We ate and rested in the shade. The sky was like a huge blue tea bowl inverted over us. The air was crystal clear. Everything we saw –sky, trees, river, mountain slopes – was very distinct, down to the last small detail. Goats were grazing on the closest mountain, very near the top. “Mountain goats. Only they can go that high,” our driver explained.
The mountain was so steep that its slope was almost vertical… Horses were neighing close to the river in that small peaceful valley. The river was wider there, shallow, quiet and transparent. Pebbles on its bottom sparkled in the sun's rays. Mama looked at the water, squinting.
It was time to continue our journey. The mountains whirled around us, retreated, disappeared from view, as we descended ever lower, and the Fergana Valley opened up before us. It seemed especially bright and hospitable after the beautiful yet wild and severe mountain landscapes. It was impossible to tear our eyes away from the generous beauty of the plenty created by human hands. Orchards floated along our path. The tree branches were heavy with fruits, like precious stones – rosy peaches and apples… Grapevines twined around small columns… Melon fields filled the air with the delicate aroma of honeydew. It seemed possible to reach out and touch the melons and the huge striped watermelons through the car window… Sunflowers bent their heavy gold-crowned heads. Corn stood like a dark-green solid mass. Emerald cotton fields crisscrossed by canals and roads stretched to the horizon. Villages could be seen – their roofs flashing among slender trees that appeared to reach for the sky.
"I’ve heard," Yakov enlightened me along the way, "that this rich agricultural country was called Davan in ancient times. Now, as you know, the Fergana Valley is divided among three countries – Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. The Uzbeks own more than half of the valley. And people naturally flock here in great numbers. It's quite densely populated. Almost a third of the population of Uzbekistan lives here. And they live nicely, right? They're lucky."
“Lucky they are, but they've toiled really hard for this luck,” I thought, clinging to the car window.
Canals shone like long stripes in the distance. Webs of ariks branched off of them. And all along the canals, one could make out the small figures of people with hoes, opening spigots and crosspieces to allow the water to run into their ariks.
"There are hundreds of canals here," my guide explained. "The water comes from the mountains through the Naryn River and Kara Darya. They flow from the very top of the Tian Shan, from the glaciers, and they converge here in the valley to become the Syr Darya." Yakov pointed somewhere off to the east where most likely that miracle occurred – the birth of the largest river in Asia. "So, there must be enough water for gardening and crops, but I’ve heard that there's not enough drinking water. They have a lot of problems filtering it. Ariks, as you can see, are ancient. They’re the old Asian irrigation and drinking water systems."
Then Yakov finished his story with some unexpected information – we were getting near a dangerous area where the local Tajiks and Meskhet-Turks had been engaged in a bloody feud, though Yakov wasn't worried. "It’s happening farther on, in Tajikistan," he assured us, waving his hand in that direction to demonstrate how distant it was. "It’s quiet on the Uzbek side of the valley."
I told him about the bloody atrocities, unbridled abuse of power, killings not only of children and old people but of fetuses ripped from the wombs of pregnant women that I had heard about on the news. I wanted to understand what was going on there.
"Ethnic discord, Valera," Yakov shrugged. "Fighting over power and land, as usual," he finished sadly.
Meanwhile we were approaching Namangan. There were more people on the road. The atmosphere was more animated, and urban dwellings began appearing on the roadside, the same prefab four-story buildings as in Tashkent, the same shopping centers, so the city didn’t seem distinctive to me, although I wasn’t examining it closely.
Surkhandarya Street was unpaved and dusty. The gate. The courtyard. The garden. The one-story house. We knocked at the gate for a long time. We had covered miles and miles to get here, but perhaps we were not expected, perhaps no one was at home. Then we heard steps – and the door was opened. It was a dark-complexioned middle-aged man, and he was very calm.
"Come right in. I am Mukhitdin Inamovich."
This was an Uzbek home, a real Uzbek home where life continued the habitual way from generation to generation, where footwear was to be left at the front door. It had a cozy living room with a carved ceiling and plinths, and rugs on the floor. On top of the rugs were blankets, on which we sat down, crossing our legs before a distarkhan, a kind of low table, laden with sweets and fruits. We were tired, tense, tortured by the waiting. The only thing we were eager to do was to talk to the healer as soon as possible. But it is easier to move a rock than to break a custom. No one would talk about business with travelers before feeding them. After exchanging greetings, we talked unhurriedly about our families, children, and work. We drank fragrant tea with sweets – that’s how an Asian meal always began. Then the host served soup – shourpa in large bowls, kogas, a very tasty shourpa. In other words, everything took its normal course, and perhaps it was for the best. The exhaustion of the road receded, and tension was eased. There was wisdom in ancient customs.
It was only after the meal that the healer turned to Mother and said, "Let me examine you."
The examination, which happened right in front of us, seemed quite strange to me. The healer didn’t ask Mother to undress. He didn’t take out a stethoscope. He took Mother’s right hand, put his fingers on her wrist and began to feel her pulse… I froze, trying not to breathe. Suddenly he asked, "When did you have an inflammation of the right fallopian tube?"
"Inflamm…," Mother thought for a moment. "I had one about 30 years ago after a miscarriage."
Then the healer was feeling her pulse again. "Something’s wrong with your left breast. When did you have surgery?"
Mama looked at me in surprise. “Does this mean that you've already told the healer everything? When did you get the chance?” I understand from her glance.
"The surgery was about two months ago," she answered.
I remained silent. I was lost, awestruck. I didn’t know how to express it. The thing was that I hadn’t had an opportunity to tell the healer anything, neither on the phone nor today. I hadn't had the chance. I hadn’t talked to him about Mama’s disease – that was it. And suddenly now… I looked around, for the first time, with a strange feeling. Where were we? At the doctor’s for a long-awaited visit? But those words were so closely connected in my mind with a hospital environment, a well-equipped office, white robes, at least. Here there was none of that. Perhaps after this he would take Mother to his hospital, I thought.
He hadn’t done a blood test… no x-ray… This strange healer sat calmly near my mother, his fingers moving lightly around her wrist. He could hear some melody. Beethoven – the name flashed across my mind. Why Beethoven? He was deaf… And this man was not, he wasn’t deaf. We were deaf, the deaf spectators.
"When did your tailbone begin to ache?"
That, I knew myself. Five years ago, Mama slipped and fell on the stairs. She was in pain. Injections had to be administered. The amazing thing was not only that he knew about it but the way he asked the questions. He didn’t ask, “Does you tailbone ache?” He asked, “When did it begin to ache?"