Out of the mirror a marionette looked out at me, a carnival mask, not my own face. The lips were outlined with dark contour and painted cherry red; in the middle of each lip a drop of gloss had been applied to make them look plumper.
“Your hair! What about your hair?” fretted Marina, sorting through chignons—short, long, wavy, smooth, and plaited.
“We’ll extend your hair, of course.” The hairdresser from the city circled me thoughtfully. “You simply can’t get married with such short hair.”
“Do whatever you want,” I thought, digging my manicured fingernails into my chair’s armrests. “Just don’t ask my opinion, and don’t yank.”
Finally a chignon with long curls was attached to the back of my head and pinned up at the sides. An organza scarf was fastened with ribbons to my head, and someone sprayed me with Chanel No. 5, filling the room with molecules of ylang-ylang, bergamot, and lemon.
The girls lined up to apply their makeup and fix their hair. Now the air smelled of pomade and hair mousse. Eye-shadow palettes—matte and glossy, powder and liquid—piled up on the dressing table. The room filled with sound: the rustling of dresses; the babble of negotiations over exchanging a skirt or borrowing a shiny ribbon. Aunties flocked in and out, kissed me, bestowed words of farewell, beslobbered my thickly powdered cheeks with their big lips, and blotched my delicate openwork lace sleeves with flour-powdered fingers.
Lyusya tried to force-feed me. She brought in a tray of boiled meat, salads, and flatbreads with sheep’s-milk cheese, but the mere sight of food nauseated me. I waited, straining my ears for the sound of honking horns, for the cortege bringing Marat. He would come for me, would lead me to the festively-set tables, and would drive me to the banquet hall, thronged and thundering with a deafening din—but when, when … when?
The cortege did not arrive. Noon came and went, then one o’clock, then two, but there was still no news from Marat. I dialed him several times, but the party I was trying to reach was unavailable.
The celebratory mood began to dissipate. I sat in my lace gown on my bed’s embroidered silk coverlet and waited. Dreadful thoughts besieged me. He had gotten cold feet and abandoned me. He had died in an accident. Been kidnapped by Timur. I could not dispel this last fear. The night before, Timur had sent a message: “No one has ever wiped their feet on me. I always get what I want.” I had told Lyusya about it, and she had calmed me down, laughed it off. But now everything was turning out just the way I had feared. Timur had decided to take his revenge and to prevent our wedding. He had lurked in wait for Marat, apprehended him, and attacked him together with his posse, the thugs from the Youth Committee …
My brother dispatched one of the boys to find out what was going on at the groom’s house. The boy came back with the news that the cars adorned with scarves and flowers were lined up in front of Aselder’s house. Meaning the cortege hadn’t started out yet.
Mama dropped into my room, and gloated quietly into my ear:
“If you had said ‘yes’ to Timur like a normal girl, nothing like this would have happened. Just wait, this Marat of yours will trample us in the mud.”
Marina didn’t know what to say; she just paced around the room making suggestions:
“You should just send someone over there to ask straight up: ‘What’s going on?’ Maybe they’re just exhausted, and have gotten off to a late start. Isn’t there some easy way to find out? I mean, you live in the same town!”
Aida rocked her youngest in her arms and kept offering variations on the same theme:
“You’ll see, Patya, Timur hasn’t forgiven you. I thought so. I suspected that he wouldn’t give you up that easily, that he could come straight to the wedding and kidnap you. Or do something to Marat. Anyway, I don’t trust this Marat of yours. He’s one of Shakh’s buddies, and you can’t expect anything good from Shakh.”
How could it be, how could it be … My nose smarted with repressed tears. Marat wouldn’t treat me that way. The more likely theory was that the stocky bruiser with the buzz cut had snuck up on him, taken him unawares, and slugged him. Blood poured from his nose and stained his snow-white shirt … That’s the holdup, that’s why they haven’t come.
The lack of a groom did not put a damper on the frenzy of preparations. Women called back and forth to one another in the front room. A multitude of second and third cousins carried heavy platters of food out to tables that had been set up in the courtyard, which were besieged by a throng of disorderly, feasting neighbors. Even deaf-mute Gagarin and his wife had been invited.
