During this procedure, Burnell sat clutching Haydar’s carrier bag. He had turned it so that the legend “Nieman Marcus, Dallas” was visible to the inspectors, in the hope it might instill respect in savage minds.
The threatening situation served to remind him he was far from the legalities of England. He experienced the melancholy sensation which overwhelms all travelers at some time when in a country where they scarcely know a word of the spoken language, that they are trapped in a lift in a skyscraper, descending out of control from the ninety-ninth floor, with only a couple of uninhibited lunatics for company.
The Russian woman was made to open her last box. This contained kitchen utensils, each packed in newspaper, the Cyrillic on which seemed to aggravate the bearded inspector. He unwrapped everything, throwing the paper about the carriage, ignoring the woman’s angry growling. The compartment filled with egg whisks and cauldrons.
The male Russian scarcely moved. He remained rooted to his seat, arms folded. As the last saucepan emerged from the folds of Izvestia, he cast down the butt of his cigarette and ground it into the floor with his heel. Catching Burnell’s eye, he said in German, “You see how these progeny of Genghis Khan hate us. They’re swine, savages!”
The two inspectors stood contemplating with satisfaction the Russian woman’s attempts to repack her possessions. Then the senior inspector turned to Burnell.
He extended a grimy hand for Burnell’s ticket.
He scrutinized the ticket for a long while, holding it close to his eyes and then at arm’s length, as if puzzled by the nature of the object. Turning it about one last time, he enquired of Burnell in rudimentary German, “Where did you buy this ticket, mein Herr?”
Many wild and not necessarily amusing answers passed through Burnell’s mind. He was too conscious of the incriminating bag on his knee to utter them, merely replying, “On Ashkhabad station.”
“And you go to?”
Perhaps the man wished to be officious. Perhaps he could not read. Perhaps ticket inspectors on the Bukhara-Ashkhabad—Krasnovodsk line were selected after strict illiteracy tests.
“Krasnovodsk station.”
“Deutsch?”
“Engländer.”
Sniffing, the inspector clutched the ticket with both hands. “Passport,” he said in English.
Burnell produced his passport. The inspector merely scratched his head with a corner of it. Without bothering to look at it, he returned it, together with the ticket which had so mystified him. At the same time, he nodded severely at Burnell, as if to make a point too profound for words.
He passed on to Haydar. Haydar was made to stand. The inspector patted his pockets with delicacy; he could have been hunting for butterflies. In the soothing tones of one accustomed to handling nervous hounds, Haydar encouraged him. The inspector looked up into the great face above him and gave a guilty smile. His inspection of the Syrian passport was cursory; evidently the fact that Haydar was accompanying an English visitor was sufficient to bestow respectability. The inspectors pushed past the stooped figure of the Russian woman, still scabbling among her belongings, and made for the corridor.
The senior of the inspectors paused at the door and looked back at Burnell. “Sagh bol,” he said. Goodbye. Possibly he felt that his status was improved by having Westerners traveling on his train. Burnell raised a relieved hand in return.
The conductor ceased to rub her bottom against the dooqamb. Inserting two fingers into the corners of her mouth, and two more up her nostrils, she pulled one final frightening face at the two lads and followed the men out, slamming the compartment door behind her.
The Russian fished another cigarette from a sandalwood box and lit it. As he breathed out smoke into the atmosphere, he said calmly in English, “You see—universal swine and murderers, child-killers, cannibals, abusers of humble kitchenware.” He made no move to assist his wife, who was now kneeling to repack their belongings into their boxes.
Still feeling extremely uncomfortable, Burnell turned away from the other passengers and took a snort of his slap. A movement outside the carriage caught his eye. A bird had alighted in the sand with a flash of blue and white feather, to peck at something thrown from the train.
To Burnell’s untutored eye, the bird resembled a jay. He could not positively identify it. The bird had to live here—the humans were only passing through. How many cared about the name of the bird? He sighed to think how little he knew.
