Now, he had forgotten about the stain and tried to quiet Emma, and the only way he knew how to do it was with the help of a slap.
Emma had grown up, and it had been a long time since Father had allowed himself to spank much less slap her. He loved Emma and treated her with particular kindness. He was proud that his daughter was a member of his special basketball group. But now he was in a state of blind rage.
“Don’t beat me!” Emma screeched even more loudly.
That’s when I stepped between them.
“Put your hand down,” I said. I said it calmly. Surprisingly, I felt calm at that moment, for the first time ever.
Father and I looked into each other’s eyes for a few moments. His eyes, absolutely mad, and his mouth widening more and more. “He’ll now yell and punch me,” I thought. But Father said in an almost normal voice, “Move away.”
I shook my head. Father was panting, but the rage in his eyes disappeared. Suddenly, he chuckled, lowered his hand… and left.
He was gone. Emma and I looked at each other without saying anything. She sniffled one last time and, bending over the sink, began washing her tear-stained face.
Chapter 60. Something Has Changed
There was a very simple thought that didn’t cross my mind for quite a long time. I was already a teenager, but adults still seemed a somewhat alien and quite dangerous tribe. Defend yourself, hide, adjust to different situations – that was the basis of relations. Of course, there were exceptions: Mama, for example. But Mama was Mama, and age was not the point. Or a queer bird like the artist at the movie theater whom we had visited when we were kids. In such cases, we would forget that they were adults. We separated a person we liked from the group of people. We considered such a person an exception, and that made the person one of us. But that rarely happened. On the contrary, the older we got, the… However, is it really necessary to explain how teenagers think of adults?
But sometimes our notions can change in a matter of minutes.
I was home from school. There was Mama, sitting with an unfamiliar woman at the kitchen table.
“Meet our relative from Samarkand,” Mama announced joyfully. What’s there to be joyful about? We had plenty of relatives, and here was yet another one…
“The new relative,” the stranger said with laughter, as if she had guessed my thoughts. She held out her hand to me and introduced herself, “Zoya Koknareyeva.” Naturally, I smiled, pretending I was pleased to meet her, but I wasn’t pleased at all. Instead of eating peacefully and attending to my affairs, I would have to sit listening to boring stories about relatives I didn’t even know. And this Zoya had an intense, piercing gaze, like a teacher. Would she begin to ask questions about my school progress and grades? Was it her business?
But Zoya asked me something quite different. She asked me whether I had ever been to Samarkand. I remember that I soon forgot about my soup, which was getting cold, and listened to her talk about excavations near Samarkand where archeologists had been searching for the remains of the ancient capital. And I was asking her questions, one after another… The next day – our new relative stayed overnight – Zoya and I became friends. I didn’t notice how it happened. I didn’t feel awkward or bored; I didn’t have to pretend or lie – all those things that usually happened when talking to adults. Zoya talked to me about rock-n-roll, about the Klondike Gold Rush, about books it turned out we both liked and reread often. And she talked about it all with such interest that it seemed that she was also fifteen, not between thirty and forty. We both cursed our irksome teachers and gossiped about parents who considered their grown-up sons and daughters to be little kids.
Yes, it happened very fast. It seemed that, for the first time in my life, I wanted to learn about an adult, an unfamiliar woman, Zoya, what she was, how she lived. And I also wanted to tell her everything about myself and my friends… But when could I do it? She might leave the next day. Fortunately, the new relative promised to stay with us for a week. I was glad, and I was also surprised that Father had nothing against it. I didn’t remember anyone staying at our place for even a day… It meant that Zoya had managed to find common ground with him…
When I learned that she wasn’t married, I was upset for some reason. At first, her face and her intense gaze seemed unpleasant. Only a bit later did I notice her slight sweet smile and the big birthmark near her nose, just like Mama’s. I also had two of them on my left cheek. It meant that there were similarities in our faces. In a word, I now thought that our Zoya deserved the greatest love, but she lived with her sister and mama, who was old and blind.
We sat talking into the evening. Zoya was telling me something funny. She was laughing, but I felt anxiety mixed with surprise and pity. She was unhappy, I thought. Her life hadn’t turned out right, and what is life without love? Women like her were called “old maids.” Then why was she so bubbling with life?
I couldn’t contain myself any longer and asked, “Why aren’t you married?”
“Somehow it didn’t work out,” Zoya answered. “Mama’s been ill for many years, and now she’s blind. It keeps my sister and me… very busy. Do you see?”
I nodded. Very busy – that was easy to understand. My compassion for her became even stronger. Now, I was absolutely sure that Zoya had been deprived of happiness. From what source did she draw that joy and energy? What an amazing woman!
As I was pondering her fate, the “amazing woman” tapped me on the shoulder.
“Look here… Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No… Well, yes, but… We don’t even go to the movies together.”
And here I lost control of myself. I told her everything about my long, very timid and strange love. I had never told anyone about it. I had never been so frank. And after I had done it, that barrier collapsed. After I had revealed everything, I asked this person who had become my friend, “Why is it like that? Why?”
Zoya was silent for a while, then sighed and said softly, “You know, I don’t dare to judge. Perhaps, you both were very timid, two very timid kids… And then you got used to it and couldn’t change it. You couldn’t overcome it. It happens. Ah, it’s not simple. It happens to many people. Believe me, Valery.”
I did believe her, but how could I forget about the boys and girls for whom it worked out just fine?
Here, my new friend tapped me on the shoulder again.
“Listen, perhaps you need to figure out whether you’re still in love with Larisa or if it has just become a habit for you… If you’d like, I can introduce you to a girl, a great girl… You’ll like her… Her name is Ella. She’s also my relative. You can become friends. That would be nice. Shall I?”
Well, such “matchmaking” would be considered indecent in the families of Bucharan Jews who were more orthodox than our family. In Orthodox families, young people were introduced to each other by adults with the sole purpose of marrying them off. But our family didn’t stick to the old traditions. And Zoya obviously understood that.
“Well?”
I was a little scared but glad. Even though I didn’t like any girls but Larisa in our class, girls, I must admit, engaged my imagination all the time. And now, I was about to meet a girl… if Zoya wasn’t deceiving me.
Zoya didn’t deceive me. In a few days, we approached the house where Ella lived.
I stepped through the gate into the yard and felt as if I were in our old yard in Tashkent. It was just as cozy and green. A small dense grapevine was spread over a grate above the cement courtyard. Green and dark red grape vines wound around the rods of the grate, hanging down from them. There was a clay duval, just like Grandpa’s, in the yard with tables and benches near it. A dog barked at us, just as Jack would… And the sounds of a piano could be heard from the one-story house at the far corner of the yard.