I visited that house and yard quite often. Yasha was my friend, but out of all the members of that family, I liked Uncle Mikhail, his father, the most. Even the way he looked was appealing. He was strong with wide shoulders, and his handshake was like Grandpa Yoskhaim’s. He had a kind, calm, smiling face. He liked to joke and laugh. Mikhail’s dark hair turned gray prematurely, but it was becoming with his round, dark-complexioned face.
I didn’t know why Uncle Mikhail went away now and then. He sometimes didn’t live at home. It seemed to me – maybe because I liked him so much – that Aunt Tamara’s personality was the reason. The summer I remember was when Mikhail was away, and I was sorry about it. The house without him was somewhat empty. I remembered how he and I would have tea together, particularly that one time not so long ago.
I had come over to play with Yasha, but there was no one at home but Mikhail. He was having tea in the kitchen. As soon as I opened the door, he waved his hand, inviting me to join him. I sat down. Mikhail poured tea into a bowl for me, and motioned his hand toward a bag of rusks, the kind that were sold at Tashkent bakeries by weight. He didn’t have to motion twice. I loved those crispy, brown, well-toasted rusks. I could eat them nonstop. So, we sat across from each other, enjoying our tea with rusks. Perhaps we were also enjoying being together in peace and quiet, not in the noisy company of Yasha and Ilya, and loudmouthed Aunt Tamara. We were silent, and the sounds that filled the kitchen didn’t interfere with the stillness. Here, the paper bag rustled – Uncle Mikhail took out a rusk. Tap-tap-tap – he banged the rusk on the table to remove crumbs. Uncle Mikhail was very neat, he would never put a rusk in his mouth without removing the crumbs. On top of that, the salesgirls at the bakery, who knew him, would never put broken rusks into his bag. Tap-tap-tap… That was me tapping my rusk on the table like Uncle Mikhail. Khrr-oop! Uncle took a bite of a rusk. I didn’t lag far behind him. Oop-ss – bending over the bowl, Uncle Mikhail gulped down some of the tea. I did the same. We looked at each other with pleasure. Rusks tapped, the crispy rusks’ khr-r-oop, and oop-ss alternated. Merged together, they sounded like music. A short pause followed as Uncle Mikhail dipped a rusk into his tea. I, of course, did the same because that was what is called eating with relish – dipping a rusk into tea, then sucking sweetish syrup out of it.
When I sat down at the table, the bag was full of rusks. Now, I thrust my hand into the bag and took out the last one.
Uncle Mikhail nodded, “Kosh” which meant, “Good, that’s my boy.” “Are you full?”
I nodded, and we both smiled, very pleased with each other. Yes, it was a pity that Uncle Mikhail was away. If he had been at home, Yasha and I would have hung out near Uncle Mikhail’s old Pobeda (Victory) car after we were done with Raya’s lesson. It was usually parked in the yard. Yasha and Ilya were allowed to wash it, and they really enjoyed it. That was the beginning of the brothers’ initiation into their father’s profession. He was a chauffeur, liked his occupation and had a perfect understanding of technical equipment.
So many different incidents, quarrels, and sometimes fights took place between the brothers because of the car washing. I remember the time when Yura and I were on the way to the Shaakovs’, and after we turned into their lane, we saw the Pobeda at the arik. It was sparkling in the sun, all covered with water. We also saw the washers. Drawing water from the arik with a bucket, Ilya would douse the car, and Yasha, who stood on the other side of it, wiped the doors with a terry cloth towel. As we approached them, Ilya splashed water over the roof of the car, and the water hit Yasha, who then yelled obscenities at his brother. Twelve-year-old Yasha knew the four-letter words he had learned from his brother to perfection.
But the elder brother was indignant. “Wha-a-at? How dare you? In front of other people… Just you wait, Baldy, I’ll get you!”
He grabbed another wet cloth from the hood of the car, twisted it into a braid and rushed toward Yasha. A high-speed chase around the car ensued, during which the brothers exchanged swear words the whole time. Yura and I looked at each other, knowing perfectly well how this incident would end. The younger brother was quite agile, but the older one still managed to catch him. After kicking Yasha in the butt and hitting him on the back of his head, Ilya proceeded to the primary punishment – the arm twisting.
“Does it hurt? Say ‘Kind man, forgive this shithead!’” he repeated.
Bending over lower and lower from pain, almost on his knees, Yasha tolerated it for a long time. He groaned, tried to wriggle away, but then, when he couldn’t take it any longer, he yelled and squealed, and tears appeared in his eyes. It was agony to watch, but it was absolutely useless to interfere. Could we, ten-year-old boys, handle the huge Ilya?
Naturally, Yasha gave up. First, he mumbled something, but Ilya demanded, “Louder, Baldy! Repeat after me: ‘kind man’…” And poor Yasha repeated the humiliating apology loudly word for word.
Of course, we were sorry for Yasha, but he, when he could, tried to spite his brother. They both misbehaved now and then, but the result was that Ilya always played the part of the executioner, and Yasha the part of the executed. But he didn’t yield. It even seemed to me that both torturer and tortured enjoyed it.
I sometimes wondered whether Yasha and Ilya loved each other. Was their friendship true? I didn’t have a brother, and I regretted it. I often imagined that I had a brother who was almost my age and we were always together. We would tell each other everything, share secrets, play pranks, and when one of us happened to fight with someone, of course we would always stand up for each other.
Even though I was very attached to my cousin Yura, he couldn’t replace the brother I yearned for. Firstly, since my family had moved to Chirchik, we saw each other only in summer. Secondly, our relations weren’t that serene. Sometimes, we behaved no better than Yasha and Ilya. We fought and swore at each other, though we managed to do it without hurting each other, execution style. Sometimes, I suffered because of Yura’s pranks.
Once in summer, we walked down Shedovaya Street on the way home. We were walking slowly. Suddenly, two guys ran up to us. Before I realized what was happening, Yura dashed away. One of the guys grabbed me by the shoulder, as the other, older one asked: “What is he to you?”
“My little brother,” I answered. At that moment I heard Yura’s piercing cry, “Redhead, run away!”
But it was too late. I felt a blow to my belly that was so hard that my vision blurred, and I gasped for breath.
“That’s for your brother,” I heard as I squatted, almost falling over.
The guys left right after that since Yura was too far away for them to catch. He ran up to me and began to raise me, mumbling, “I told you to run away.”
He told me? He didn’t tell me, he yelled after he had run away leaving me alone. How could I guess what would happen when the guys I didn’t know ran up to me? It turned out that they were brothers, the younger of which Yura had either offended or tricked. The younger one naturally complained to his older brother, and… But what did that have to do with me?
In a word, sometimes it seemed to me that Yura acted in a not-quite-brotherly way.
When we told Ilya about it, he dealt with the guy who had hit me.
However, today I was in Yasha’s company. Our lesson was over, and the morning air was cool, which meant that we shouldn’t expect intense heat throughout the day. That was great because we planned to spend the whole day outside. We always had lots of interesting things to do, and some of them had already been planned.