But the designer drug was taking hold. Feeling a warm glow, he perceived the bird as a sign of survival in adversity. He had no reason to feel melancholy. The scorpion poison had brought depression in its wake—and thanks to Hikmat Haydar nothing worse than depression. He was on his way home; he could put behind him all the morbid philosophizing and the chimeric appearance of his mother. True, he had not retrieved his memories, but he could not live without them.
Haydar removed a large colored handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow with it. Retrieving his Nieman Marcus bag, he tucked it safely between Burnell and his own solid bulk.
“How do these officials enjoy to meddle,” he said. Excusing himself, he took a swig from a silver flask and rolled his eyes with a heavy undersea movement. The two lads, thinking this moue directed at them, shrank back further into their corner.
To cheer himself up still further, Burnell took out Blanche’s letter and read it again.
The train had been stationary for some while. Distant uproar came from the end of the carriage; several voices could be heard, choral in dispute. The shouting became louder. It was terminated by the slamming of a door. The female conductor stomped along the corridor, testing wheel-strength with her tread. In a short while, the train began slowly to move forward.
The two boys peered out of the window and became excited, screaming at their mother. All except the two Russians looked out at the desert.
There, an old man of meager appearance was picking himself up from the ground where he had been thrown or kicked. Beside him stood a lanky youth, dressed in tattered shirt and trousers, beating dust from his clothes. They called in desperation to someone on the train. The young man started to run alongside the train, waving and shouting.
Haydar laughed. “These two were booted out from the train, doubtlessly, because they tried to ride without tickets.”
Burnell was staring out at the heavy gray sky, the colorless wastes of sand over which darkness gathered. “What will happen to them?”
“They must walk.”
“We’re kilometers from anywhere. They’ll surely die.”
“It is undemocratic to steal a free ride on a Turkmen train, my friend.”
Burnell remained gazing at the bleak scene. As the train gathered speed, the thin youth ran forward determinedly, leaping for one of the doors, and clung to its handle. The old man stood helplessly by the track, arms by his side. Already he was dwindling with distance. In a moment, he was lost to view.
The mother called to her boys, but they had the window open—cold air poured in—to see if the young man fell off. Instead, he managed to scramble up on the roof of the express, which by now was traveling at speed through the thickening dusk. They cheered his bare feet.
Somewhere to the south of them, distantly, stretched the Karakum Canal. Burnell supposed to his companion that at least the old man could find water there to drink.
“The Karakum Canal is fed from the Amu Darya. That great mother of rivers is known classically as the Oxus,” Haydar explained. He was breathing deeply and nodding his head, regaining lost equanimity. He added, as postscript, “The waters are poisoned nowadays by many chemicals.”
The fate of the old man who had been thrown off the train was no concern of his.
24
Singing in the Train
Night had embraced the speeding train.
The white-clad gypsy woman opened up a small basket and produced some food. She offered it about with a wide smile. One of her eye teeth was capped with gold, which
either added to or detracted from her charm in Burnell’s eyes. The passengers, with the exception of the Russian couple, gladly accepted her samsas. Burnell’s pastry, filled with minced lamb and chick peas, was delicious. He in his turn passed round fresh apricots. Haydar countered with cans of Coke.
The comradeship which springs up between travelers everywhere enveloped them. Haydar fell into conversation with the white-clad woman. He had tucked his palms under his haunches. She gesticulated freely, rattling her bracelets. Burnell fell into a light doze, dreaming of fair women.
Haydar roused him saying that the woman’s name was Elmira. He described her as an illiterate of the worst class, though posing as something else. She had been worried in case she had been defrauded and sold wrong tickets. Being illiterate, she suspected all men of trying to swindle her. Holding wrong tickets, she would have been thrown off the train with her sons, like the two men, to freeze to death in the night. Now her mind was calmer, she had every intention of begging for money.
“From me?”
