small warm groups, each of which was having a good time in its own way. At the beginning of the event, everybody, as usual, paid special attention to the newlyweds, casting glances at them, sending them smiles and proposing toasts. But, after observing this decorum, the guests got busy with their glasses, plates, and conversations. They kind of forgot about the newlyweds, who sat in full view under the safe protection of their mothers. The guests would look at them from time to time when Uncle Misha’s voice became especially expressive or when he gestured toward Robert or Mariya with a sweep of his hand, as if calling upon the guests not to forget their duty.
Perhaps we boys were the most attentive listeners. If only Uncle Misha knew how we commented on almost every one of his phrases.
Our group, Yura, me, Ilya and Yasha, had made ourselves comfortable at the table near the apricot tree. We could see and hear everything from there. We could mock everyone and everything, our heads close together, to our hearts’ content. That was exactly what we were doing.
“After finishing eight grades, Robert entered technical school,” Uncle Misha informed the audience solemnly.
“Eight?” Ilya whispered, choking with laughter. “Yeah, a whole eight grades and playing hooky… or was it hockey?”
Satisfied with his quip, Ilya laughed loudly. Yasha poked him in the side, “Be quiet. There are people around… Let’s see what he says about Mariya. She must have just played hooky. He’d better tell us how she was ‘plucked’ today.”
Now we were all shaking with laughter.
Quite recently, as the guests were arriving, we peeked at the koshchinon right here, near the trestle bed. The word chino means “to pull out” in Tadjik. The koshchinon ceremony consists of plucking all excess hair from a bride’s face. It’s a very old Eastern tradition, but I’ve failed to discover its origin. As far as I know, it’s customary to do it before a wedding, setting apart a special evening when women of the bride’s and groom’s families get together. But with us, the ceremony took place in our yard shortly before the wedding celebration.
If the hair had been plucked with the usual cosmetic tweezers during koshchinon, there would have been nothing interesting about it. But the operation was done the old-fashioned way, with the help of an ordinary thread. They say that in the very old days, they used the thinnest leather lace to do it. A person who performed the procedure, called a koshchin, held a thread tied into a loop with both hands, between the spread thumb, middle and index fingers. Moving them fast, now bringing together the sides of the loop, now moving them apart, and running the thread over the face of the bride-sufferer, the koshchin skillfully pulled out all excess hair around the eyebrows, above the lips and on the cheeks, in a word, wherever it was necessary.