I was sure of this because I visited them often. Sometimes while I was visiting, I would see Kolya sitting, peeved, his cheeks flushed as his father gave him a talking to but without yelling or angry cursing. Not to mention our mama, who often had to reprimand us but was never insulting or scary.
Perhaps Father thought that he was very caring and was bringing us up like a real teacher.
When I was a first grader, he helped me with my homework throughout the school year. I could easily manage without his help in the second grade, and I was a good student.
But he continued to follow my achievements closely and asked me how things were every day. Obviously, my good grades flattered his vanity. He could brag about them when he was among colleagues.
“So, how was school, Valery?” he asked, entering my room. “Tell me.”
“Everything’s fine,” I answered.
“That’s my boy. Let me see your report card.”
I turned cold. I had no place to hide. I gave him my report card. Father leafed through it and came to today’s page. His face grew gloomy, his eyebrows merged, his lips pursed, his nose hung lower over his mouth like an eagle’s beak. He slammed the report card shut and said sharply:
“Lie down!”
“What?” I asked, getting up from the desk slowly.
“I said, lie down on your bed.”
“Papa, forgive me. I’ll never do…”
“You’ve already promised many times… To the bed, quickly!” He said, taking off his belt.
I lay down, crying. Father had beaten me with his belt before, but he had never made me lie down.
The belt hissed. I felt a burning pain, screamed and placed my hands on my bottom. That didn’t help. The blows fell one after another. It probably hurt my hands more than my swollen flogged bottom. I wiggled, screamed, asked for forgiveness, and when I turned back, I saw his fierce implacable face etched with spite above me.
Suddenly, the beating stopped.
“Now you won’t wriggle anymore.”
Father walked out of the room but returned right away. I didn’t even have time to dry my tear-stained face.
He bent over me, grabbed me by the hands and tied them to the head of the bed. Then he tied my feet.
“Now you’ll lie without tossing.”
And again, the belt began to hiss, harder and faster. Father’s face became so scary that I was afraid to look back – his eyes were bloodshot, his hair stuck together, saliva on his lips. It seemed he was saying something about teaching me a lesson. But I couldn’t distinguish the words. All I could hear was his hoarse, angry voice. I was so tired that I couldn’t cry, I just sniffled and winced.
Suddenly, the beating stopped. I heard someone knocking on the front door. Father went to open, and in a moment, I heard his calm, almost merry voice.
“Oh, it’s you, Edem. Come on in. Your friend is in his room. Go have a look at him… Talk to him.”
Chapter 24. In the Old House
I opened my eyes and stretched. It was rather dark in the room. A slight reflection of sunlight on the wall streamed through the cracked door. The light was on in the kitchen. Whispering, light as rustling, could be heard from there. And then I suddenly remembered that it was vacation time, and I was not at home but in the old house in Tashkent.
Vacation! There were neither textbooks, nor reprimands, nor hours spent in the classroom under the stern gaze of a teacher, nor any other school problems. It was a great time to enjoy myself. As usual, I was spending vacation in Tashkent at Grandpa and Grandma’s, Papa’s parents, which meant that I spent time with Yura.
This was the first night I would spend in the old house. For some reason, I slept, not on a comfortable couch, but with Grandpa in his bed.
No matter what Grandpa did, he did it in a very special way, even when he went to bed, slowly and with good grace. He put on his pajamas and wrapped a scarf around his shaved head. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and said his prayer or, perhaps, goodnight wishes to his soul. Finally, he scratched his belly lightly.
I saw him do it a hundred times, but still, the sound it produced surprised me every time – kirr-kirrrk, kir-r-rk-rik-rk. It seemed that the skin on his belly wasn’t soft, but rather like the skin of a drum, and that explained the faint grinding. A drum was empty inside, but you couldn’t say that about Grandpa’s belly. His belly was quite big, but you wouldn’t call it a paunch, though it was very hairy.
I tried to figure out his secret many times – how he managed to produce such ringing scratching. First, I tried scratching my own belly, with unsatisfactory results. I even tried it on Yura’s belly, but that didn’t work either. I scratched his belly severely. Naturally, we fought, but later I explained to him that I hadn’t done it for fun but rather to find the answer to an important question.
In the end, I thought I understood it. Before scratching, Grandpa Yoskhaim inhaled deeply so that the skin on his belly stretched like the skin of a drum. After that, he would begin to work it hard with his strong fingers, which were twisted out of shape. I certainly couldn’t have such a belly, even if I inhaled with all my might, nor such fingers. So how could I possibly produce that grinding sound?
Only after scratching to his heart’s content was he ready to fall asleep.
That’s how it was that night. After yawning with pleasure, Grandpa climbed into bed. “Good night, Valery,” I heard. Before I could answer, I heard his snoring. Grandpa Yoskhaim would fall asleep instantly – either he was too exhausted after a day of work or it was something about his body, but he fell asleep the moment he closed his eyes.
Grandpa usually slept on his back, with a blanket pulled over his head. But that night, perhaps in honor of my visit, he pulled the blanket only up to his chin… unfortunately.
Grandpa’s snoring, like the sound of his scratching, was something special. It was a rhythmic, powerful, mounting rumble, a rumble that made the blanket, the pillow, the mattress and the bed shake. The bed’s shaking wouldn’t be too bad, but it would feel like the whole room was filled with the vibrating rumble.
Staring into the darkness, I lay between Grandpa and the wall. “Good-night,” I thought mournfully. “What good night could it possibly be?”
Meanwhile, another sound was added to Grandpa’s mighty snoring. Another instrument joined the orchestra – Grandpa’s lips began to play their part. They trembled like leaves at strong gusts of wind, and flapped, and puffed – pykh-pykh… pfykh-pfykh… Leaning my elbow against the pillow, I tried to make out Grandpa’s face. I was curious to see how it looked. How could this sleeping man stir and smack his lips? But in the darkness, I could only manage to see the edge of the white duvet cover and the general contour of Grandpa’s face.
Grandpa’s beard always drew attention to this elder of the Yuabov family. His beard was quite proper, beautiful and fluffy. At the same time, it wasn’t heavy. I would even call it lively. The beard on his face appeared to perform the role of conductor, guiding his facial expressions like an orchestra. It moved merrily up and down when he talked. It expanded like widespread arms when he smiled. At meals, when he was chewing, his beard, swinging slightly, kept the rhythm and warned, “Don’t hurry… Andante… Moderato… Don’t break the rhythm… Legato… One-two-three, one-two-three.” When Grandpa was silent and pensive, his beard rested on his chest looking calm and dignified… It was time for intermission… But the conductor was always ready to work.
Grandpa liked it when I stroked his beard or scratched it lightly, even when I pulled it gently. And that occupation, which we both enjoyed, had become a kind of game, even a ritual.
I would touch Grandpa’s neck under his chin and begin to scratch his grey hair slowly and gently. The soft hair caressed my hand, the beard obeyed me by either stretching out or wrapping around my fingers. And Grandpa was blissfully happy. He would raise his head a bit and tilt it to the side, as if he were in a barber’s chair, positioning himself so that it would be comfortable for the master to serve him, and all his features – brows, eyes, lips – relaxed and expressed delight.