The Mountain and the Wall (17 page)

“And you’re right, too, Kalimat. Girls have gotten so lazy these days.”

“They’ve gotten so high-and-mighty, let me tell you!” exclaimed Kalimat, giving her earrings a shake. “But it’s not like our
dzhigits
are any better. My friend’s son got married. A decent guy, but then he started going to religious lectures somewhere, and got a little big for his britches. He won’t even let his wife go to class. Or she’ll have to study for an exam, and he’ll bring friends home late at night and make her stop what she’s doing and cook
khinkal
for them. She’s a handful herself, though—she finally packed up and went home to her mother.”

“What about the guy?”

“
U-u-u,
he dug in his heels. ‘I don’t need my wife to be educated,’ he says. Says, she doesn’t need that stuff she’s studying. Arabic is another thing. I’d get that!’”

“
Ua,
those kids have basically lost their minds.”

“It’s all for show. Anyway, his parents knocked some sense into him—served him right, the dimwit!”

Kamilla let the conversation wash over her, catching scraps of words here and there through the din. The microphone went to some tall man from the neighboring republic, who began with wishes for the couple’s happiness and then skipped to the vexed topic of the Wall, pointing out the need to seek diplomatic paths and not to fall for any provocations. Then, claiming urgent business and mentioning Khalilbek’s name, the man made a quick exit. Crazy Maga and the other dignitaries had also vanished. Bowls of black caviar and an entire baked sturgeon languished on their abandoned table, forlorn as orphans.

“Some of our esteemed guests and hosts have a small, terribly pressing meeting they have to go to—we all know, of course, that in the republic we have not only joy, not only weddings, but also many worries,” the
tamada
announced, speaking slowly, and looking around him.

Kamilla decided to go down and take a look in the mirror; she felt that her carefully sprayed hair might have begun to droop. At the exit stood a man in a black T-shirt, letting no one through.

“I need to go to the restroom,” declared Kamilla.

“Not right now, just hold on a little bit,” said the man, without a trace of a smile.

Nothing had changed in the hall. Some breathless guy darted up to her with a flower and an invitation to dance, but this time Kamilla
turned him down, claiming a sore foot. The man was offended, of course, but she didn’t like his looks, and anyway, she wasn’t in the mood.

“Father of the groom, come forward!” someone at the microphone shouted cheerfully, emphasizing every word.

“Just wait, they’ll be back in a minute—they’re out serving the People,” explained the
tamada.

The crowd responded with a restless though good-natured rumble of indignation.

“A fine time they’ve come up with for a meeting!” someone grumbled.

Kamilla got tired of eavesdropping and started watching the dancers. She spotted the son of her university’s rector, a complete womanizer. They said he’d seduced some girl, made her strip down to her underwear, and then dumped her out of his car, right on the street. Poor thing! Kamilla also saw the groom’s great-grandmother, an ancient woman, famous for her perfect memory and her love of tea. During the war, when everyone was starving, she had sold her cow to buy more tea. Marya Vasilyevna was here too, gliding majestically across the hall. And over there…

Kamilla tuned in again to the women’s conversation.

“Yes,” Kalimat was saying, “I just heard that those bearded lunatics have herded up all the
khakims
and taken them off somewhere.”

“Khalilbek, too? and Alikhan? and Crazy Maga? Khanmagomedov, too?” they clucked. “But why?”

“Maybe to shoot them. Or load them on a boat and send them off to Tyulen Island. Allah only knows why.”

“
Vababai,
Kalimat, don’t talk that way!” exclaimed one of the women, and set off toward the exit, taking delicate, mincing steps.

Kamilla got up cautiously and followed her out. The man in the black T-shirt was gone. She proceeded downstairs unhindered and was
about to go into the ladies’ room, then changed her mind and headed outside. There was no one at the outside door either—no gawkers, no policemen, no one. Kamilla walked around outside the building, but there wasn’t a soul anywhere. She heard the sounds of a lezginka through an open window, and someone whistled and shouted, “Hey, good-looking!”

“That’s strange,” thought Kamilla and, as though recalling something important, hastened back into the foyer. She had to check her hair.

3

Makhmud Tagirovich ran along the dislodged slabs of pavement in his Lak sandals, favoring his right foot a bit. Signs leaped past: “Cement milling;” “Limousine Rental for Matchmaking;” “Air Conditioners, Humidifiers, Dehumidifiers;” “Amelia’s Facials;” “Cinder block removal;” “Fine Couture;” “Glass and Aluminum Design.”

Exhausted, he leaned against a gray spackled wall, on which someone had scrawled in chalk:
CHAT
647987669. A gust of wind then whisked Makhmud Tagirovich’s straw hat off his head and bore it off in the direction of an industrial complex. Some passerby tried to snag it with two fingers, but after alighting briefly on the ground, the hat was immediately swept off to one side and barely escaped being crushed under the wheels of passing cars.

