The men had all been gone since morning. The women were busy with their household chores. And the boy ran to each open door, crying shrilly:
"It's here! The store truck is here!"
The women hurried to get the little money they had tucked away, and ran out, each one racing to get there first. Even grandmother praised him:
"He's got a sharp eye, that boy!"
The boy felt proud, as if he had brought the store truck there himself. He was happy because he had been first with the news, because he rushed out with the women into the backyard, because he bustled with them at the open doors of the truck. But they forgot him immediately. They were too excited. All those goods—their eyes didn't know where to look first. There were only three women: his grandma; Aunt Bekey his mother's sister and the wife of the warden Orozkul, the most important man at the forest station; and the young Guldzhamal, the wife of his helper Seidakhmat, with her little girl in her arms. Only three women. But they fluttered about so much, tugging at the goods and turning everything upside down, that the salesman was obliged to ask them to wait their turn and stop chattering all at once.
His words, however, had small effect on the women. At first they grabbed everything. Then they began to make their elections. Then they returned what they had chosen. They put things aside, tried them on, debated among themselves, and asked the same questions over and over again. One thing they did not like, another was too expensive, a third was the wrong color . . . The boy stood at the side. He was bored now. The expectation of something extraordinary, the first joy he felt when he had caught sight of the truck on the mountainside, was gone now. The store truck had suddenly turned into an ordinary truck filled with a lot of rubbish.
The salesman frowned. It didn't look as if those women were going to buy anything. Why had he bothered driving through the mountains to this godforsaken spot?
And he was right. The women started to give up, their enthusiasm waned, they suddenly seemed tired. They began to look for excuses. Grandma complained about the lack of money. And without money, how could you buy anything? Aunt Bekey did not dare to make a big purchase without her husband. Aunt Bekey was the unhappiest woman on earth because she had no children, and Orozkul beat her for that whenever he got drunk. And this made grandfather suffer, too, for Aunt Bekey was grandfather's daughter. She bought a few trifles and two bottles of vodka. And that was too bad— she was making it worse for herself. Grandma could not keep from hissing, so that the salesman would not hear:
"Asking for trouble?"
"I know what I'm doing," snapped Aunt Bekey.
"Fool," grandma whispered, gloating. If it were not for the salesman, she would have given Aunt Bekey a piece of her mind. They were forever bickering, those two.
Young Guldzhamal came to the rescue. She began to explain that her Seidakhmat was going into town soon and he would need the money, so she could not spend much now.
And so they bustled around the store truck, bought "a kopek's worth" of goods, as the salesman said, and went back to their homes. What sort of trade was that? The salesman spat after the women and began to arrange his disordered wares, preparing to leave. Then he noticed the boy.
"What is it, roundhead?" he asked. The boy had protruding ears, a thin neck, and a large round head. "Want to buy something? Hurry up, or I'll close shop. D'you have any money?"
The salesman spoke at random, having nothing better to do, but the boy answered respectfully:
"No, uncle, I have no money," and he shook his head.
"I think you do," the salesman drawled, feigning disbelief. "You're all rich around here, you're only pretending you're poor. . . . And what's in your pocket, isn't that money?"
"No, uncle," the boy answered as sincerely and seriously as before, turning out his torn pocket. (The other pocket was sewn up.)
"So you've lost your money. Look for it where you've ken playing, you'll find it."
They were silent awhile.
"Whose boy are you?" the salesman asked. "Old Momun's?"
The boy nodded.
"His grandson, eh?"
"Yes," the boy nodded again.
“And where's your mother?"
The boy said nothing.
"She never writes, does she? I guess you don't know yourself?"
"I don't."
"And your father? You don't know either?"
The boy was silent.
"How is it, friend, you don't know anything?" the salesman chided. "Oh, well, in that case, here." He held out a handful of candy. "And good-bye to you."
The boy drew back shyly.
"Take it, take it. Don't hold me up. I've got to go."