Granny looked in now and then, asking sternly in our native language:
“So, where’s the groom?”
What could I say? Nowhere. He was obviously nowhere to be found. Find Timur and scalp that disgusting buzz cut off his head. And what about my brother? Wasn’t it his job to figure everything out, to ferret out the offender and give him a good thrashing?
Periodically, young neighbor girls came and knocked on the windows of my room, hoping to get a look at the bride. One of the aunties flung open the window and tossed out a handful of chocolates. The girls exulted, shouting and squealing as they gathered the candies up from off the ground:
“Bride, bride! Can we touch you?”
I got up from the bed, went over to the window, and stretched my hands out to the girls. They jumped up, dropping the chocolate from their palms, trying to touch me:
“So beautiful! Beautiful!”
Meanwhile, Aida came up from behind.
“Shakh is here!”
I cringed. What was he going to say? Of course, they didn’t let him into my room. Shakh conferred with my brother in the front room. I dispatched spies to eavesdrop, and they returned with an announcement:
“The groom has gone missing!”
The walls heaved. Someone’s hands supported me under my lace elbows, eased me onto the bed.
“Don’t be afraid! Don’t be afraid!” whispered Lyusya. “Your brother caught Timur. He has nothing to do with it.”
“Then who does?” Marina anxiously twirled a lock of hair around her finger.
So it wasn’t Timur. What, then? A little couplet came into my memory, who knows from where:
My love is off somewhere, he has no time for me.
Why would he care at all? He’s got new girls to see …
Angela … No, that’s ridiculous! I had barely managed to dispel those absurd thoughts when we heard a fresh rumor: Shakh suspected that Marat had been captured by people from the mosque on the Avenue. They hadn’t been able to forgive him for that scene in At Zarema’s, when Marat had driven away that guy with the pamphlets right in front of everyone.
What would they do to him? “A violent exorcism”—that’s how Shakh put it. Marina kept dashing out to listen in and bring back reports. What he said was shocking. A completely inappropriate, unwelcome fantasy came to mind: Marina and Shakh fall in love: a wedding, a little cradle, a baby carriage … In moments of trouble you think of the most ridiculous nonsense. How easy it is to get distracted! So that’s what had happened—Marat had gotten distracted. But what if Shakh was right? What if at this very moment he was at the mosque in the clutches of exorcists? What if they had already dosed him with some disgusting potion, had laid him down on their rugs and begun driving out the djinns? Marat lies there on the floor, writhing and twisting, struggling to break away, to withstand the toxin. A fog of resin-tar incense fills the room, they beat the “sick man” mercilessly, intoning spells in some alien tongue:
Bismillai rakhmani rakhimi, al’khamdullilai rabbil’ allamin, arrakhmani rakhim, malikki-iaumiddin, iiakanabuduva, iakanastian …
I had learned about such exorcisms from witnesses. A strange clotty lump runs through Marat’s vein. It flows along the capillaries to his index finger, and from there it spurts out in a great splash of black liquid. The possessed man is delivered of the djinn. He rises, and there is a submissive, god-fearing look in his eyes. Never again will he dare to attack the pa
mphlet bearers. From this day forward he will go docilely to the mosque, will attend every sermon.
I recalled another story. A girl in our town had suffered terrible headaches. They were so bad that she couldn’t work or look at people, and all she could do was groan and beat her head against the wall. They took her to a wise man at the mosque. And he asked:
“Are you a person or a djinn?”
And the girl answered in a man’s voice:
“I am a djinn.”
Then the learned man shouted:
“Come forth, enemy of Allah!”
But the djinn replied:
“I will not come forth, and I will forever wage war on Islam.”
And then the learned man began reciting from the Qur’an. And he intoned the words, on and on, until the djinn burst into tears and wailed:
“I am coming out! I am coming out!”
And he came forth. The girl vomited him out and came to her senses, as if awakening from a dream, and left the mosque with a carefree spirit.