Makhmud Tagirovich stood panting, trying to catch his breath. Anticipating how upset his wife would be, he headed to a little square where some of the trees had been cut down, figuring he could spend some time there pondering his great epic poem. (In fact his novel was
his life’s work, but he’d gotten blocked and had turned to verse as an outlet for his creative energy.) The poem was dedicated to his wife, of course, and told the story of her early years in her mountain village.

According to his outline, the “Childhood” stanzas would flow smoothly into “Youth,” at which point the heroine would meet this same Makhmud Tagirovich. Then there would be a travelogue of the wedding cortege’s journey to Makhachkala, with a detailed listing and description of all the stops along the way. In the finale, the happy bride and groom would gaze up at the starlit sky and whisper:

          
Together forever, wife and man

          
Nature bound us, and Dagestan.

After some hesitation, Makhmud Tagirovich replaced the word “Nature” with “Allah.”

He settled down on a tree stump amid a tangle of prickly blackberry bushes and took his graph-paper notebook out of his briefcase. Hastily leafing through the first few yellow-streaked pages, he started reading, mumbling contentedly to himself:

          
The straw, a vivid fiery sheaf,

          
On bended backs the women bear;

          
Manured roadway, carved relief

          
On dung-adobe walls, and there

          
An unrepeatable design;

          
The local scamps abuse, malign

          
The village fool; they mock, deride:

          
“
Abdal, abdal!
” they cry, then hide

          
Beneath the leaves of roadside trees

          
To dodge the vengeful stones he hurls,

          
Which fall like hail that stings and whirls

          
And rends their shady canopies.

          
All this your mind preserves, and more:

          
Dreams, images, and village lore!

          
In olden days, timid and shy,

          
You’d visit gray-haired matrons there;

          
And then their muddied boots you’d spy

          
And gaze with eyes of dull despair.

          
So much of it you could not bear:

          
The women’s greased and plaited hair,

          
Their nosy questions and the speck

          
Of slobber where they kissed your neck.

          
A crowd of frisky naiads throng;

          
They shout, they praise, they draw you in;

          
They whirl you round, they make a din;

          
And then they carry you along.

          
To your soft cheek they all are drawn,

          
Each wanting it to touch their own.

          
With hasty steps you’d rock the floor,

          
And bring to each new guest a treat;

          
You’d greet them warmly at the door.

          
And when your father shared a sweet,

          
You’d take it from his calloused hand.

          
The touch, the feel, the taste was grand;

          
And at those times, in home’s warm nest,

          
You felt that you were truly blessed.

          
But learned, noisy guests would flaunt

          
Their learning, overwhelm your head,

          
Would puzzle you and young Akhmed,

          
With musty erudition they would daunt;

          
And then they’d sit you down to chess

          
And teach you both what moves were best.

          
Before your childish, fresh young eyes

          
The road’s long dusty path unfurled;

          
Above, the eagles in the skies,

          
Below, the hens in their cooped world;

          
The men stroll homeward from the club;

          
Tobacco smoke, manure, a rough…

Makhmud Tagirovich extracted a crumpled handkerchief from his pants pocket and blew his nose with a satisfying honk.

          
Tobacco smoke, manure, a rough

          
Young ruffian jostles you, and you’re

          
Entrapped, his reckless eyes a lure;

          
His gang of leering, laughing toughs

          
Observe your grimaces, your fumbles,

          
Your hand takes up a stone, it trembles;

          
They block the road, they fix their eyes.

          
Miraculously the rock you throw

          
Glances across his egglike brow;

          
The village aunties’ bossy cacklings,

          
The strands of hair across your cheek,

          
The road’s dry dust gets on your stockings

          
As down the village streets you streak

          
And enter gardens, newly seeded,

          
Their shade, the rows all neatly weeded;

          
To roosters’ raucous cries you run,

          
To fading rays of melting sun;

          
The beehives on the woodshed walls

          
And someone’s shouted call, “
Chchit!
”

          
The cat, disgruntled, flees from it;

          
The hinny trudges by, hee-haws,

          
And where this childless creature strode,

          
The ram casts pearls across the road.

          
In morning often you would tread

          
Your father’s porch, outside its door,

          
And in the winding streets ahead

          
You’d hear the bustling village roar.

          
With languid, idle eyes you’d seek

          
The sun’s bright ray beyond the peak;

          
Neglected, your
buruti
tipped;

          
And down the water spilled and dripped.

          
You pushed the prickly, restless broom,

          
And with a growing sense of dread

          
In fear of blows you bend your head,

          
Your mother’s slaps and pinches loom.