“From you because you ate her samsa. And because you are English. And from others on the train. She expects to earn her fare in that way and in other ways, probably.”
“Such as?”
Haydar plunged his face into a lopsided frown, as though to indicate that men of the world needed no explanations in such matters.
As if she understood what was being said, Elmira smiled at Burnell. Again the flash of gold. She nodded the dark curls on her head, encouraging him to say something to her.
“Money she wants,” Haydar said. “Yet she claims to be a lawyer—and also a singer who sang in theatres and other such low places.”
Burnell asked if the woman would sing for them. When this request was grudgingly translated, Haydar frowned and said, “You see, how like all illiterates! She cannot read, so something must be compensated. Thus she asks for money, typically. Only then and then only will she sing.”
“Tell her I will sing to her. She shall then sing to me. No money will change hands.”
After some discussion this arrangement was agreed upon. For politeness’s sake, Burnell leaned over toward the Russian and asked if he would mind their singing.
“You may cut your throat for all I care,” replied the Russian, with grave courtesy, showing his little teeth in a smile.
Burnell rose and embarked on “I Know Where I’m Going.” His voice filled the compartment. People from further along the express, hearing the strange song, clustered about the door to listen.
Everyone appeared moved, applauding heartily, the two lads rolling about in delight. Even the Russians felt themselves inspired to clap. Burnell was implored to sing again. But it was Elmira’s turn.
The lady rose to her feet and bowed to the company, with a special flourish toward Burnell. She made many pretty protests before singing. Throbbing, throaty, the notes of a Russian song poured from her. They seemed to come not merely from her lips but from the rest of her, so wholehearted was her performance. The audience applauded wildly. Elmira threw them kisses. The men present were encouraged.
In response to Burnell’s question, Haydar said the song was tragi-comic, entitled “Chto Mnie Gorye”—”I’m going to be obedient and accept what fate brings.”
The compartment was now under siege. First-comers were being forced in by pressure from behind. A small man with pockmarked countenance announced he would sing a traditional Uzbek song. It dated, he said, from the dawn of history. His Oriental cast of features was set off by a gray lounge suit. He said that the nation to which he was proud to belong had sung this song in the saddle.
The song required an amount of roaring and changes of tempo. Haydar endeavored to interpret for Burnell’s benefit.
“ ‘The day will dawn—
The gallant hoof of horse will take
Us galloping—galloping—from grass and steppe
Westwards. We throw both men and animals
Into the great gray animated wave
To win the honors of sea, rain, beach’s gold.”
“So it continues, saying nothing about raping women and burning down villages. Frankly, I hate Uzbeks as I hate illiterates.”
“You hate Jews too.”
Haydar made his throat-slitting gesture. Bottles of vodka were now circulating in the compartment. The Uzbek was applauded, though without conviction. He faded into the crowd.
The Russian arose, grandly unbuttoning his knee-length coat. He climbed on his seat and began to sing in a deep voice, gesturing occasionally, a smouldering cigarette gripped between his fingers. He sang, “Ekh, Byla—Nie Byla”—“What use is this sad life of mine?” It was his wife’s turn to sit impassively.
Elmira was excited by the growing audience. Displaying her pretty and plump arms, she motioned other people to enter the compartment, and announced she would sing again for their delight. Haydar shouted at her to sit down or he would call the conductor back.
“She can’t read. But she can smell coins. Soon she will sing to earn money. We shall be awake with her yowling all night.”
“I wouldn’t mind hearing another song from her.”
“Don’t be insane. She will have the whole train crowding in here, bloody gypsy that she is.” Heaving himself up, Haydar began to shoo the intruders from the compartment. They left as though expecting no better treatment, to throw their own party in the corridor. There the Uzbek sang again. Others joined in, singing and dancing.
The occupants of the compartment fell silent, looking at one another.
Into that silence, the Russian spoke. “Cannibals,” he said. “Always rancor. Never some pleasantness.”
