Читать книгу: «Test-&-mend»

© Juanna Artmane, 2021

Preface

“Let one who witnesses a fault, change it with one’s own hand and if one can’t do that, let one change it with his language.

And if one can’t do that too, then let one do this within one’s heart – this will be the faintest manifestation of his faith”

Abu Said-al-Hudri

The story within the covers of this edition is a reflection of lives – partially of my own and partially the combined image of those, I grew up surrounded by.

I was born and cultivated in the culture, where national wisdom spreads the following proverbs: “Those, who don’t beat their daughters, will beat their knees”, “Girl is a burden, like salt”, “Let a girl free and she will marry God knows whom!”. All these examples absorb the accumulated through centuries “wisdom of sages”.

Raising me, my family orthodoxly adhered to these words, which I despise and find ridiculous. Now, being a mother of two girls myself, I categorically refuse to follow these guidelines in their upbringing. I do take pains to shield them from the conventions! Unfortunately, I cannot change the situation for others!

The aim of this book is to address my nation: do you feel, it is high time we steered clear from the cliches of the past? Do you see the evil in the whole structure of our existence?

This, produced from the bottom of my heart, monologue is targeted at hundreds and thousands of those, who still fail to see the situation from aside. The story line explains in detail, what might happen to the apple of your eye – your precious princess – while you are sticking to the pecking order of these outdated rules. However, mothers, mine included, do not see a single fault and whole-heartedly support the thing, which breaks trust between them and their off-springs.

However, I do believe, they do it unintentionally! I do believe, they are blinded by the cultural taboos – they simply cannot see what harm they are doing. Probably, if I stayed in that social medium, I would think the way they do.

Thanks God, my siblings do not suffer from the broken trust; they do not witness all the domestic cruelties I had to overcome; they will not be forced to sort out the consequences this blindness entails for the rest of their lives!

People! Cruelty does not exist outwards – in some given Testament! Sadly, it exists within our hearts and not only in one sphere!

The story will take you into a city, where there are layers upon layers of violence; where the government put binds on those, they make a cat’s paw service of; where there are numerous cunning schemes to clench common people on those binds; where each family is a pyramid of cruelty that copies the brutality of the whole State. Up until now, the scheme is an uninterrupted chain…

To finish my introductory word, I would like to turn to Abu Said-al-Hudri’s catchphrase, where he suggests that we could at least change our own attitude to the things going around. This is the minimum, each of us can afford!

I plucked up the courage to write this semi-autobiographical book and share the story, which, I am absolutely sure, is and will be an eternal food for thought for many more generations to come. I must admit that my task would not be completed but for some God-blessed people that cropped up on my severe path to maturity:

– My University Teacher and the editor of this story

– Pugacheva Elena Y., who supported me through the whole process of writing;

– The person, who inspired me to undertake this responsible enterprise and to whom I express my deepest gratitude – Feshchenko Ruslan M.;

– Each member of my family, who endorses my prospects, though still not totally shares my point of view.

Do not be harsh on me!

Author

Chapter 1:
The City of “N”

“The previous time it didn’t take this much,” – despairingly said a shivering with cold man.

“By George! 7 f*cking hours!” – commented another, hotching from foot to foot. “Look! The cars are coming!”.

The crowd sighed with relief at the sight of the approaching engines. They were expecting to greet President, while he was being driven in his respectable cortege.

“Raise your flags! Be ready to cheerfully welcome!” – commanded well-padded police officers at the fatigue-stricken faces. The latter obeyed.

“Pre-si-dent! Re – si-dent!.. i-dent!” – chorused the herd, by order waving free flags.

The polished porches speedily passed by, splashing slush on the salutes. A glimpse of glumly grudging gazes was caught by the Leader, who was comfortably perching at the back seat of his black limousine.

“Free!” – vociferated the gendarmes, as soon as the automobiles disappeared. With heavy kicks and punches, they started to disperse the crowd that blocked the street like a flock of sheep. At the announcement, the creepy countenances, numb limbs, hungry stomachs started to scatter slowly through the muddy streets of the city “N”.

