Hiding under the blanket, we didn’t notice right away that the light had gone on in the house. The part of the yard nearest to us turned into a stage. The speechless spectators could be seen there: Uncle Misha and Aunt Valya, Grandma Lisa in a long nightgown and Grandpa Yoskhaim in his nightcap, and Mariya, whose shadow with protruding belly rested on the spot of light in the middle of the yard where Robert bustled about, yelling and raising his hands to the sky. He was the only actor on whom all eyes were fixed.
Robert ran back and forth, not noticing the spectators, not realizing that he was trampling the silhouette of his wife and future offspring, until he fixed his eyes on his parents, who were examining their son closely. Chief stopped and fell silent. Then, the stern voice of Uncle Misha was heard from the window across the yard:
“Why are you yelling? Is there a fire? Or thieves in the house?”
“Fire! Thieves!” Chief shrieked. “This lousy child is worse than any thieves! He’s behaved like a hoodlum all night! Your son! He was throwing things at me…”
“Oh, my, and you’ve been yelling ‘Help!’ You’ve woken everyone up. Do you want to call the police?”
And Uncle Misha slammed the window and moved away. The light went off in his house.
Either chuckling or coughing was heard from Grandpa’s porch, but Grandpa had already covered his mouth with his hand, pretending that he was touching his beard. He said “Ah, shaitan, shaitan [devil]” quietly. At least that’s what I thought I heard. It sounded quite tender, and it definitely didn’t apply to his son. Then, Grandpa moved away. Grandma Lisa followed him. It was amazing that she had not stood up for her son.
Robert and Mariya whispered something to each other on the empty stage and went into the house. Only Yura and I stayed on the trestle bed. The artistic director and protagonist of the show, whom no one appreciated, stayed under the blanket, choking with laughter and pinching me in the arm.
Cicadas could be heard again. And the stars looked down as calmly as before, twinkling with their thousand golden eyes.
Chapter 52. It’s Sweeter from Someone Else’s Tree
We woke up too early the next morning. The hot sun confused us: we thought it was quite late and the adults had already gone about their business. But it was not to be! We parted. Yura walked to his door, and I ran to our house. Grandpa appeared on the porch after throwing the curtain aside from the open door.
“Hey, wait!” he shouted to Yura. “Wait, shaitan [devil]!” Yura stopped.
“You shouldn’t hurt your uncle,” Grandpa said loudly so that everybody in the house heard him. “Ah, you, shaitan, shaitan.”
As he said that, he glanced at me, and I saw that his eyes were laughing. But when I smiled in response, Grandpa drew his brows together and shook his finger at me.
After fulfilling his duty, Grandpa Yoskhaim threw his knapsack over his shoulder and shuffled to the gate, and I, happy that everything had worked out, shouted after him, like in the old days:
“Grandpa, bring ice cream… Vanilla, please.”
“And sorbet!” Yura shouted.
Grandpa disappeared through the gate. He was lucky, and I would most likely have an encounter with Forelock. He was still having breakfast at his mother’s. His wife liked to sleep late in the morning. I lingered at the front door, but I didn’t want to miss breakfast. Ah, what would be would be.
I was right. Robert sat alone at the breakfast table. He was pouring tea for himself. And Grandma Lisa sat on the couch with her legs, which didn’t reach the floor, crossed.
“Take a seat… Everything’s on the table.”
Trying not to look at Chief, I took Grandpa’s seat. Kir-k, kir-k, squeaked his chair, in greeting.
I had noticed that the chairs and many other objects in the house were somewhat like their owners. They acquired the similarity gradually, not right away, but how they did it was a mystery. The older an owner was, and the object as well, the more pronounced the similarity was. Sometimes it was so great that I wondered: was it possible that I was the only one to notice it?
The chairs at the dinner table in the living room always evoked those thoughts. Those dark-brown chairs were very old and durable. Their durability, by the way, was also an indication of their similarity to their owners. Besides, those chairs were very squeaky, and the squeaking of each one was amazingly similar to its owner’s voice. I remember very well how I first noticed the similarity and how it entertained me. Grandpa’s chair squeaked pompously in a bass register. Grandma’s chair squeaked clearly, with a shade of constant discontent. Robert’s chair squeaked in measured tones, not loudly but persistently.
The chairs squeaked not only because of their venerable age. Their backs were very cozy: the high arc of the thin rim was supported by a concave crosspiece, from the middle of which a round stick ran down to the seat. It wasn’t clear why, but everybody who sat down on the chairs wanted to rub their back against the crosspiece, which was on the level of their shoulder blades, and against the stick. The chair would naturally begin to sway and squeak. And that happened day after day, year after year. Before you noticed it, the chairs began to squeak in their owners’ voices.
I sat down and examined the table – what was for breakfast? – and I certainly glanced at Robert. He sat to my left, with his face to the window and, not considering me worthy of his attention, stirred the sugar in his tea bowl. The bowl was big, with white fluffy cotton balls scattered across a dark-blue background. Such a pattern on tea bowls was very popular in Uzbekistan. After stirring the sugar thoroughly and slowly, Forelock began to make a sandwich. He did it very diligently and with great concentration, as if building a hammom. He picked up a slice of whole wheat bread and covered it with a very thin layer of butter, so thin it was almost transparent. He spread the butter very neatly so that the whole surface of the bread was evenly covered with butter. After Forelock checked the quality of his work, he covered the slice with another layer of butter. That layer was a little thicker. And, finally, a third layer of butter completed the construction of the sandwich, which was ideally smooth and appetizing. To achieve that effect, Robert usually waited patiently for the butter taken out of the fridge to soften.
To tell the truth, Chief’s sandwich looked wonderful. Just looking at it, one felt hungry.
There were many tasty things on the table: five-minute eggs, cheese, flatbreads, my favorite cherry preserves with pits. But the sandwich made by Forelock seemed the tastiest of all. I had experienced it many times before. Usually, when Forelock noticed that I wanted to join him, he would move a bowl of butter closer to me and suggest, “What are you waiting for? Go ahead.” Today he was silent, still looking out the window. All right, I thought, and moved the butter closer. I poured some tea, took a bite of my sandwich and, feeling very bold, looked Robert in the face.
My sandwich also turned out very tasty.
We chewed and sipped, chewed and sipped for some time, and I continued to look at my uncle.
Oo-oo-p could be heard each time he sipped his tea because the tea was hot and because Robert enjoyed it. His swollen nostrils, drawn-together eyebrows and squinting eyes also expressed his delight. Even his hair, combed back, thoroughly smoothed out, shiny as if licked, radiated satisfaction.
Forelock was very tidy, just like his mother, in everything that concerned his clothes, hair and nails, which were always trimmed. His neatness was especially manifest at meals. He always put his bread on a separate little plate. He placed his teaspoon against the edge of the saucer. Neither the food nor the utensils Forelock used ever touched the oilcloth. He used a special knife to get butter from the butter bowl.