The Tale of Aypi

by Ak Welsapar

  The old fisherman fell silent.

  Gutly lay down on the clean sand and stared at the sky. In the heavens, just as on earth, rippled an endless, edgeless blue sea: a bottle-blue sea. The slowly gathering clouds looked to him like paradise isles on the celestial sea, which never ceased moving towards some dreamy, far-off coast. How he wished he could abandon all his terrestrial cares to live on one of those islands!

  The young man’s eyes measured the width and breadth of the sky-sea for a long while. He relaxed, and his mind wandered until it began to drift from the earth. He perceived the sandy beach swaying slowly, and his surroundings gradually turning to mist.

  5

  The winter passed, then spring came. If you saw the blooming flowers on the dunes, they would lift your spirits. Spring’s beauty faded in this area as quickly as a flower petal. The season came and carpeted the desert with red, but before your eyes could take it in, it was gone. See? At high noon, the sun is already sending people to look for their shadows. As far as Araz was concerned though, it had at least gotten rid of the winter fogs.

  No one spoke more than necessary with him, nor did he say much to them. Though they shared a village, they were on different continents, between which a crack in the earth had opened, and which continued to widen so that crossing from one side to the other was no longer a simple thing, and if you risked the first step, there was no guarantee of safety.

  Araz himself gave no little care to the crevasse’s waxing breadth and depth. These people were his community and besides their ineptitude and tractability, what were their sins? Was it all in his mind? Perhaps Ay-Bebek was right, they meant no harm. Maybe they were not really cowards, but only timid? Whom had caution ever hurt? Might not caution benefit him as well?

  “No!” he would say, arguing with himself. “There’s a league between caution and concession.” These folks are just weak. Worst of all, they’re the majority now, so they can make out their weakness as bravery if they need to. If you’re the majority, why wouldn’t you?”

  Araz was the last, so his truth looked false. If they’d done as he said, they’d have organized themselves and refused to relocate; they ought to show some healthy opposition to this process. There’s no way they would deploy troops to relocate the villagers. Would they? If the troops did come, fine, shouldn’t you at least clench your fist and stand up to them? Then they’d see who had fists. If they had to relocate, they could hold on to the bitter end until nothing else was left, and only then be kicked out. These people though, if just two straw-hatted magnates appeared, they’d pile up their property and sit smugly atop it like chickens, ready to flee soon as you said, “shoo!”

  Rumour had it that Mered Badaly’s second son had found himself a bride in the city and one with an influential father at that, who’d travel to Moscow four or five times a year. After the marriage had been arranged, if he’d wavered before, Mered Badaly’d now become cringing and compliant, eager to avoid damaging this illustrious in-law’s reputation, hadn’t he? If you look closely, you will see that everyone in this life has some pitiful little personal advantage that they’re chasing after, rather than the community’s best. Maybe you would want to respond, ‘No, I won’t admit to this,’ but if you look closely, you’ll be disappointed. Should you try to find some big reason behind it, you’d find only little things. If the villagers had anything real to gain by giving up the village, that would be something he could understand, but it was just their own personal gain! That’s what infuriated him – how could these personal benefits be worth condemning your whole community?

  Araz vowed to himself that he would go to the boy’s wedding, sit next to them all and talk nicely. He didn’t want to crash the party, but just have a talk with his neighbours.

  After the TV and radio had joyfully proclaimed that the fishermen were voluntarily giving up their village for the asthma sanatorium, and after all this had been explained to the village elders, their relocation wouldn’t be delayed much longer. There was no way they would send troops to the village, Araz knew well; who would do such a thing? After all, the current efforts were quite enough to dispirit the villagers: The once weekly food deliveries had reduced to every other week, and when water from the boreholes ran out, they were advised to drink spring water instead, but the previously regular monthly ferry from Baku that would bring the spring water to fill the wells had been discontinued this year. In addition, the bus route that went to the city three times weekly came just once now, and the mail was late too. There it was if you needed it, the marvel of “voluntary” undertakings.

