I was a little afraid. What if he wouldn’t let us in, this new owner? I didn’t know him at all. I’d never seen him, but I already didn’t like him. As Yakov Gavrilovich was ringing the bell – Another innovation! Why would one need a bell if there was a gate to knock at? – I tried to catch a familiar sound from behind the wall on the right. There had been a time when the neighbor’s cow would press against the wall, chewing her hay with noisy enthusiasm. I used to call her and she knew my voice, so she would moo in answer. But now the wall was silent.
The door in the gate opened slightly. We could see a short middle-aged man with a face as inexpressive and colorless as the metal gate. He listened to us with an expression of perplexity and hostility on his face. He couldn’t understand what had brought us there. I had grown up here? So what? There was nothing for me to look at. Nothing old is left here, nothing. He had replaced everything. Everything here was new. It was his. There was nothing for me to do here. And then, the expression that appeared on his face reminded me of the huge iron padlock hanging from the gate. I understood that we would not be allowed to enter.
As Yakov continued negotiating, now trying to ingratiate himself, now becoming excited, with this disgusting character, I tried to look into the courtyard. But the new owner placed himself in the half-open door like a solid rock. The space was blocked by his shoulders, his belly sticking out from under his T-shirt, and his unshaven mug. I spun like a top and stretched my neck, but all my eyes could glimpse was cement, gray and bleak.
“My apricot tree. Where’s my apricot tree? You unshaven ogre, what have you done to it?" No, I couldn’t see my apricot tree through that human blockade.
A frightening silence hung in the air of the courtyard. The hens were silent. I didn’t hear a single bark or the clanking of a dog chain. Jack couldn’t possibly be there, but it would be good to hear the presence of any dog. A Tashkent courtyard without a dog is nothing. But there was nothing alive in this courtyard after all, for this soulless indifferent guardian of someone else's place, which had been stripped of its soul, didn't quite seem alive.
For a few days I was overwhelmed with anger and longing. Then I couldn’t wait any longer and went to Korotky Lane without saying a word to anyone. I will give in, I thought. I will be polite and charming. I will explain that I have come from far away. I will tell him that I have dreamed of seeing the courtyard of my childhood. And maybe I’ll be lucky, and that character won’t be at home? Today’s a working day… and women… they are definitely gentler.
This time I didn’t ring the bell. I pleased myself by knocking hard on the gate. The rattling sound echoed between the walls.
I was out of luck again. The owner was at home. He opened the door. This time he wasn't wearing that shabby undershirt. He was wearing a suit and tie, but he refused to change the expression on his face. Well, he probably couldn't, even if he wished to.
He interrupted my eloquent explanation decisively and quickly. "So, what is it? You’re from America? I asked you not to come here again."
And the door in the gate was slammed in my face, obviously for good.
Chapter 7. “(I am back in my) hometown, so familiar I want to cry…”
(Osip Mandelshtam)
“Welcome to Chirchik.” The stone plaque with the graying inscription stood on the hillock near the small bridge just as before. The Troitsky borough, the first one at the edge of town seemed different. Once it was bustling with life, with people dashing back and forth in every direction. Now it was somewhat quiet and deserted, as if frozen in anticipation of the arrival of a long night. We overtook a bus. It was shabby, dusty, lop-sided as if it was about to fall over. No wonder. People were packed into it like sardines in a can. The bus crawled along slowly like a caterpillar that had had too much to eat. I had enough time to hear it groaning. “Poof-poof,” it went, as if trying to say, "I’m doing my best, I’m working, it’s just that I’m too old.”
The tall chimney of the chemical factory could be seen in the distance. It looked the same as before, but no, something was different. Excuse me! Where’s the smoke, the thick yellow poisonous column of smoke that used to shoot up into the sky? It wasn't there. It meant that the immortal sleepless factory had collapsed, and there, behind the long fence still topped with barbed wire, everything was dead. To tell you the truth, I was not in the least sorry about the demise of the factory.
Streets flashed by. They were familiar, but somewhat alien at the same time – Theatre Street, Pushkin, Lenin… And there he was himself on the pedestal. The same overly concerned gaze directed somewhere above the trees. His body was bent forward, and he was pointing at the horizon with his hand, calling upon his confederates to march toward the bright future… Had I really lived here? Yes, I certainly had, for I knew everything, down to the smallest details, every nook and cranny. Why did it feel like I had only been here as a tourist?
The engine of our car was laboring intensely, roaring as we drove uphill, to the spot where the Chirchik River flowed under the bridge. It sparkled so brightly under the sun at its zenith that pain flashed through my eyes and I had squint. Then something very pleasant appeared in the semidarkness as seen through my slightly open lids. I even heard the familiar voices…
"Don’t be afraid! Jump!" the kids yelled, trying to be heard over the noise of the rushing water. I was standing close to the bank up to my waist in water and didn't dare jump. From the beginning of the bridge I had to swim to its middle support; that was the swimming rule. The icy mountain water was burning my skin. I swayed under the pressure, which was so powerful that I would have to swim back almost against the current. Otherwise, I would be carried away below the bridge. I jumped… And I didn’t remember anything else. I must have swum desperately, resisting the mighty and indifferent force of the water. It was possible that one of the kids picked me out of the water as I tried to swim by… I just remember that I was awfully frightened. At last I understood why people were not allowed to swim there. Quite a few daredevils like me and my friends had drowned there. But my fear was receding, it was letting me go, and my joy was becoming stronger. “I wasn't a chicken. I swam, I’m still one of the gang.”
Finally, we approached the settlement of Yubileyny (Jubilee). It was still very spacious, with even more greenery than before – there were more trees. But what had happened to the “Oktyabr” (October) movie theater? Why were the theater windows covered up? And the glass on the entrance door was cracked. And the poster boards were empty. They must have closed the theater… How sad.
And at last… there was our building, number 15. After getting out of the car, I first looked at the third panel from the ground on our building. No, I didn’t imagine it. There were distinct marks – round marks of clay exactly at the spots at which we, the guys, had been throwing balls of clay the last time.
It was quiet all around. I was listening very closely. Something was missing, some habitual sounds… Ah, I knew – I didn’t hear the babbling of water, that quiet tune that had sounded from spring to autumn, day in and day out. But the ariks were silent on that summer day.
The soccer field… its net was gone, the pavilion was lopsided, and its roof full of holes. Steam heating pipes hung at a height of three yards along the entire length of the street. They looked horrible, with their decayed casings hanging from them. And the kitchen garden! It had been abandoned and overgrown by weeds. The natural green fence expanded, the shrubs' branches sticking out in all directions. The poor old tree stood forlornly, its branches broken, dents like wounds along its trunk. Even the bench near the entrance had become an invalid – its back was missing.