O God, o God, free me from these idiotic thoughts. I was so consumed with anxiety and exhaustion that my brain could only produce nonsense. And what if Shakh himself had abducted Marat? Marat had told me before the wedding that Shakh was upset with him and had at first even refused to be his best man. All because of Rusik-the-Nail. Abdullaev, who had been locked up for manslaughter, was the guy whose engagement had been broken off in such grotesque circumstances. When Shakh lost the case, he somehow blamed Marat for Abdullaev’s arrest. As if, since Marat had been Rusik’s friend, he must have had it in for his assailants. And, supposedly, he had talked Colonel Gaziev into influencing the judges to impose a tougher sentence.
Nonsense, complete nonsense, of course. Marat hadn’t tried to influence anyone, but Shakh refused to believe it for a long time. And now he’s making himself out to be his best friend. He’s worried … I was so upset, I was about to rush out of my room and interrogate Shakh personally. But the aunties clucked and blocked the door. Mama ran in, waving her hands at me as though I were a cow trying to get out through the pasture gate.
“You get right back in there! You’ve completely lost your mind! When the groom comes for you, that’s when you can go out to greet your guests. And if he doesn’t, you can just sit right there in the corner. A jilted bride.”
I’d barely made it back to my bed when the door burst open, letting in a clamor of shrieks, whispers, and suppressed gasps. In strode Angela. She was in a white hijab. Hands to her sides, elbows out, a gloating smile on her face, she cast a mocking look around the room, then exclaimed:
“So, Patechka, you’re expecting your groom. Good for you, you just keep on waiting. I’m sure that he will arrive soon.”
“What are you doing here?” I blurted, half-rising.
“I came to congratulate you. May I give you a kiss?”
And she took a step toward me. The women had had all crowded into the room, rushing to push her back to the door.
“Stop! Back off! Is this any way to greet your guests?” Angela shrieked. At the sound of her voice, more faces appeared in the doorway. All the women—neighbors and relatives—wanted to have a look at this harlot who had taken the veil.
“Leave her alone!” I snapped. “Let her say whatever she wants. She doesn’t scare me.”
They released Angela, who with disgust rubbed the places on her body where strangers’ hands had touched her.
“You think I’m a prostitute. On the other hand, I am married. To a man who did not abandon me on my wedding day.”
I winced from the pain. Taunted on my wedding day by a filthy street slut!
Suddenly Granny pounced on Angela from behind, violently tore off the scarf that Angela had fastened carefully with safety pins to conceal her hair and neck, and shoved her toward the door. Angela fell flat on the floor, hair bared, furious. She glared up at me, lurched to her feet, and fled the room.
It all happened so fast that the women could only gasp. But Granny yelled at the top of her voice:
“And who let her in, the scumbag? Let her get the hell out of here and slither back to the shit pile she came from!”
Papa appeared in the doorway, petrified, but the women shooed him away. The hands on the clock showed that it was already past three. By now Marat and I should have been sitting in that banquet hall, the one that had been reserved for our wedding before we even met. And the marriage registry officials ought to be there too. But where was he? Where was my groom?
I’d barely managed to recover from Angela’s scandalous visitation when Lyusya, who had gone on a reconnaissance mission, came back with an update. It turned out that Angela, incensed at Marat’s decision to marry, had called her husband at the police station the night before and had slipped him word that Marat was involved in the underground, with secret ties to the militants in the forest, just like his half-brother, Adik.
We had known absolutely nothing about Adik. Could it be true?
“Anything is possible!” Mama asserted, bursting into the room, instinctively adjusting the organza bows in my hair. “Your Marat could have concealed the fact that he’s a Wahhabi. That slut couldn’t have just made it up. Where there’s smoke there’s fire.”
“She could have! She could have!” I refused to believe it.
But why had everything come crashing down so suddenly? Could a single phone call ruin a man? It could, it was that easy. Rat, snitch, inform. What right did she have? She was married—even a second wife is a wife, after all. So what did she need Marat for?
“My, oh my,” Marina drawled. “Such drama! A regular soap opera.”
Aida and her baby had vanished. The aunties and cousins ganged up on me:
“Eat something, have something to eat!”
As though their chudu would solve anything. I refused to eat and lay face down on the bed. Tears wouldn’t come, no matter how I tried to force them. The fake lashes pricked my eyelids. I had to tear off all this unnecessary stuff, everything that prevented me from rushing out to find Marat.