  All this incensed Araz, but the spinelessness of his comrades infuriated him most of all. Yet, there was nothing to be done but stifle his rage, grumbling his way through town; only when he was with the sea, his only confidant, did peace come.

  With nothing else left to do, the village was busy preparing to celebrate the final wedding that would ever be held there. The day hadn’t been quite set, but whenever people met, Kerem’s cosmopolitan bride and her very prominent father were the talk of the town. The girl was beautiful, educated, and wealthy, they said, and her father was rich, with one foot in the capital. Of course, people made a fulltime occupation of clacking their tongues and repeating nonsense they heard from each other, whereas the blatant theft of their entire life didn’t seem to be on their mind at all.

  Araz was baffled. Someone gets married, and everyone else makes a fuss about it. What kind of a world is this! Anyway, however beautiful that girl is, what good does it do? Let’s say she were cross-eyed, if Badaly’s son loved her, then what difference is it to you all? Obviously she hadn’t turned out cross eyed – she was beautiful, and her father was a bigshot, but would this do a speck of good in terms of keeping their village? “Nope,” Araz quickly answered, but then corrected himself: “Ah, but it will make a difference; this connection will actually harm the village, since it “benefits” this future relative if Mered Badaly obediently joins the refugees.

  Mered Badaly’s actions were transparent enough, but what could be said for the others? At this point it resembled a wounded man using the last of his strength to smile before passing away. They were weeping on the inside only to display fake happiness on the outside. Well, they couldn’t convince Araz, or even themselves, like that. So whom could they convince? Maybe they had told themselves that if they persuaded the suits and ties that they were happy, the ones who were tearing away their forefathers’ land from them, they wouldn’t feel bad about themselves, or consider themselves guilty? Did they think that their hearts would suddenly burst if they felt bad? What a disgrace.

  After a moment, he didn’t consider his musings so impractical. If Mered Badaly’s new in-law was so important, it was probable that some of the paper shufflers responsible for the village’s destruction might be present. Yes, they’d make an appearance for sure. Among such people ass-kissing and petty ambition was the rule, so if Mered Badaly’s in-law had the loftier position, the others would surely flock here.

  The thought of the contrived, sham gathering filled him with dread. How could he mingle with the fake faces, and how could he stand a whole day of their plastic smiles? Wouldn’t it be a terrible bore? Ay-Bebek, terrified that he would create a scene at the wedding, begged him to behave normally and leave everyone alone. Though she had been previously, now she wasn’t even opposed to him going fishing that day. He felt sorry for his helpless wife and naturally he would try to restrain himself. If he couldn’t though, if they insulted him for example, then they’d see for themselves how it would end.

  6

  After centuries at the bottom of the sea, Aypi’s troubled spirit stirred. Her ghost swam up through the strata of brine and into the dusk. The impending relocation had affected even the village ghost.

  Rather than ranging far, she remained near the smouldering ashes of the life that was once dear to her, whirling around the village all night. Throwing aside the weight
of the centuries, she coursed through the open air, and without bodily form to obstruct her, she was as free as the wind to sneak through any aperture she desired, only to leave again just as freely. For a time she flew through the top of one house, left through the door, then entered through the door of another house, and then out again through the roof.

  Though she flitted around them all night, the appearance of the village, and the objects within the homes did little to catch her eye. She stopped a moment to look at the novel appliances, but these too failed to amaze her. At first, the cold chests with food inside drew her attention especially. When she scrutinized their insides however, she lost interest; the wheezing boxes were mostly empty. They may not have had these chilling boxes in her day, but at least there had been plenty of fresh fruit! It would make sense if they were meant for storing cold water, which you could then drink and be satisfied with less food. Aside from the matter of produce, the lack of fresh fish, or at least dried and salted fish, amazed the ghost. Had they grown too lazy even to fish? How did they make their living, and why were there fish in only one or two homes? Where were the sturdy canoes, skiffs, and boats that should be lying on the beach, lapped by the waves? Had some been lost, that they now be so few? What of the men who went out to sea from dawn until dusk, where were they? Where was the wild game and the sugar sweets that women and children loved so much? It looked like the village had been completely cut off from the outside world. Had its inhabitants taken fright and isolated themselves? If so, how did these fishless fishermen spend their days?

