Meanwhile, one of the dancers in the circle attracted everyone’s attention – he danced so jauntily and beautifully.
Here, he began to whirl in place like a leaf falling off a tree. His head was turned up, his arms pressed to his sides, with only his hands sticking out, which made him look like a penguin.
That’s how he went around the floor twice, and then he squatted half-way, beating the rhythm with his feet brought together, his arms outstretched in front of him, looking like a wrestler preparing for a fight.
Then he made another circle, snapping his fingers and rocking from side to side. His eyes half closed, he looked blissful, his lips moving a bit, singing along quietly – he was in the thrall of the music. If he had sorrows or grief, family problems – and who didn’t have them – he forgot about everything as he enjoyed that moment.
Yes, he was a wonderful dancer. That’s why everyone was watching him with such pleasure. The song was about to end, but the musicians understood that it would be a sin to interrupt such a dancer. It’s not good to interrupt a person who feels so happy.
So, the musicians began playing the song all over again.
Boop-p, boop-p. boop-p… The Uzbek doira, or drum, started its beat. The other musicians stopped playing. It was time for the drum solo, or rather a kind of competition between the dancer and the drummer.
The drummer set his instrument upright on the ground, held it between his legs and began to beat the rhythm, fast and with great force on the tightly drawn leather, with small rings attached to the inner part of the round surface of the drum. It seemed that the tightly drawn leather of the drum might snap under his tireless fingers, which were moving faster, making the sound even louder.
It was incredible! The drummer, flushed, his forehead covered with beads of sweat, bent over the drum.
Who would be the victor?
The dancer was tireless. He was spinning around the ground faster and faster, keeping up with the tempo of the drum, enchanting the viewers with new dance movements.
The drummer tossed back his sweat-covered head. His mouth was half-open. Another cascade of sounds… yet another … That’s it! He was exhausted… He nodded, and the other musicians joined in.
The dancer had won!
They began serving the main course. Women were heading for the tables, one after another. They carried lagani, large, round, brightly painted platters piled with steaming pilaf.
The pilaf was arranged in tall heaps, and above them, curls of fragrant steam were rising, as if from a volcano. It was clear, and our noses smelled it, that today we would be having a real Uzbek pilaf, cooked with great skill. We began to salivate, just looking at it.
The long, dark rice mixed with amber, thinly sliced carrots and shiny black raisins looked like a mosaic. Fat, juicy pieces of lamb exuded heat.
Pilaf is a traditional dish in the countries of Central Asia, and in the East in general. It can be cooked in many different ways – with chicken, dried fruits, and even peas. But the most important thing is the skill of the cook.
Judging by the speed with which plates were emptied, the skill of today’s cooks was on a very high level, and the guests appreciated it.
I was devouring the pilaf when I suddenly heard a mournful yelp. It was Jack. I remembered that he was locked in the storage room. I began fishing out pieces of lamb from my plate. Jack would definitely have all the bones left after the wedding repast, but… I felt ashamed to be feasting without my friend. Besides, the pieces I had were tastier than bones.
More dishes arrived following the pilaf. This time, the women were bringing out chicken with fried potatoes.
The clatter of dishes, the clinking of glasses, laughter and the exclamations of the guests merged with the discordant but pleasant humming, interrupted by shouts of “Bitter!” (to make it sweeter, and the newlyweds are supposed to kiss), toasts and speeches.
The speakers were divided into two groups. The group representing the bride praised their “commodity” at the top of their lungs. The representatives of the groom praised his qualities with the same ardor. Both groups went out of their way, as if the wedding hadn’t yet happened and the question of the possible marriage was being decided right then and there.
Dancing resumed.
I took advantage of that convenient moment, picked up the plate with the treats for Jack and made my way to the storage room. The door was latched, but its lower corner had come off the doorframe.
I squatted and saw something that reminded me of a big, shiny, black beetle close to the ground. That thing changed its shape, it had two holes that alternately narrowed and expanded. Snorting was heard. How come I didn’t understand right away that it was Jack’s nose?
I opened the door and, stepping into the storage room, closed it behind me. Jack whirled around me like crazy, pounced on me, put his paws on my chest, whirled again, telling me with his yelping how happy he was that I was visiting him. If Jack could have talked, he couldn’t have expressed it better.
Took-took-took! Jack’s tail drummed the door of the cabinet. Boom-boom-m! As Jack whirled, cans and boxes were scattered around.
At last, he calmed down a little, and I squatted and put the plate with food on the floor.
Before that, I had held it above my head and was surprised that Jack didn’t pay any attention to the tempting smells. But now, I could hear munching and crunching sounds. “Jack, my dear,” I whispered, stroking the dog.
I completely forgot that while Jack was eating, it was dangerous to approach him, and stroking him was out of the question. When approached, he would bare his teeth, snarling fiercely, ready to jump at you and bite you. It was different today…
Jack crunched some more and then grew silent. Two green eyes stared at me in the darkness. They were aglow and getting closer to my face. His moist nose touched my cheek, and something that was harder than the nose came up against it… Good heavens, it was a chicken bone.
Music was booming outside. They were having a good time, they were dancing. The long-awaited wedding was proceeding in full swing. But I didn’t feel like going back out there.
Something more important and joyful was happening in the dark shed. Friendship, great friendship had been born there. Not that we hadn’t been friends before – of course we were – but neither I nor Jack had ever given it a thought. We hadn’t known how to communicate it to each other, but we could today.
The most wonderful thing about it was that Jack was the first to do it.
Would I possibly be able to shoot a pit at him, to douse him with water, or hurt my friend in some other way again?
Chapter 34. Hammom
“Hey, Redhead, where are you?”
It’s amazing how the same words can sound when pronounced by different voices, with different intonations. My cousin Yura also shouts “Hey, Redhead!” Yet no matter how loud he does it, it always sounds brotherly and friendly.
But this voice was demanding and rude, and I would call it unique. It was no wonder, the voice belonged to Uncle Robert… Uncle Robert, also know as Chief and Forelock, at this moment presented himself to me in yet another character which I immediately denoted with an exact, clear-cut word – “exploiter.”
I had heard that word at school many times. In the past, it had always been an abstraction for me. But now it acquired specific meaning and was filled with real content.
Uncle Robert had begun to build a hammom, or winter bathroom, and I was his only helper. My favorite cousin Yura was on vacation with his parents at the famous lake Issyk-Kul in Kirgizia. I was the only manpower Robert had available, and that was exactly what was happening now, to my great displeasure.