The settlement was located in the fraternal country of the post-Evil Empire. One must have a sharp eye not to take it for a rural area, as there were barely enough modern comforts. The so-called “metropolis” was scraping through the standards, typical of a city, to be called one itself. The place would offer no lanes or theatres, though it had two railroads around it, several stations of regional account and a central district, at heart of which there was a public square, surrounded with business and entertainment facilities (including a cinema house, showing no films).

Right in the middle of the square, which was considered the most significant part of the city, there were several benches, placed in such a way, that the sitting inevitably faced the main and only attraction – a grandiose masterpiece, a giant sculpture of the president. Made of clay, the monument felt grey and cold, with an air of indifference in its posture. Instead of looking at the citizens, relaxing on the wooden benches around him, the artefact rested its eyes on the Court House, located in the opposite direction. It seemed to be reading a tattered slogan over the porch: «Truth cannot be concealed!». Due to the thick layer of white glue under the thin poster, the last two letters of the word «not» looked greyish and blurred, making the whole phrase unreadable – especially at dusk.

Occasional lampposts, standing on both sides of the central avenue, laid path to a view of the town’s modest architecture. Constructed during the times of the Evil Empire, small featureless houses stayed unaltered. They were mostly built of clay, either.

In one of such habitats in the western part of the town, there lived a family – a traditionally eastern one. By local standards, the family was quite well-off. Abdul Husein, the father, kept a post of an investigator in the Central Public Prosecution Office. He was a man of Power, who could easily twist anyone's arm to make them do things in the way, suitable and lucrative for him. This particular feature of his personality allowed to line his pockets through every case, entering his office “for further investigation”. If put together with his declared income, it was a small fortune, but it could barely cover Abdul’s indulgences in cars and women. The first were used to impress those around with his authority; the latter served a substitution for the lack of natural attractiveness. By appearance, he was a man of no great stature: with pale-grey eyes framed by heavy bushy black brows. His thin brownish lips gave the right finish to an arrogant narcissistic dandy. Despite the infinite love of his wife Leila, he appeared to heighten his self-esteem only by conquering other women's hearts.

Certainly, Abdul took an exceptional pride in the office he occupied. The moment he put on his uniform with glittering shoulder straps, he slipped into his second skin. He wore his epaulettes even to family gatherings. His manners, gestures and eyes exposed a deep sense of superiority, which he carried wherever he was invited.

Now, resting in the circle of his extended family, Abdul was showered with questions about the news, which saddened his nation. The head of Intelligence Department of General Prosecutor’s office – Abu Abumov – was assassinated at the entrance to his house in March 2002. He was one of those few people, who had not lost humanity and remained in the System, serving his nation truly. For a whole week, newspapers were roaring with condolences; black boxes were mourning the loss. People wanted to learn the name and reasons of the killer, but every loophole for information leakage was thoroughly blocked. That is why for relatives Abdul was “someone from the System, who should know the truth” about the nature of this murder:

“Well, nothing surprising,” – coughed Abdul to give more severity to his tone of voice. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know.” Then he tried to cut short the conversation, but his kin were eager to suss out more: “Why do you think the assassin was called by General Prosecutor – Lunar Basitov – just before being killed?! They say, the victim had been talking on the phone with him for about a minute. Do you think it is a mere coincidence?”

Abdul was picking his teeth with a toothpick, removing scraps of kebab, at the same time carefully listening to the continuous inquires. The subject was delicate: he was personally involved in work under the guidance of General Prosecutor in question. Some two or three years ago, now a prominent politician Lunar Basitov had been Local Prosecutor in Abdul’s current workplace in this very city of “N”; and only in year 2000 he was promoted by President to become General Prosecutor of the whole country. Although Abdul served Lunar Basitov for only two years, he felt that he should not say anything derogatory about him at that moment. After all, wolves never prey upon wolves. Therefore, he answered brusquely “Sure”, clearly showing his indisposition for further discussions of the subject.

Accompanying Abdul in various family get-togethers, Leila easily sensed her husband’s irritation at uneasy conversations and could immediately introduce an array of other topics for discussion. She seemed to lay herself out to be a good wife to her high-flying husband.