The boy put the candy in his pocket. He wanted to run after the truck, to see it out to the road, and he called Baltek to go with him. Baltek was a terribly lazy, shaggy dog. Orozkul always threatened to shoot him—why keep such a dog, he said. But grandpa kept begging him to wait. They'd get a sheep dog first, then he would take Baltek away somewhere. Baltek did not care about anything. When he had eaten, he slept; when he was hungry, he was forever toadying up to someone—his own masters, strangers, it made no difference, so long as they would throw him something. That's what kind of dog he was, this Baltek. But sometimes, out of boredom, he would run after cars. True, never very far. He'd just get going, then suddenly turn back and amble home. An unreliable dog. Still, whatever he was like, it was a lot more fun to run with a dog than without one.
Quietly, so the salesman would not see, the boy threw Baltek one candy. "Look now," he warned the dog, "we'll run a long way." Baltek whimpered and wagged his tail, waiting for more. But the boy did not dare to throw him another candy: the man might get offended; after all, he didn't give him a whole handful for the dog.
And then his grandfather appeared. The old man had been out to the beehives. From there he could not see the yard behind the houses. And now he just happened to come up in time, while the store truck was still there. Just by chance. Or else his grandson would not have gotten the schoolbag. The boy was lucky that day.
Old Momun, whom clever people had nicknamed Obliging Momun, was known to everyone in the district, and he knew everyone. He had earned his nickname by his invariable friendliness, his constant readiness to do things for people, to help everyone. And yet, his diligence was not appreciated, just as gold would not be appreciated if it were given away free. Nobody treated Momun with the respect due people of his age. He was treated without ceremony. At funeral feasts for eminent old men of the Bugu clan—Momun was a Bugan and very proud of it, and he never missed the funeral feasts for his clansmen—he would be asked to slaughter cattle, to meet honored guests and help them dismount, to serve tea, and even to chop wood and carry water. There are plenty of things to do at great funeral feasts, attended by many people from all parts of the country. Momun did everything he was asked quickly and easily; he never refused, like others. The young women of the village, who had to receive and feed the horde of guests, would say as they watched Momun at work:
"What would we have done without Obliging Momun?"
And so it would turn out that the old man, who had come all that distance with his grandson, was placed in a role lit for a young fellow, a mere helper. Anyone else would die of humiliation, but Momun never minded at all.
And nobody wondered at the sight of old Momun serving the other guests—that's what he had been all his life, Obliging Momun. It was his own fault. And if any stranger asked how it was that he was running errands for the women -were there no young fellows in the village?—Momun would say:
"The dead man was my brother." (He considered all Bugans his brothers. But weren't they equally "brothers" to the other guests?) "Who else is to work at his funeral feast if not I? Aren't we all bound by kinship, from the time of our ancestral Mother herself—the Horned Mother Deer? And she, the miraculous Mother Deer, had bidden us to be friends in life and in memory . . ."
That's what he was like, Obliging Momun!
Old and yo
ung addressed him with the familiar "thou." You could play jokes on him—he was never offended; you did not have to take him into account—he was a gentle, mild old man. No wonder it's said that people don't forgive those who do not know how to compel respect. And he didn't know how.
There were many things he did know. He knew carpentry and saddlemaking. He knew how to stack hay; when he was younger, he would build such haystacks that people would be sorry to break them up in winter: rain slid off the stacks as off the back of a goose, and snow lay on them like a sloping roof. During the war, as a member of the labor brigades, he worked as a bricklayer in Magnitogorsk, building factories; he was considered one of the best workmen. When he returned, he built wooden houses in the forest district and looked after the forest. Although listed as a helper, it was he who watched the forest, while Orozkul, his son-in-law, spent most of his time visiting his cronies. Except when the authorities came up—then Orozkul would be the master, showing them the forest, arranging hunting parties for them. Momun also tended the livestock and worked with the beehives. His whole life was spent in working and taking care of this and that from morning until night, and yet he never learned how to make people respect him.
But then, even Momun's appearance was not patriarchal, not like an aksakal's [note: elder; also, a respectful form of address to an older man]. No slow dignity, no sternness. He was the soul of kindness, and this unprofitable human quality was obvious at first glance. At all times, such people are taught: "Don't be kind, be hard! Take this now, and this! Be hard!" But, to his own misfortune, he remained incorrigibly kind. His face, crisscrossed with wrinkles, was always smiling, and his eyes forever asked: "What do you need? Is there anything you'd like me to do for you? I'll do it in a moment, just tell me what it is . . ."