Meanwhile, the men’s voices in the front room got louder. There came the sound of ragged, anguished sobs, and in rushed Marat’s mother Khadizha, dressed in her mother-of-the groom gown, draped in sparkling jewelry. She had obviously been crying, the blue arrows fringing her eyelids were smudged and blotchy.
“My boy, my boy! He’s been kidnapped!” wailed my mother-in-law.
I sprang up from the bed, and she ran over to me, pressing me to her chest, and only then, at last, did my long-awaited tears burst forth.
“Oh, my little partridge!” Khadizha cooed, stroking my lacy shoulder blades. “May the heavens have mercy on us.”
The women watching from the corners, touched, began to whimper.
“Who did it, who took him, Khadizha? Tell us!” Mama repeated over and over, as though unable to hear herself speak.
Marat’s mother finally heard the question. She released me, myself now thoroughly tear-stained, from her embrace and took to dashing around the room.
“What do you mean, ‘who?’ Who? The police! Colonel Gaziev himself: it’s no coincidence he ensconced himself right next door to us, in Adik’s house. Grabbed it with his big, ugly meat hooks. And now he’s started in on my son. Come on, tell me, how can you call Marat an extremist?”
“On what grounds?” I blurted.
“He was denounced! Some skunks framed him. Anything to add stripes to their uniform. They grabbed the boy, and now, dead silence. Where did they take him? Why? Aselder is already in the city trying to learn something. They won’t get away with this. I will not give up. I’ll go and smear this colonel’s gates with shit. Abduct a boy on his wedding day! For no reason whatsoever!”
“Did they search your house?” someone asked.
Khadizha twitched violently:
“Search? Just let them try! They’ll be sure to plant something: books, drugs, weapons. They’re capable of anything.”
“You need to get Khalilbek involved,
” Mama remarked, as if to herself.
“Khalilbek?” Khadizha frowned. “No way! He’s barely out of prison himself. My son won’t have anything to do with that guy!”
My mother-in-law sighed and perched on the bed. One of the cousins brought her some cold water in a crystal wine glass. Draining the contents, she looked me over and ordered me to go clean myself up.
“Your mascara’s smeared, your face is all black. When we get Marat out of the Sixth Department, he’ll see you and won’t recognize you. He’ll say, ‘Mama, that’s not my bride, that’s not Patya.’”
I smiled through my tears and went to the mirror to wipe my painted face.
“To ruin such beauty, what a waste,” one of the girls whined under her breath, but I kept rubbing my face until I didn’t recognize myself—haggard, red-eyed, suffering.
I undid my chignon, untied the ribbons, shook my short hair loose.
“Wait, wait, Patya,” said Marina, contemplating with alarm the doll-like image that was disintegrating before her eyes. Hairpins scattered onto the carpet; the necklace clattered to the dressing table.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I bleated, starting off again toward the door.
“No, don’t go outside!” cried everyone at once, again blocking my path.
“Girls, go get a chamber pot for the bride!” shouted Khadizha, loud enough for everyone in the house to hear. One of the girls ran out to the garage for the pot and brought it back in—an enameled vessel with a cute picture of a flower on its rust-spotted side.
“Just go out, please, I can’t in front of everyone,” I asked quietly.
The women shifted grudgingly from one foot to the other, and then went out the door. Lyusya lingered, and offered:
“Let me hold your dress.”
“I don’t need your help!” I snapped. “I can do it myself!”
Left alone, I closed and latched the door and twisted the pot to and fro in my hands. And suddenly I realized what I had to do. I slipped off the wedding dress—which was surprisingly difficult—scratching my forearms in my haste. I stuffed it in the wardrobe and put on a robe of Granny’s that I found folded on a shelf in there. I wrapped myself in a long chiffon scarf, pulled on a pair of rubber flip flops that were lying in the corner, and shoved my telephone and some money into the robe’s pockets. Then I climbed onto the windowsill and sprang down into the garden. From there, hunching over and ducking, I ran to the chain-link fence, climbed over it, and dashed off through the back alleyways in the direction of the railroad station. My goal was to force my way onto a passing train and get out of town, to go back from where I had come, to go away, anywhere. I knew that my disappearance would only complicate things even more but I couldn’t bear to stay in that room a second more. I gasped, struggling against my helplessness.
Bride and Groom Page 20