A daughter of a former GP in the city of “N”, she had never been abroad. She was raised in the Evil Empire and, being a part of the system, witnessed the prosperity – as well as the downfall of the regime – with ambiguous feelings. From time to time, she nostalgically recalled little heart-warming moments of the past, successfully omitting the miserable ones. That was her nature: to see the sunny side even in the ugliest things. To feed her over-romantic soul, she would lose herself in poetry, occasionally trying her hand at writing one. She took across her love for beauty to almost everything: to their grey house, which she kept impeccably neat; to the beds of flowers, she planted on the front porch of their abode, and to her trimmed into perfection appearance. Even after giving birth to two children, she was still petite in figure. Her silky black hair, which she wore long, gave her a girlish look. Indeed, she frequently received compliments on looking young in her mid-thirties. She liked to be sometimes mistaken for her daughter's elder sister. She rejoiced at those moments and would later retell those experiences to her neighbors – with some exaggeration.

Abdul was irritated by his wife's “juvenile behavior” and found it inappropriate for a married woman with children to pay so much attention to style and fashion, but he had enough tact to keep his resentment to himself. He adored his wife’s patience and gave her way in most things. He cherished the way she ran the household, feeling free from any disturbances related to chores. He was even more satisfied with the way his wife handled the kids, without involving him into their tedious routine. The only time he participated in his children's life was when choosing their names. As a person who hated being bothered by minor stuff, he without much thinking called them after his grandparents: Ali and Hannah.

Although Abdul took practically no interest in the upbringing of his children, he did not miss any opportunity to talk about them to others – especially when his relatives were around. He dwelt upon Hannah and Ali to such an extent, that if one heard his detailed narrations, they would definitely take the speaker for a truthful father. All the information he shared was obtained through his talkative wife. Actually, being married for twenty years, they had a limited number of common topics for small talk – mainly about children. Indeed, Abdul could tolerate endless discussions about Ali’s future life, as they heated both his pride and imagination. Being the only male offspring in the family, Ali was looked upon as the succeeding heir to everything, Abdul had achieved.

Hardly living up to his Parent’s expectations, Ali was poor in constitution, anemic in development and pale in face. His raven-black hair in contrast with ghostly complexion made its look even more sallow. Despite his constant struggle with asthma, Ali was industrious and reflective, and would do anything to take after his deserving Dad. From the very early age Ali was made clear, that all the breadwinner’s responsibilities would one day befall his slender shoulders; and he had to bear the brunt till his very death with dignity, inherent of the Bahtulovs’ House. He was also expected to financially support his parents in their ripe old age; as well as to marry a girl, thoroughly chosen by his scrupulous mother, and raise his own sons under the same roof.

In eastern culture, it is a rooted tradition to determine children’s destiny from infancy, or even better – before they are born. When it comes to the child, his duty is to vassally obey and not to disappoint those who bring him up, otherwise he can be easily disinherited.

However, Ali had luck to deviate from some unwritten rules, as he was given the freedom to choose his future profession. To everyone’s astonishment, the adolescent’s choice was connected with the sphere, totally alien to his parents’ generation. There was hardly anyone, who could grasp the desire to work with such outlandish machines, as computers. Nevertheless, being put through the mill of the pick of trade by his own father, Abdul decided not to force his son into anything as well. Although with reluctance, he still went along with his son’s option – to become a programmer.

Less lucky was the fate of his second child – Hannah, for whom everything was settled from the day of birth. She was betrothed to a man fifteen years her senior; and the perspective marriage was due to come into force as soon as she reached physical maturity.