  Naturally, there were other things in the houses that Aypi did not recognize or even comprehend the nature of. In a few, she found a box with a square glass face, but it was dark when she took the cover off. She didn’t understand what it was, and she supposed the fishermen didn’t understand either – it was probably just some time-waster and general lure of their attentions.

  As she wandered into some of the wealthier homes, she had to admit that there was prosperity. Yes, there were things here in quantities that couldn’t compare with her own age; and yet, she didn’t discern any particular happiness on the inhabitants’ faces. If it had been there, she would have seen that on their sleeping faces instead of unease and discomfort. Just then, the sleeper she had been observing made an anguished sound, as if to confirm her surmise, and the startled ghost immediately fled.

  If she wasn’t mistaken, the people of this generation also seemed stunted. What could the reason be? Once these same people had unflinchingly sacrificed her for the sake of their own futures. Had her life’s blood not brought them happiness? Had they failed to protect themselves from subsequent hazards?

  The ghost’s understanding of past, present and future was limited, so she had to rely on her feelings. She compared what she was seeing now with her own era, and tried to figure out what had changed.

  The stumbling zig-zagging alleys and the ugly slump-shouldered houses, which looked like they had consumed whatever beauty they once had, were also found wanting, unable to cheer up the ancient wraith; instead, her spirit sank even farther. It seemed that the villagers of this age languished as they hadn’t in hers, and it marked a general decline. If that was the case, what was the use of all their trappings?

  She considered her short life and its pitiful conclusion. It was difficult to overlook the punishment she had suffered here. Yet, as the waves beat the coast, she remembered the beauty of the old village once more, and she was prepared in one breath to forget her black fate and the severity of her condemners, reconcile with the living, and even to support them. She wanted, however belatedly, to understand her crime, its consequences, and her sacrifice to future generations – no matter how difficult it was to do so. At present though, what she had seen here did little to comfort the eternally drowned woman. If further investigation yielded no consolation, better to have slept at the bottom of the sea and borne the weight of the waters.

  But no, the bottom of the sea was not dear to her, and she would not voluntarily have selected it for her eternal rest – she was thrown there without any other choice. They had drowned her to cover their own weakness. Slaves of fear had sacrificed her to propitiate fear! She could not condone the actions of those who had condemned her to death as either wise or honourable – as they had simply panicked. Their fear had eclipsed wisdom, honour and even humanity. They had thought themselves powerful, but their power was only sufficient to terrorize one weak woman, so they took vengeance on Aypi for their own cowardice. What a twisted world, where weakness spurred men to mete strife out to each other, with the mortal weapon of fear in their hands. Until they put it aside, injustice, tyranny and war would not be laid to rest in the world.

  The thought of them infuriated Aypi. Recalling her own husband Dadeli, she tried to understand man’s timidity. Had anxiety about their wives made them into dwarves? Like it or not, in every man’s heart was the dread of being weaker than his wife and so losing her. This provoked them to their false bravery, brutality and inhumanity. How could women ever be content with such as these? How could Aypi, remembering her sad end, agree to silently dissolve into nothing? No, the regret from her life lingered in the living world, she could not leave it, that was impossible.

  Aypi’s spirit flew on its way until she was high above the darkened, run-down fishermen’s village. It was small enough for a living person to cross and not run out of breath, and tonight it seemed as dark as Tartarus to Aypi – without any light, sound, or movement.

  One doubted that it really was sleep. The fishermen’s unnatural slumber looked as though it was but a hair’s breadth from death’s embrace. This was less of a village than a graveyard. Why were there no sounds coming from their dogs and cats? Did they too abandon their normal aptitudes here, or did they bark and meow on schedule now?

