“That’s all, ulym,” says Zuleikha, wiping smudges of sticky red juice from his chin. “We’ve played enough. I need to get to work.”
She spreads the shawl in the shade of the pines and sits Yuzuf on it. She tosses a scarf on her hair so her head doesn’t get too hot. Then she starts crawling around like a snail, picking berries. The basket is large and deep, and she can fill it if she puts in the effort.
Yuzuf is babbling something, telling stories to the flowers. Although he hasn’t yet learned to talk, not a single word, he goos and gahs away at the flowers in his own language, while examining them. This scared Zuleikha at first because she wondered if he’d grow up to be an imbecile. Her son’s eyes are smart and thoughtful, though, so she’s decided that maybe a time will come when he begins speaking. If he remains mute, fine, she’ll love him that way, too. She’ll feed and raise him. Just so long as he stands and starts walking.
She reaches for heavy berries languishing in the sun, her fingers moving apart thin, wiry bilberry shoots among round, green petal-like leaves. Suddenly there are boots in the bright, shiny greenery. They’re black, new, and have been rubbed to a thick, mirror-like shine with wax polish; they’re right next to her so she could just reach her hand out and touch them. Zuleikha slowly looks up and sees broad gray breeches growing out of tall narrow boot tops, the hem of a brown shirt, a reddish belt tautly tightened at the waist. And two hands, one holding a long hunting rifle with a burnished barrel. Higher are two chest pockets with flaps, and sitting between them at a slant is a thin strap for a holster. Even higher, buttons that shine in the sun prop up a high, tightly fastened collar. Raspberry-red collar tabs, broadly sweeping shoulders. And somewhere in the distant heights, under the dome of the sky, is a face framed by the halo of a peaked cap, with a fiery-red cap band and dark blue crown.
Ignatov’s looking at her.
Pine needles softly stir overhead, moaning a little in the light breeze. The chirr of grasshoppers is loud, heavy, and deafening in the grass. Honeybees are buzzing in the clearing and hefty bumblebees rumble around, flying from flower to flower.
Ignatov leans his rifle against a bright-red tree trunk that looks filled with sunlight, takes off his peaked cap, and drops it in the grass. He unfastens the top button of his shirt, then the second and third. He removes his belt, the buckle on his chest, and the buckle at his waist. Rips his shirt off over his head.
Zuleikha crawls backward a little, still on her hands and knees. Dry autumn grasses sway around her; the ripe seeds inside them turn them into rattles.
He takes a step toward her and crouches down, his face rapidly descending from the sky until it stops very, very close to hers. He extends a hand and his large, long palm completes its seemingly endless journey by touching her chin. When his fingers pull the knot of her headscarf, the tightly tied fabric easily gives way, separating, flowing along her cheeks, and baring her head. Ignatov takes the ends of her braids in both hands and pulls. Zuleikha’s hands catch at the braids and she pulls them to herself, not giving them up. He slowly runs his fingers through her hair and the braids slacken, unplaiting.
“I wait for you, every night,” he says.
He has a dry smell, of warmth and tobacco.
“Well, don’t.”
If only she could take his fingers from her hair, but there’s no way; they’re persistent. And hot, like they were around her fist clenching the loose grains back in the forest in Yulbash.
“But you’re a woman. You need a man.”
His face is smooth; the wrinkles are as thin as hairs. There’s a faint red mark on his forehead, from his peaked cap.
“I have a man. I found one.”
His eyes are bright gray with green in their depths and the pupils are broad and black.
“Who?”
His breath is pure, like a child’s.
“A lawful husband. I married yesterday, the doctor.”
“You’re lying.”
His face is on hers. Zuleikha squeezes her eyes shut, presses her feet into something, pushes away, and rolls along the ground. She leaps up, grabs the rifle leaning against the tree, and points it at Ignatov.
“He’s my husband, before people and heaven,” she says and motions with the rifle barrel to go away. “And I’m his wife.”
“Lower it, you fool,” he answers from the grass. “It’ll fire.”
“A faithful wife!”
“Lower the barrel, I’m telling you.”
“And don’t you follow me into the urman again!”
Zuleikha squints and clumsily takes aim at Ignatov. The thin black end of the barrel trembles, wandering from side to side. Ignatov groans as he lowers his back into the tall grass.
“You’re a fool, what a fool…”
She finally manages to catch the disobediently quivering tip of the front sight in the notch of the back sight. She guides the barrel slowly, looking through the back sight, and the world seems different and more distinct, vivid, and bulging. The grass is lusher and greener over the spot where Ignatov is lying on his back. The butterflies circling the clearing and the dragonflies sitting on spikes of grass are larger and prettier, and Zuleikha even discerns web-like lines on their transparent wings and iridescent spheres in their tiny bulging eyes. The back of Yuzuf’s head is further away. Blood vessels form a marble-like pattern on the petals of his little pink ears and a heavy drop of sweat slowly rolls out from under his dark, curly hair to his white neck. Even further is a shaggy brown triangle. A bear’s snout.
A huge, glossy bear is standing at the edge of the clearing, gazing lazily, sideways, at Yuzuf. Its damp round nose shakes every now and then and its two lower fangs shine in its half-open jaw like splayed fingers.
“Ivan, how do I shoot?”
It’s as if her throat has filled with sand.
“Decided to exterminate me?” Ignatov’s angry face rises from the grass. He turns and sees the bear.
“Raise the hammer first,” he whispers.
Her wet fingers slide along the cold, sticky metal. Where is it, that hammer? The bear growls, not loudly, first examining the baby sitting in front of it, then Zuleikha and Ignatov, who are frozen at a distance. Yuzuf is watching the animal, rapt.
Zuleikha pulls the hammer toward herself and there’s a loud click. The bear growls louder and stands on its hind legs, growing into a powerful, shaggy hulk. They can now see a sunken and light-colored belly with uneven gray dappling, a barrel-like chest that juts forward, and the crooked sickles of claws on long front paws that nearly reach the ground. The beast bares its teeth and a shiny black and pink tongue flashes between yellowed fangs. Yuzuf screeches with joy and stands, too.
Zuleikha squeezes the trigger and a shot bangs. The butt of the rifle strikes her hard and painfully in the shoulder, throwing her backward. Gunpowder sharply hits her nose. Her son’s short, frightened shriek is like a bird call.