Then, being a girl of thirteen, Hannah started gradually acquiring exquisite features, inherent to a stunning beauty. The only thing, constantly drilled into her head by her mum, was about getting married and having children – as the final aim of all women’s existence. This kind of conversations evoked indignation in the rebellious nature of Hannah’s. Provoked, she would inquire the origins of this antiquated belief. The answer she got failed to satisfy her curiosity: “It is by God's will”. Observing ever-complaining wives around her, the young mind could not get a grip on why the supposedly kind God imposed such a gruesome fate on his beloved children. No one seemed to be able to give a reasonable explanation to the burning question of hers. Her rare beauty accompanied with an inquisitive mind only fuelled her growing resentment and made detest her status of the most sought-after bride. Hannah's snowwhite skin and shoulder length brown hair, which was a good match to her fair complexion, arose much envy among sun-burnt girls of her age. Inheriting grey eyes from her father’s line, she took after her grandma, who used to be a recognized paragon of beauty in the good old days of her youth. They say, once her grandma’s stunning charm was on everyone's lips. Unfortunately, Hannah was slow to witness that fact: when she reached a conscious age of thirteen, she could see a withering woman of fifty with a whole bunch of flourishing diseases. The ex-beauty sorrowfully condemned childbirth as the main culprit of her fading good looks.

Inwardly, Hannah followed her mother’s line: she found delight in burying herself in poetry; her sense of beauty was a match to Leila's. A bird in flight, a tree in bloom, the starry sky could easily take her breath away. She shaped her admiration for the stated things into poems. Over time, writing became her obsession. She was convinced that literature was up her street; and she wanted to devote the rest of her life to Euterpas, the muse of lyrics.

The question, whether or not she should attend high school, was on the family agenda daily. Her aspiration for knowledge and cultivation disturbed her uncle Mohammad, who was an ardent adept of the traditional way of life of worthy Mohammedans. He was eager to participate in his niece’s life through putting restrictions on almost everything related to her development. Her father saw nothing but a good will in her uncle’s attitude. The latter used to say that it would be better for her to learn something more practical rather than stuff her head with “nonsense”, which would be of no use for her coming family life. Living next door to Abdul’s, Mohammad kept an eye on Hannah, so that she could not cross the threshold of her house into the big world. In the local community, this way was regarded as a decent upbringing for a girl. Additional praises followed if families prohibited girls from socializing or going out or even speaking, unless they were spoken to. These were the qualities, which potential husbands looked for in their future wives: taciturnity, obedience and complaisance.

Actually, all neighbors kept an eye on each other, so one could barely escape attention, if they did something unacceptable or violated the code of unwritten rules. The street itself was stimulating this type of existence by its snake-like shape. A long narrow alley, with typical of eastern cities’ adjacent houses, encouraged people to observe their neighbors’ lives unintentionally. Almost all of the buildings were constructed with low communicating fences, so it took no effort to witness, what was going on behind the closed doors and windows. It was like living behind glass walls. Such a notion as “privacy” was a lacuna in the vocabulary of the locals. Everyone knew everything about one another in the area.

As if this openness was not enough, people kept their doors unlocked at all times. It was common for neighbors to drop in for a cup of coffee, whenever they felt bored. This was accepted especially among women, who dragged a homely existence, and in order to brighten their dull days, they paid visits to each other. One more entertainment they were addicted to was gossiping. The topicality of their whining was due to being sorely tried by their husbands.

Chapter 2:
The long-expected message

During three months, since Ali sat for the exam, the whole family were on tenterhooks, waiting for the result. Discussions of how to arrange everything in the best way, once they got the positive answer, burst out over and over again – on every possible occasion. The question of the main concern was, whether they should allow Ali to study abroad, as he had applied to MachineLearning Faculty at Munich Engineering University. Each member worried in his or her own way.

For Abdul, the prospects were “pretty clear”. He was determined to support his son, whatever the latter chose as his future trade. More than once did he challenge his son’s desire to become “the thing”, as he put it. He was not able to memorize the name of the profession and he used to refer to it as “the thing”. He agreed to Ali’s staying away from the Family for three years, but on condition of his return, once he received the degree.

Although his father continued preaching him daily and Ali nodded in consent to everything, the latter was all intention to lam, given the opportunity. After all, Ali could not be blamed for his yearning to take to his heels. He would read or watch news bulletins, from which it was evident that his Motherland could not protect its citizens. Since 2001, an uninterrupted sequence of cases of “sudden death of few politicians” or “unexpected suicides of some outspoken journalists” or even strange kidnaps – all played up his reluctance to build his own future in this city.

During those few lucky hours, when electricity was provided; and the family managed to get together, they would apprehensively listen to “hot news” on TV.

