The White Ship (3 page)

But then, even Momun's appearance was not patriarchal, not like an
aksakal's
[note: elder; also, a respectful form of address to an older man]. No slow dignity, no sternness. He was the soul of kindness, and this unprofitable human quality was obvious at first glance. At all times, such people are taught: "Don't be kind, be hard! Take this now, and this! Be hard!" But, to his own misfortune, he remained incorrigibly kind. His face, crisscrossed with wrinkles, was always smiling, and his eyes forever asked: "What do you need? Is there anything you'd like me to do for you? I'll do it in a moment, just tell me what it is . . ."

His nose, shaped like a duck's bill, was soft, as though altogether without bone or gristle. And he was short of stature, a quick little old man, like an adolescent.

Even his beard was nothing but a joke. Two or three reddish hairs on his chin—that was all there was to it. He wasn't at all like some stately old man you might see riding down the road, with a beard like a sheaf of grain, in a great, loose overcoat with a wide lambskin collar and an expensive hat, astride a fine horse, its saddle trimmed with silver. A sage, a prophet, no one would hesitate to bow to such a man, he would be honored everywhere! But old Momun had been born only as the Obliging Momun. Perhaps his only advantage was that he never feared losing face with others. (Did I sit down right? Did I say the right thing, or give the wrong answer, or smile the wrong way, or this, or that?) In this respect, Momun, without suspecting it himself, was extraordinarily fortunate. Many people waste away not so much from disease as from their uncontrollable, devouring passion to show themselves better and more important than they are. (Who doesn't want to be known as clever, worthy, handsome, and at the same time stern, just, and resolute?)

But old Momun was not like that. He was a funny, queer old man, and everybody treated him as just a funny, queer old man.

There was only one thing that could seriously offend Momun—failure to invite him to a family council regarding arrangements for a funeral feast. On such occasions he was deeply distressed and hurt, and not because he had been overlooked—he never decided anything at these councils anyway, he was merely present—but because an ancient obligation had been violated.

Momun had his own sorrows and afflictions, which made him suffer and often cry at night. But outsiders knew nothing about it. Only those closest to him knew.

When Momun saw his grandson near the truck, he sensed at once that the boy was upset over something. But since the salesman was a guest, the old man addressed him first. He quickly jumped down from the saddle and held out both hands to the salesman.

"Assalam aleikum, great merchant!" he said, half seriously, half in jest. "Has your caravan arrived safely, is your trade going well?" All of him beaming, Momun shook the salesman's hand. "How much water has gone by since we last met. Welcome to our parts!"

The salesman smiled tolerantly at his speech and his whole puny figure in the same coarse, worn boots, the same canvas trousers made by the old woman, the shabby jacket, the felt hat, grown rusty with sun and rain. And he answered:

"The caravan is safe. But what does it look like, when the merchant comes to you, and you run off into your fields and valleys? And tell your wives to hold on to their kopeks as to their souls at dying time? A man could show them the best goods in the world, and they won't open up their purses."

"Don't take offense, good man," Momun apologized in confusion. "If we had known you were coming, we wouldn't have left. As for money, what can you do if your pockets are empty? After we sell the potatoes in the fall . . .”

"Go on," the salesman interrupted him. "I know you're as rich as beys. You sit here in your mountains, with all the land, all the hay in the world. Look at those woods—a man can't get across them in three days. You keep livestock? You keep beehives? But when it comes to parting with a kopek, you close your fists. Here, buy a silk quilt . . . Or a sewing machine, I've only one left . . ."

"Truly, we haven't got that kind of money," Momun apologized.

"Tell it to someone else. You're tight, old man, sitting on your money. And what for?"

"No, it's true, I swear by the Horned Mother Deer. . ."

“Here, take some corduroy, you can make yourself new pants."

"I would, I swear by the Horned Mother Deer . . ."

"Ah, what's the good of talking to you?" The salesman waved his hand. "Drove all this way for nothing. And where is Orozkul?"

"Gone since morning. To Aksai, I think. Some business with the shepherds . . ."

"Out visiting, eh?" the salesman said understandingly. There was an awkward pause.

"Don't take offense, dear man," Momun spoke again. "In the autumn, God willing, we'll sell the potatoes. . .”