His nose, shaped like a duck's bill, was soft, as though altogether without bone or gristle. And he was short of stature, a quick little old man, like an adolescent.
Even his beard was nothing but a joke. Two or three reddish hairs on his chin—that was all there was to it. He wasn't at all like some stately old man you might see riding down the road, with a beard like a sheaf of grain, in a great, loose overcoat with a wide lambskin collar and an expensive hat, astride a fine horse, its saddle trimmed with silver. A sage, a prophet, no one would hesitate to bow to such a man, he would be honored everywhere! But old Momun had been born only as the Obliging Momun. Perhaps his only advantage was that he never feared losing face with others. (Did I sit down right? Did I say the right thing, or give the wrong answer, or smile the wrong way, or this, or that?) In this respect, Momun, without suspecting it himself, was extraordinarily fortunate. Many people waste away not so much from disease as from their uncontrollable, devouring passion to show themselves better and more important than they are. (Who doesn't want to be known as clever, worthy, handsome, and at the same time stern, just, and resolute?)
But old Momun was not like that. He was a funny, queer old man, and everybody treated him as just a funny, queer old man.
There was only one thing that could seriously offend Momun—failure to invite him to a family council regarding arrangements for a funeral feast. On such occasions he was deeply distressed and hurt, and not because he had been overlooked—he never decided anything at these councils anyway, he was merely present—but because an ancient obligation had been violated.
Momun had his own sorrows and afflictions, which made him suffer and often cry at night. But outsiders knew nothing about it. Only those closest to him knew.
When Momun saw his grandson near the truck, he sensed at once that the boy was upset over something. But since the salesman was a guest, the old man addressed him first. He quickly jumped down from the saddle and held out both hands to the salesman.
"Assalam aleikum, great merchant!" he said, half seriously, half in jest. "Has your caravan arrived safely, is your trade going well?" All of him beaming, Momun shook the salesman's hand. "How much water has gone by since we last met. Welcome to our parts!"
The salesman smiled tolerantly at his speech and his whole puny figure in the same coarse, worn boots, the same canvas trousers made by the old woman, the shabby jacket, the felt hat, grown rusty with sun and rain. And he answered:
"The caravan is safe. But what does it look like, when the merchant comes to you, and you run off into your fields and valleys? And tell your wives to hold on to their kopeks as to their souls at dying time? A man could show them the best goods in the world, and they won't open up their purses."
"Don't take offense, good man," Momun apologized in confusion. "If we had known you were coming, we wouldn't have left. As for money, what can you do if your pockets are empty? After we sell the potatoes in the fall . . .”
"Go on," the salesman interrupted him. "I know you're as rich as beys. You sit here in your mountains, with all the land, all the hay in the world. Look at those woods—a man can't get across them in three days. You keep livestock? You keep beehives? But when it comes to parting with a kopek, you close your fists. Here, buy a silk quilt . . . Or a sewing machine, I've only one left . . ."
"Truly, we haven't got that kind of money," Momun apologized.
"Tell it to someone else. You're tight, old man, sitting on your money. And what for?"
"No, it's true, I swear by the Horned Mother Deer. . ."
“Here, take some corduroy, you can make yourself new pants."
"I would, I swear by the Horned Mother Deer . . ."
"Ah, what's the good of talking to you?" The salesman waved his hand. "Drove all this way for nothing. And where is Orozkul?"
"Gone since morning. To Aksai, I think. Some business with the shepherds . . ."
"Out visiting, eh?" the salesman said understandingly. There was an awkward pause.
"Don't take offense, dear man," Momun spoke again. "In the autumn, God willing, we'll sell the potatoes. . .”
"It's a long way to autumn."
"Well, no hard feelings. Come in, and have some tea."
"That isn't what I came for," the salesman refused.
He began to close the truck doors, then suddenly he glanced at the grandson who stood near the old man holding the dog by the ear, ready to run after the truck.
"Why not buy him a schoolbag? The kid must be ready for school, no? How old is he?"