“See, papa! This is Nona Buhatova!” – Ali jumped up from his seat, pointing at the screen. “She is dead now!”.

“Well, they say, she overdosed,” – returned Abdul, waving his hand nonchalantly.

“Of course, she overdosed! She was seen at General Prosecutor’s office just a few weeks ago! Rumor has it, she knew something about Abu Abumov’s death,” – Ali argued furiously.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” – habitually commented his Dad.

Occasionally, when Ali was alone with Hannah, he used to confide his thoughts to her: “Only a fool could willingly stay in this dump. You know, if God gives me the chance to escape from here, I’ll never ever return!”. While he was talking down the country, he was rushing back and forth around the room. Every inch of his body seemed to be burning with the ardent desire to run away from the grey gloomy gruesome grip of the city “N”. – “Little poor mama! I feel sorry for her! Oh, just imagine… just imagine those pictures we have seen… Munich! What a city! What a place! With its beautiful streets and lakes! And Me! Being a student at that university! Oh, I would sacrifice everything. I would give my right arm to get there.”.

With her mother’s shrewd heart, Leila could feel her son’s inner eagerness to break away from what the family had been carefully preparing for him over years. Her heart was like a compass, catching every vibe of deviation in her children – especially in Ali, the apple of her eye – her only son. How could she let him go after all the endless sleepless nights, when she was nursing him, carrying him in her lap, giving him the best she could? “How brutal it is to let him go! He is a throbbing lifeline of my essence! And they want to snatch my heart and throw it away to God knows to what conditions! Where will he sleep? What will he eat?” – these questions were crashing her soul and boiling her blood. Anger, hatred, self-pity mingled in her mind.

Being just a feeble woman in the dominant male society, she was devoid of the standing to intervene with her husband’s decisions. Much to her resentment, her words were listened to, but never taken into consideration. Yet deep down, she kept persuading herself that her fears would not come true. Ali would not go anywhere, but stay where he belonged to – with the family.

It was not until the twenty-eighth of July, when Ali’s university exam results came out. Until then, the family had been totally unaware of the exact day, on which the notification letter was due to arrive. Absence of clarity made the last three months particularly strained.

On the evening, when the letter reached its addressee, the family were sitting on the veranda, facing an ample garden. They were dining and dwelling on the same topic. Abdul was in an inexplicably jubilant mood. A warm pleasant wind, blowing from the garden mixed up with the smell of a fatty baked lamb, put Abdul in that wonderful disposition, in which one could seldom – if ever – find him. Folded in pleasantries of life, Abdul was philosophizing about the importance of education for a male. With a goblet of refined red wine on the table and a piece of lamb in his greasy palm, he was actively gesticulating, waving meat from side to side:

“My son, for a human it is vitally important… I’d say, education is as important as honor. Look at me…” – he proceeded with praise to his own achievements.

Sitting at the foot of the table, Hannah was looking up at her dwelling Dad in the opposite end. What struck her most in his speech was his denomination of a man. Whenever Abdul talked, he used the word “human”. “What is it – a human?” – Hannah thought to herself.

The kerosene lamp, placed in the middle of the table, was dimly illuminating Abdul’s face. It was glistening with pleasure, reflected on his oil skin. The poorly lit table seemed an abyss, separating Hannah from her father. She was not close enough to him to say, how much she was in favor of the ideas, directed to her brother. Although Hannah knew that she was not included into Abdul’s philosophical calculations, she still sympathized with everything said on that evening at table.

This situation was not unusual for her. On the contrary, it was very much familiar. Hannah was accustomed to the type of setting, when she, being “an uninvited visitor’, was exposed to the witty conversation. In fact, not only these situations put her in the position of an “unwelcomed” guest. Actually, she was repeatedly treated as one. The very idea of “not belonging to this family” was firmly fixed in her mind by her mother, whose intention was far from evil. Leila was doing her best to prepare Hannah for the family of her would-be-husband; in that way she was trying to mold Hannah’s yet unshaped, dependent mind into the psychological state of appreciating the fact, that her genuine family was the family of the man, she was betrothed to.

