Forelock’s neatness amused and angered Yura and me. Grandma Lisa always set him as an example for us at the table.
But today, something else engaged me.
First, Forelock pretended not to notice me, as if he were alone at the table, eating to his heart’s content. Then, my staring must have begun to irritate him. Really, I should have felt guilty and sat with my eyes cast down, but I stared at him instead.
Now, Forelock didn’t look calm anymore. He began to fidget, to bend like a tom cat before a fight, turning first toward the table, then to the left and right. He acted high and mighty: that was how Yura and I described Chief’s attempt to look fearsome.
Robert acted high and mighty with the help of his moustache. His moustache was short and stiff; there was nothing noteworthy about it. But when Robert got angry, he first lowered his upper lip, then began to raise it slowly and bare his teeth, and his moustache stirred and bristled, and reminded one of a shoebrush.
Looking fearsome, Robert at last looked at me and pronounced:
“I’ll call your father today. Let him take you home.”
My Father… But even that couldn’t scare me. Obviously, I was seized by something like Yura’s reckless courage. Besides, I had noticed something funny on the face of my beloved uncle. How come I hadn’t noticed it before? On his forehead, above his eyebrows, there was a red spot the size of a five-kopeck coin.
Well done, Yura!
Without taking my eyes off Forelock, I chuckled and moved the butter bowl closer. “Call him, call.”
Robert jumped up from the table and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
“Well, shall we climb up there?”
Yura had finished breakfast long before and was waiting for me in the part of the yard where he wouldn’t catch Forelock’s eye. He must have already caught hell from his father, but Yura was accustomed to that. Now, the adults had left, and Yura was impatient to get down to business. He had suggested to me many times that we raid the neighbor’s apricot tree. Its branches, decked with ripe apricots, could be seen behind the back wall of the house, where our part of the house used to be and where Robert and his wife lived now.
Why did we need those apricots? We had already eaten too many of ours. But again, Yura reminded me that the neighbor’s apricots were not only bigger than ours but also sweeter and more fragrant.
“Don’t you remember? Are you trying to tell me that you’ve never tasted them?
The neighbor’s apricot tree grew squeezed between the wall and a cow pen. It was a mystery how it managed to grow in such a tight shady place, but the tree had grown, towering over the roof, and it had many branches and bore plenty of apricots. It was, naturally, visible from our yard. The neighbor’s apricot tree couldn’t compete with ours, in either size or abundance of fruits. No tree could compete with our apricot tree. It’s funny even to think about it.
One could climb onto the roof of the hammom using the ladder that was kept at the wall behind the trestle bed, but Yura and I were not going to do that. It would be silly to have such a noticeable thing as the ladder in full view. Besides, the hammom wasn’t tall, and the apricot tree grew next to it. Holding the thick lower branches with your hands, you could begin to climb the wall of the hammom, gradually assuming a horizontal position. You stepped as high as you could, then grabbed a higher branch, and off you would go again. The most difficult thing was the last yank that left you “suspended in the air.” You needed to push off the branch with all your might and throw your body into the roof. Gosh! And then you were on the roof.
The roof of the hammom was made of tarred roofing paper. Now, it was covered with a compact colorful spread: dried apricots. Grandma’s vigilant eyes had missed the roof for some reason; no one cleaned it. Apricots were gradually drying in the hot Asian sun and becoming so sweet and viscous that they stuck to your teeth. We ended the first leg of our journey with a small feast.
The roof of the hammom was like a royal table set for birds, gnats and ants. No one could bother them here. No one would throw a stone at them or try to catch them. A cat could have climbed to the roof, but cats weren’t interested in fruit. Come flying and crawling and eat as much as you like. That’s how it happened: there were plenty of pits thoroughly nibbled at and apricots that had been pecked.
We easily climbed onto the neighbor’s roof – the house was just a meter higher than our hammom. Unfortunately, the roof, covered with sheet metal, rumbled terribly. Even though the metal sheets weren’t thin, they sagged under our feet and caused a booming sound similar to a pistol shot. But that din definitely amused us. When you ran across the roof, you could hear takh-takh-takh! like a real burst of submachine gun fire. It was a lot of fun for us, though it was hardly any fun for those in the house. Their eardrums popped.
And if you got onto the roof without permission, you could get into trouble. Grandma Lisa would walk onto the porch the moment she heard a suspicious noise overhead. Rubbing her lower back with one hand, she held the handle of the door firmly with the other. To view the roof, she had to stretch so that it seemed she became taller, stick out her head and ask, “Ki bood vai?” It’s interesting. I thought, if Grandma was afraid it was a thief on the roof, did she expect him to answer her? Did she really think that all thieves in Tashkent spoke her language?
Grandma listened for a long time, then began to look over the yard. After making sure that Yura and I could not be seen in the yard, she figured out who made the roof rumble. At that point, her pose relaxed, the expression of fear disappeared, and Grandma Lisa loudly expressed her opinion about boys who behaved outrageously on the roof, destroying it, scaring people and subjecting their lives to mortal danger.
After we had been caught a couple times, we learned to walk noiselessly on the roof, without making a single “shot.” One had to walk slowly and carefully, trying to step only on the joints between the metal sheets. In a word, it required great skill. This time, we made that difficult walk and found ourselves above the yard of our neighbor Samik.
It was a real Uzbek yard. It could have been successfully exhibited at any agricultural show under this name. Why agricultural? Because the vegetable garden in this yard, which wasn’t big, a bit bigger than Grandpa’s, was wonderful, simply exemplary. Tomato plants supported by sticks formed trim rows. The tomatoes, which protruded in all directions, were so big and meaty that it seemed the supports wouldn’t hold up. The cucumber rows looked just as good. Hot peppers and different greens for salad – they knew edible plants and herbs well in Uzbekistan – were lush and abundant and filled the yard with tasty scents.
Samik also had cattle, a cow and a fierce black bull. The neighbors also valued the bull very highly. Perhaps it was a good stud, and Samik was eager to increase his herd.
When we played on the street, we often saw Samik take his bull to graze on the banks of the Anhor. He would tie a thick rope around the bull’s mighty neck in place of a leash. It either irritated the bull or, as he reached the street, he was intoxicated with the hope of escape, but when outside, the bull began to bustle about, snort and try to rid himself of the hated rope. He lowered his head, his eyes growing red.
Muscular Samik would pull on the rope with all his might, trying to keep the bull close to the wall. The bull would resist, also with all his might. Usually, when they reached the grass, the bull would get distracted and calm down, maybe imagining that he was already free. But here, on the lane, he continued to rant, snort, kick and try to butt Samik.