Momun immediately seized on the idea. At least he'd buy something from the pestering salesman. Besides, the boy really needed a schoolbag; he'd be starting school next fall.
"You're right," said Momun. "I never thought of that. Certainly, he's seven, going on eight. . . . Come over here," he called to his grandson.
The old man searched through his pockets and found the five ruble note he had stashed away. It must have been lying in his pocket for a long time—all soiled and crumpled.
"Here, roundhead." The salesman winked slyly at the boy, handing him the schoolbag. "You'd better study, now. If you don't learn your ABCs, you'll be stuck for life with grandpa in the mountains."
"He'll learn! He's a smart one," Momun replied, counting the change. Then he glanced at his grandson who was awkwardly clutching the new schoolbag, and pressed him close to himself. "That's good, now. In the fall you'll go to school," he said in a low voice.
The hard, heavy palm of the grandfather gently covered the boy's head. And the boy's throat contracted. He felt sharply the thinness of the old man and the familiar smell of his clothes, a smell of dry hay and the sweat of a hardworking man. True, dependable, his own. Perhaps the only person in the world who doted on him—this simplehearted, funny old man whom idle tongues had nicknamed Obliging Momun. . . . Well, what of it? Whatever he was like, the boy was glad to have his own grandfather.
The boy had never expected to feel such happiness. He had never thought of school before. Until now, he had only seen other children who went to school—out there, in the Issyk-Kul villages beyond the mountains, where he had gone with his grandfather to the funeral feasts of important old Bugans.
From that mo
ment on, the boy never parted from his schoolbag. Triumphant, he ran to show it off to everybody in the settlement. First he took it to grandma—look what grandpa bought me! Then to Aunt Bekey. She was glad to see it, and had some words of praise for the boy as well.
Aunt Bekey was seldom in a good mood. Most of the time, gloomy and irritable, she paid no attention to her nephew. She couldn't be bothered with him. She had her own troubles. Grandma always said that if she had children of her own, she'd be a different woman. And Orozkul, her husband, would be a different man. And then Grandfather Momun would also be a different man, not as he was now. Although Momun had two daughters—Aunt Bekey and her younger sister, the boy's mother—things were still bad. It was had to have no children of your own, but even worse when your children had no children. So grandma said. Try and understand her . . .
After Aunt Bekey, the boy ran over to show the new purchase to Guldzhamal and her daughter. And from there, he hurried to the meadow, to Seidakhmat. Again he dashed past the rusty "camel," and again he had no time to stop and pat his hump; then past the "saddle," the "wolf," the "tank," and on along the riverbank. Up the path through the shrubbery. And then along the mowed strip, until he came to Seidakhmat.
Seidakhmat was alone in the field. Grandpa had long finished mowing his section, and Orozkul's as well. And the hay had already been removed. Grandma and Aunt Bekey had raked it together, Momun had piled it on the wagon, and he boy had helped grandpa, dragging the hay closer to the wagon. They had piled two haystacks by the cowshed. Grandpa had built them so neatly that no rain could penetrate smooth, silky stacks, as though combed down with a fine comb. He did this every year. Orozkul never mowed, he made his father-in-law do everything. He was the chief, after all. If I want to, he would say, I can fire you in a minute. He'd say that to grandpa and to Seidakhmat. When he was drunk. Rut he couldn't really fire grandpa. Who'd do the work? How could he get along without grandpa? There was a lot of work in the woods, especially in the fall. Grandpa always said—the woods are not a flock of sheep, the trees won't wander off. But t hey need as much looking after. In case of fire, or a sudden flood from the mountains, a tree won't jump out of the way, won't leave its spot. It will perish where it stands. That's why you need a forester, to see that the tree doesn't perish. And as for Seidakhmat, Orozkul wouldn't fire him either, because Seidakhmat was a quiet man. He never interfered, he never argued. But though he was a quiet and strong fellow, he was lazy, and he liked to sleep. That was why he had chosen forest work. Grandpa said that on the Soviet farms such fellows drove trucks and plowed the land with tractors. And Seidakhmat let even his own potato patch get overgrown with weeds. Guldzhamal had to take care of the garden herself, with the baby in her arms.
The White Ship Page 2