  Just to contradict her conclusion, from below her, in a narrow alley, a wandering cat’s eye gleamed, and a hound raised its head to woof complacently. It seemed that the village wasn’t without cats and dogs after all, and the floating spirit realized that this age retained some similarities to hers. Of course, one wouldn’t know it judging by the people – their anxious sleep disturbed and discouraged her from freely entering their homes. Perhaps it was better during the day, when sunlight would bring new colour to the inhabitants? What would they look like to her, who was so far removed from her own age, and what response could they find to Aypi’s anger, the intensity of which alarmed even her?

  7

  At dawn the villagers went out to the salt flat situated on the outskirts of the town, rolled out their carpets and mats, threw down enormous cauldrons and prepared for the feast that would welcome the wedding procession once it arrived from the city. Even before the sun had risen high, there were signs that this party wouldn’t lack guests, and already there was plenty of excitement and a sense of festivity in the atmosphere. Everyone involved outdid themselves trying to flawlessly perform their appointed duties. After all, was it easy to stand the scrutiny of such discerning guests? You just had to tighten up your belt, run back and forth from dawn to dusk for the sake of pleasing them, and be happy to be doing so. The villagers spent the early morning absorbed in these various joys and concerns. Soon though, they began to yearn for the arrival of the procession, and as the hours passed, they stared frequently and fixedly at the road coming from the city.

  The wedding procession would come right down that very road; Mered Badaly’s boy was getting married today! Actually, he was already married. It had been done last night at a restaurant in the city, but his father had stood up for himself and demanded that the kid display the bride to the village on their way to the bridal chamber. The bride and groom were compelled to agree. Their consent was not eagerly granted, as Mered Badaly realized from the prolonged and agitated whispering that first took place between the two young people, and then between the girl’s parents. The villagers must have had some intimations of the precarious situation, since they
nearly exhausted themselves staring at the road. Thus early morning passed, then came mid-morning, and then, lo and behold, it was almost noon. People began to furtively glance at each other for reassurance and out of speculation: Would they come, or not? Surely they had to come. If they didn’t arrive when and where they were supposed to, had they purposefully delayed? What was one to think?

  The sun grew hotter and the crowd cast ever more sympathetic gazes at Mered Badaly, and if one took a look at the host, it was impossible not to see the discomfort the party’s delay was causing. As the sun neared its zenith, his face bore less and less of the morning’s jubilation and ever more worry lines. It was easy to imagine that he was disappointed both for himself and his peers, since he was the one who had brought them and their children out here. If the wedding procession didn’t come, who would be the scapegoat, if not the host? It was a terrible realisation for the rest too, who had anticipated so keenly what they knew would be the last wedding of this

  village.

  If they had been in the village itself, perhaps Mered Badaly wouldn’t have felt so guilty, but last night his son and the bride had exacted a condition from him: They refused to humiliate themselves by leading the procession into the village itself, among those pitiful hovels. Rather than bring their guests into the ridiculous houses perched on crane-leg stilts and listen to remarks of the newcomers asking incredulously, “Your parents live like this?” it would have been better not to marry at all.

  At first, of course, Mered Badaly had been furious, after all who wouldn’t be, hearing their dwelling place insulted in such a manner? As the young people became increasingly distressed, it was impossible for him, as a parent, not to understand that there was a secret behind it. They weren’t being contrary for the sake of it, he had said to himself, as they furtively argued in the restaurant the night before. They didn’t want to show every person who came along how pitiful the groom’s parents were; if they did, it would just hurt their own chances. How could he not agree with them, and grant his servile assent? If you looked at the fundamentals of the matter, you’d have to say: “As long as the young people are happy, that’s what counts. The rest of it – all the customs, traditions and practices passed down since ancient times, to hell’s flames with all of it!” Mered Badaly though, feared it wasn’t just a matter of setting customs aside, but a grave concern for the present and future. If the old man’s son and his bride refused to cross the threshold of their own parents’ home on their wedding day, how would it be later on, with their grandchildren? Wouldn’t they repudiate their grandparents entirely?