"It's a long way to autumn."

"Well, no hard feelings. Come in, and have some tea."

"That isn't what I came for," the salesman refused.

He began to close the truck doors, then suddenly he glanced at the grandson who stood near the old man holding the dog by the ear, ready to run after the truck.

"Why not buy him a schoolbag? The kid must be ready for school, no? How old is he?"

Momun immediately seized on the idea. At least he'd buy something from the pestering salesman. Besides, the boy really needed a schoolbag; he'd be starting school next fall.

"You're right," said Momun. "I never thought of that. Certainly, he's seven, going on eight. . . . Come over here," he called to his grandson.

The old man searched through his pockets and found the five ruble note he had stashed away. It must have been lying in his pocket for a long time—all soiled and crumpled.

"Here, roundhead." The salesman winked slyly at the boy, handing him the schoolbag. "You'd better study, now. If you don't learn your ABCs, you'll be stuck for life with grandpa in the mountains."

"He'll learn! He's a smart one," Momun replied, counting the change. Then he glanced at his grandson who was awkwardly clutching the new schoolbag, and pressed him close to himself. "That's good, now. In the fall you'll go to school," he said in a low voice.

The hard, heavy palm of the grandfather gently covered the boy's head. And the boy's throat contracted. He felt sharply the thinness of the old man and the familiar smell of his clothes, a smell of dry hay and the sweat of a hardworking man. True, dependable, his own. Perhaps the only person in the world who doted on him—this simplehearted, funny old man whom idle tongues had nicknamed Obliging Momun. . . . Well, what of it? Whatever he was like, the boy was glad to have his own grandfather.

The boy had never expected to feel such happiness. He had never thought of school before. Until now, he had only seen other children who went to school—out there, in the Issyk-Kul villages beyond the mountains, where he had gone with his grandfather to the funeral feasts of important old Bugans.

From that moment on, the boy never parted from his schoolbag. Triumphant, he ran to show it off to everybody in the settlement. First he took it to grandma—look what grandpa bought me! Then to Aunt Bekey. She was glad to see it, and had some words of praise for the boy as well.

Aunt Bekey was seldom in a good mood. Most of the time, gloomy and irritable, she paid no attention to her nephew. She couldn't be bothered with him. She had her own troubles. Grandma always said that if she had children of her own, she'd be a different woman. And Orozkul, her husband, would be a different man. And then Grandfather Momun would also be a different man, not as he was now. Although Momun had two daughters—Aunt Bekey and her younger sister, the boy's mother—things were still bad. It was had to have no children of your own, but even worse when your children had no children. So grandma said. Try and understand her . . .

After Aunt Bekey, the boy ran over to show the new purchase to Guldzhamal and her daughter. And from there, he hurried to the meadow, to Seidakhmat. Again he dashed past the rusty "camel," and again he had no time to stop and pat his hump; then past the "saddle," the "wolf," the "tank," and on along the riverbank. Up the path through the shrubbery. And then along the mowed strip, until he came to Seidakhmat.

Seidakhmat was alone in the field. Grandpa had long finished mowing his section, and Orozkul's as well. And the hay had already been removed. Grandma and Aunt Bekey had raked it together, Momun had piled it on the wagon, and he boy had helped grandpa, dragging the hay closer to the wagon. They had piled two haystacks by the cowshed. Grandpa had built them so neatly that no rain could penetrate smooth, silky stacks, as though combed down with a fine comb. He did this every year. Orozkul never mowed, he made his father-in-law do everything. He was the chief, after all. If I want to, he would say, I can fire you in a minute. He'd say that to grandpa and to Seidakhmat. When he was drunk. Rut he couldn't really fire grandpa. Who'd do the work? How could he get along without grandpa? There was a lot of work in the woods, especially in the fall. Grandpa always said—the woods are not a flock of sheep, the trees won't wander off. But t hey need as much looking after. In case of fire, or a sudden flood from the mountains, a tree won't jump out of the way, won't leave its spot. It will perish where it stands. That's why you need a forester, to see that the tree doesn't perish. And as for Seidakhmat, Orozkul wouldn't fire him either, because Seidakhmat was a quiet man. He never interfered, he never argued. But though he was a quiet and strong fellow, he was lazy, and he liked to sleep. That was why he had chosen forest work. Grandpa said that on the Soviet farms such fellows drove trucks and plowed the land with tractors. And Seidakhmat let even his own potato patch get overgrown with weeds. Guldzhamal had to take care of the garden herself, with the baby in her arms.

