And once, as we were told, he had succeeded. Poor Samik had to stay in bed for a week. Everything worked out, but our stubborn neighbor continued to take the bull to the grass.
The bull behaved more calmly in the yard. Standing under the eaves near the back wall of our house, it stared straight ahead, a dull and sleepy look on its face, perhaps dreaming of the possibility of butting someone.
At least, that was the impression I had every time we stopped by to see the neighbor’s children.
We usually saw the cow standing on a leash in the yard. She was always chewing something. Saliva flew down from her lips. Now and then, the cow began to moo, her neck outstretched, head raised and tail beating her sides. She mooed so long and plaintively as if she were the unhappiest and most victimized cow in the world.
But her owners didn’t share this belief, and they were right. They took good care of the bull and the cow, fed them well and kept them clean. Manure was piled at one of the walls and, after it dried, it was used to fertilize the vegetable garden and fruit trees.
It’s no surprise that everything there grew like leavened dough.
The family had many children, but Yura and I were only acquainted with three of Samik’s sons – Salahuddin, Nigmat and Pakkiy, who were our age. We weren’t close friends; we just played together from time to time. We knew what was happening at the neighbors’ quite well by the sounds we heard from their yard. Those were the sounds that usually woke us up when Yura and I slept under the apricot tree.
Their yard came to life at the crack of dawn. The morning started with the ringing voice of Samik’s wife preparing breakfast in the outdoor kitchen, the rhythmic clatter of her knife against a cutting board, the clinking of dishes.
Then the sound of an axe chopping was heard: one of the sons was chopping firewood. The sound wasn’t sharp; it was muted, coming from the other end of the yard, but we, for some reason, couldn’t hear the voice of Samik’s wife over that noise.
When the firewood chopping was over, it became so quiet that we could hear onions frying in a skillet and butter crackling.
Then a spatula was heard lightly banging against the skillet, and the tempting scent of something frying reached our nostrils.
“Pakkiy! Nigmat! Everybody to the table!’’ the mother called.
Then, such a ringing of voices and clanking of bowls and spoons was heard, such aromas wafted over, that Yura and I jumped out of bed and raced to wash our hands and faces so we could have our breakfast as soon as possible.
I liked that harmonious family. Yura also liked them, but that didn’t prevent us from performing raids on Samik’s apricot tree. I think Yura considered it partly his because the apricot tree was so close. We could see it from our yard, and it was possible to pick its fruits from our territory, from the roof of the hammom.
Two years earlier, Samik had noticed that that tree in particular began to bear less fruit. Obviously, at the same time, he noticed well-nibbled pits on the ground under the tree. And after he saw Yura on the roof a few times, he didn’t have any doubts about it.
Unlike Yura, Samik didn’t want to consider this property a joint venture, and he went to visit Uncle Misha. Yura was given a talking to and swore he would never again climb onto the roof, but… Is it possible to list all the vows my cousin has broken?
We lay, pressing our stomachs against the very edge of the roof, and looked over Samik’s yard. It seemed that there was nobody in the yard but the chewing cow. We could hear the bull stomping under the overhang at the wall, but we couldn’t see it.
The branches of the apricot tree stretched very close to us. There was no fruit on the nearest one – Yura had been here more than once. If we could stand up to our full height, it would be easy to reach a branch on which round, golden-yellow apricots were shining. But we couldn’t stand up. We had to reach the apricots lying down.
Yura was the first to begin. Lying on his back, he slowly pulled on the nearest branch, which he had grabbed after raising himself slightly. He pulled and pulled, gradually becoming covered with rustling foliage. Yura crossed his legs and gripped the end of the branch between them. Then he grabbed another branch and pulled it up so that we could pick the apricots.
“Pick them. Be careful,” he said in a hoarse voice from under the branches.
Lying down, I stretched out my hand, my head – like Yura’s – stuck out beyond the edge of the roof, but I couldn’t reach them. I stretched out, taut as a string, as if turning into the pole that we used in our yard to knock apricots off the tree. I stretched and stretched. Not just my hand and head but almost half of my thigh was now beyond the edge of the roof. I got carried away. I wasn’t even afraid of falling.
“Pull it, pull it,” I whispered to Yura.
“Pick them, pick them. I can’t hold the branches any longer.”
But he nonetheless continued to pull them, back and forth, back and forth… The branch bent and swayed, and I grabbed an apricot. The cool, round, heavy apricot was in my hand. There was another one next to it on the branch, and I picked it too. And more, and more… That was a good branch.
“That’s it. Let them go.”
The branches rustled and returned to their proper place.
Sweaty, tired and excited, we crawled from the edge of the roof, covered with torn-off leaves, and made ourselves comfortable, even though the metal roof had already become very hot in the sun.
We were terribly thirsty. I smelled a dense yellow-red apricot with pleasure. Oh, what a scent it had. I sank my teeth into its juicy pulp. And Yura, who did everything faster than I, had almost finished eating his first apricot, smacking his lips.
“They will soon have a holiday,” he said sucking a pit. “They’ll probably be away for the whole day. Shall we?”
I nodded. Of course, it would be even more interesting to climb up the neighbor’s tree. And it would be simpler.
Yura giggled, spit out a pit and threw it over his shoulder without looking at the neighbor’s yard.
“Hey! Who’s there? Are you stealing apricots again?” a familiar voice was heard.
It was Samik. Had he sneaked up on us long ago or had the tossed pit given us away – we didn’t give it a thought. We jumped up and rushed to the hammom. The damn roof accompanied each of our jumps with rattling and shooting. I reached the trunk of the apricot tree. As my feet touched the ground, I was about to say something to Yura when I looked at our porch.
Holding the handle of the door with one hand, the other on her hip – a gesture that expressed the utmost degree of anger – there was Grandma Lisa on the porch. Shaking her head, she looked at Yura, who leaned against the trunk of the apricot tree with an independent and impudent look on his face. Then she turned her eyes on me.
Ah, if only I had Yura’s personality.
Chapter 53. “To Keep You Apart…”
Believe it or not, Robert, Yura and I were sitting at the table having a peaceful breakfast at Grandma Lisa’s house. The general atmosphere was actually more than peaceful; we joked, smiled and talked very animatedly. It was quite an unheard-off scene, and not only because of the recent quarrel with Robert. I couldn’t remember an instance when Yura had eaten breakfast at Grandma’s. But now, everything had changed, thanks to the “long-awaited event.” Robert had become a father.
Yes, two days ago, Mariya gave birth to a son; another bogatyr (ethnic hero) became a part of the Yuabov family. Robert was exorbitantly happy and so proud, as if his firstborn were already destined for a great future. Could he possibly remember the silly pranks of his silly nephews? We had been forgiven, the night show in the yard forgotten.