Now it gave Hannah the feeling that, despite her sharing the table with native people, she was an outsider for them. Actually, this feeling had become a part of Hannah’s identity, which was skillfully molded by her beloved mother over years.

And there she was, her mom, sitting beside Abdul. In a melancholy mood, she was staring at the ripped flesh of the dark meat, served in a porcelain plate right in front of her. With her eyes fixed on one spot, she was like an ancient sculpture – elegant and graceful, speechless and lifeless. In the dark, the whiteness of her skin was shining like marble, making a striking contrast to the blackness of her gown. Her raven hair was neatly adjusted in a bun, revealing her delicate beauty in an artistic way. At that very moment, she was placid and tranquil, while deep down she was really running with hatred and loath towards her husband, who was sitting above the table and mercilessly putting the silly ideas of education of a human into their son’s brain.

“Bakhtulov!” – came the husky male voice from the iron gate, which was the main entrance to the house. Everyone turned to the gate. Due to the lack of light, it was difficult to see, to whom the voice belonged. A beam of faint light, cast in the direction of the stranger, outlined his tall bulky figure.

“Here is a letter for you!” – said the man again. Obviously, this was a postman, bringing the long-expected message.

Abdul, jumping from his seat, took the lamp and hastily approached the porch. The whole family flew up after him, anxiously waiting for the mail to be opened. Abdul, placing the lamp into Ali’s hands, tore the envelope open. Those few seconds, when he was intently peering into the paper, seemed eternity for everyone around. After a while, a smile lit his face.

“This is, what should have been expected! Expected from MY son! My genes! My blood!” – he exclaimed the words with a solemn accent, patting Ali on the shoulder. Look! Look at your scores!” – he handed the letter to Ali, who was in a state of physical shock – holding the results and not believing his eyes.

Hannah took his brother’s cold clenched hands in hers: “Ali, congratulations!”. She embraced him affectionately, landing kisses on both cheeks.

Observing all the happening as a nightmare, Leila stood petrified. She could not move, she could not speak, she could do nothing – but stare blankly into the darkness. She felt as if the foundation was shattered, leaving her head-to-head with her fears. Turning away, Leila let scalding tears out.

Seeing his mum’s shuddering shoulders, Ali came up to her. “Poor little mama,” – Ali wrapped his arms around her fragile body, – “please, don’t cry. Everything will be fine, I will be fine!”. These words meant to console her, but had the opposite effect: Leila burst into floods tears. Now both of them were standing at the entrance, clinging to each other and crying. Her tears were because of the upcoming grief of separation, his were – because of happiness.

It did not take the neighbors long to appear one by one at Abdul’s house, since they learnt the news of Ali’s admission to university without delay. Soon the whole garden was filled with full-mouth laughs, clapping hands and crying eyes – all of them were congratulating and complimenting on Ali’s success.

This was a tradition among the locals: whatever happened – no matter good or bad – neighbors were always there at the scene. This might seem a powerful community spirit for a stranger. It always looks like that from aside. But let the myth be dispelled: gathering up, the people would cheer each other or give their condolence in public, but later, safely housed, these very people turned everything witnessed into a topic of heated discussion to amuse and entertain themselves. It is not necessary to get entangled in anything scandalous or indecent to become an object for word of mouth. It is enough to cast a glance at the opposite sex, or comment on anything in a more cheerful way than others, or even attain something, which others failed – then God help you! They would put a mask of sorrow or joy, depending on what condition you are in, only to laugh behind your back or begrudge your success later. They would gossip about anything and everything, because gossiping was the only available entertainment in that grey gruesome “N”.

Chapter 3:
A Bash

Shortly on the reception of the long-awaited news of Ali’s admission to University, Abdul decided to throw a bash. Talking big about the success of his son, Abdul could not miss an opportunity to feed his boastful nature by showing off his financial superiority. The inferior position, which common people held, was partly the fault of those Abdul-like, working for the Regime. Their inequality was aggravated by the historical events of the time.