And now Seidakhmat kept putting off the mowing too. Even grandpa had scolded him the other day. "Last winter," he said, "it wasn't you but the beasts I was sorry for. That's why I gave you of my own hay. If you're counting on the old man's hay again, you'd better tell me right now—I'll mow it for you." That really shamed him, and today Seidakhmat had been swinging away with his scythe since early morning.

Hearing quick footsteps behind him, Seidakhmat turned and wiped his face with his sleeve.

"What is it? Does anybody want me?"

"No. But I have a schoolbag. Here. Grandpa bought it. I'll go to school."

"Is that why you came running here?" Seidakhmat laughed. "Your grandpa's a bit that way, you know"—he twirled his finger at his temple—"and you're the same. Come on, now, let me see it." He clicked the lock, turned the schoolbag this way and that, and gave it back to the boy, mockingly shaking his head. "But wait a minute," he cried.

"What school will you go to? Where is it, that school of yours?''

"What do you mean, what school? The Fermen school."

"You mean you'll walk to Dzhelesai?" Seidakhmat asked with wonder. "Why, that's a good five miles across the mountain."

"Grandpa said he'll take me there, on horseback."

"Every day, both ways? The old man's daffy. It's time for him to go to school himself. He'll sit there with you at the desk until the classes are over, and then—back home!" Seidakhmat rolled with laughter. The idea of old Momun sitting with his grandson at the school desk was too funny for words.

The boy stood by, bewildered.

"Oh, I'm only joking," explained Seidakhmat.

He gave him a light fillip on the nose and pulled the visor of grandpa's cap over the boy's eyes. Momun never wore the uniform cap of the Forestry Department. He was too shy: "What am I, some sort of bigwig? I'll never exchange my Kirghiz hat for any other." In summertime, Momun wore an old white felt hat, of the kind that used to be called akkalpak in former times, its brim edged with faded black satin, and in the winter an equally ancient sheepskin hat. He let his grandson wear the green uniform cap of a forester.

The boy was offended at Seidakhmat for making fun of his news. He sullenly pushed the visor of his cap back over his forehead, and when Seidakhmat tried to give him another fillip on the nose, he jerked his head back and snapped at him:

"Leave me alone!"

"Oh, what a sorehead!" Seidakhmat smiled. "Don't mind me. The schoolbag is first-class." And he patted the boy on the shoulder. "And now, scram. I must still mow and mow . . ."

He spat on his hands and picked up the scythe.

The boy ran home along the same path, and again past his stones. This was no time to play with stones. A schoolbag was a serious thing.

The boy was fond of talking to himself. This time, however, he spoke not to himself but to the schoolbag: "Don't believe him, my grandpa isn't like that at all. It's only that he isn't sly, and that's why people make fun of him. Because he's not the least bit sly. He'll take us to school. But you don't even know where the school is. It's not so far, I'll show you. We'll look at it through the binoculars from Outlook Mountain. I'll show you my white ship, too. But first let's go into the barn—that's where I hide my binoculars. I really should be watching the calf, but I always run off to look at the white ship. Our calf's big now, you can't hold him when he pulls. But he's gotten into the habit of suckling the cow. And the cow is his mother, she doesn't grudge him the milk. You understand? Mothers never grudge their children anything. That's what Guldzhamal says, she has her own little girl. . . . They'll milk the cow soon, and we'll take the calf out to pasture. Then we'll climb up Outlook Mountain and see the white ship. I talk like this with the binoculars too, sometimes. Now we'll be three—you, me, and the binoculars."

The boy spoke to his schoolbag as he was returning home. He enjoyed talking to it. He intended to continue the conversation, to tell it more about himself—things it didn't know yet. But he was interrupted. There was a clatter of hooves from the side. A rider on a gray horse emerged from behind the trees. It was Orozkul, who was also going home. The gray stallion, Alabash, whom no one else was allowed to ride, was saddled with the special holiday saddle, with copper stirrups and a leather strap across his chest, with tinkling silver rings.