“A helping of pleasantness, I’d say,” said Burnell.
It must have seemed to Haydar that the Russian’s comment was directed against his overbearing behavior. After a minute, he said, turning to Burnell, “You know my kind heart, but deep reasons exist why I don’t trust illiterates, intolerably.”
As he spoke, he smiled ferociously at Elmira and her boys. So fierce was the smile that the boys shrank back in their corner and hugged each other. Launching into a reminiscence, Haydar’s expression became fixed. The Russian fanned smoke away from his face, as though to hear more clearly.
My story is full of sorrow and horror (said Dr. Haydar). It tells of happiness destroyed for ever. Yet it is set in one of the most beautiful parts of this world of ours. I speak of a certain valley in Kirghizstan, that remote state once called Kirghizia, in the days before the Soviet Empire fell apart.
The particular valley of which I speak was not so far from Bishkek, the capital city of Kirghizstan. It enjoyed solitude, and the peace that goes with solitude. The small town of Kegeri, hidden in that generous valley, did little to disturb the peace. Although some might judge our climate harsh, with the deep snow that fell every winter, we knew nothing else, and asked nothing else. We enjoyed each season in its turn. As in the primitive world, far from cities, every season brought its pleasures, and men and women lived within that embrace.
Surrounded by nature, and with serious employments to occupy us, we felt ourselves blessed.
If you’ve never been to Kirghizstan, I should add that our town, Kegeti, was—is—about one and a half thousand kilometers to the east of Ashkhabad, well on the way to China. Close to Kegeti Valley is a trail leading southwards which crosses the frontier into the mighty ever-slumbering continent of China. The trail, known as the Kashgar Road, has been used by travelers from time immemorial.
Before I tell you of the tragedy which befell Kegeti, I must describe the place. In those times, the inhabitants numbered only about three thousand. A small town, you see. A dashing mountains stream runs through it, dividing the town into two parts. Wooden houses climb irregularly up the slopes on either side of the stream. From every verandah, under which the townsfolk store their pine logs for winter, mountains and forest can be seen.
Well, it’s an alpine place, unspoilt, and, as I’ve said, quiet. I’m speaking now abou
t the days when we were under Communist rule. But Moscow was far away. All we really needed was about us. The market stalls in the town square, where the statue of Lenin stood, sold fish, meat in abundance, bread, quinces, melons, lemons, grapes, apricots, and much else besides. We rarely needed to journey as far as Frunze, as Bishkek was called.
Despite its remoteness, Kegeti had a claim on the outside world’s attention. In the tumbled terrains above the valley floor were past fortifications, towers, lost villages, even a palace, relics of past ages. In these monuments to forgotten nations, occasional treasures were found. Excavated items were installed in Kegeti’s small museum, or else were taken to the grander museum in Frunze. Our museum was in intense rivalry with Frunze Museum, as you may imagine.
So intense was this rivalry that the directors of the two museums, the large but more distant museum and the small but accessible museum, hated each other. And I was the director of the Kegeti Museum.
Everywhere we look in the world, we see divisions. Even that stream of ours marked a division as it ran through the town. In the spring, when snows were melting, it was a torrent. In autumn it was tame; boys paddled in it and floated sticks. But at all times of year, it so happened that we Kirghiz families lived mainly on the east side of the stream. On the west side, it was mainly Uzbek families. Our museum was situated on the east side. My house was only a few meters from its door.
Why was I so happy, my friends, in those bygone days? It was largely because of my relationship with my wife.
My wife’s name was Ranisa. How beautiful, how calm and enchanting, was Ranisa! About her features and character was something delicately Oriental. Her lips and her eyebrows were as fine as if drawn by an artist, while her eyes were as clear as if she had just been born. She wore her dark hair long, tying it up into a bun in the day. Ah, Ranisa, there are none like you today! Beauty attended her every glance and gesture.
Somewhere East of Life Page 36