After the downfall of the Evil Empire, the country was swept with poverty. Rebuilding of economy required years and years of conscientious work. It could have been possible, if the power had belonged to a goodman, acting in the best interests of the state. Shamefully, rich oil-deposits of the country did not let it acquire the appropriate status on the global scale, because a Mr. X successfully managed to build a pipeline in 1999 and since then he was exporting the raw material to the external market – rather than improving the inner one. Huge profits, which were used to strengthen the authoritarian system, came in – due to high demands in the product. The governance undertook exceptional care of every single bolt in the System and oiled every detail in the Machine of Power. They did their utmost, so that it could work smoothly and flawlessly, i. e. to be constantly palm-greased to run affairs on wheels.

Ordinary people remained poor, witnessing speedy enrichment of the System. Commoners had nothing better to do – than to look up to the Abdul-like. Traditionally, governors were to be respected and even feared, but in reality, they were heartily despised. The burning hatred did not prevent citizens, however, from trying to enter the System themselves. With dubious success, they grabbed at the illusory chance to somehow ensure their existence – at least in the eyes of the similar. Well, after all who could blame them? It was only wise to follow the common sense and take the advice: “If you can’t beat them, join them!”. Citizens, who had no chance of being part of the Machine, felt their way in the corrupted society through befriending those in authority.

In the deprived areas of the city, Abdul was the only one, representing the Regime. Therefore, he was seen as someone to win over, and everyone was willing to gratify his whims. The offer of neighbours’ assistance in preparation of the upcoming celebration seemed absolutely natural. The party was to be held in Abdul’s house, as restaurants in general were a rarity back then.

Actually, there was a restaurant and a few cafds in the city of “N”, but they had such a poor menu and so frequently cooked with stale and rancid products, that no one would consider holding any event in those places. Besides, the restaurant was located too close to the river, which served as a drain for municipal sewerage lines. The unbearable stench saluted everyone, coming to the restaurant.

It was not only the stinking smell that put off citizens. People had no means to dine even at the beanery. This was the main reason, why the restaurant did not see the point in acquiring fresh food. The same food was frozen and de-frozen before being served to some rare clients, who dropped in once in a blue moon. So, as you have already understood, it was a catch 22.

If citizens had the means to afford such a luxury as throwing parties, they usually celebrated everything at their private houses.

Abdul’s house was a fair-sized two-storey grey building with a patio for at least fifty people. A steel square gate opened to the yard, where a narrow tiled pathway led to the house. Both sides of the pathway were covered with grey volatile sand, which at any sign of wind rose, blinding anyone, walking towards the house. Few apple trees were planted along the veranda: they awarded the place a status of a small garden. Contrary to the original purpose of bearing fruit and giving harvests, those trees were meant to prevent the sand from entering the place. A thick layer of dust covered everything, decorating the veranda. During summer months, it was a dining room. A heavy oval oak table occupied almost all the territory, leaving a narrow pass-way to the wooden door, opening into the living room.

Back then, living rooms were called aynabends. The word could be literally translated as a glass-room, because the walls of it were built with multiple doublesashed windows.

Abdul’s house was a fine example of this conventional style. Being rectangular in shape and no shorter than 9 meters in length, the walls of the living room were incorporated with a long row of windows.

From the point of view of practicality, these windows were a reckless thing to install, as under the Regime the city had no central heating. This construction could sustain comfortable temperatures during winter months, but in the blistering heat of summer, such rooms turned into boiling kettles. The sanity of people, who came up with the idea of these glass-rooms, could be questioned.

In her turn, Abdul’s wife never questioned the necessity of the windows’ decoration. They were dressed in tulle with brown boteh, which is a traditional almond-shape print, patterned on crimson portieres. A true match to them – Vinous Persian carpets covered the wooden floor, overlapping one another, hardly leaving a single spot bare. To finish this fabulous sight, a Czech crystal chandelier with twenty-four lights was installed by the hospitable mistress of the house.

Unfortunately, such wonderful chandeliers fulfilled only decorative function, as in the 2000^th the city was devoid of regular electricity supply – to indulge in its luxurious light. Joyfully, it was not totally deprived of those happy bright hours. For two or – on some particularly lucky days – even three hours, citizens were blessed with this achievement of civilization.

Therefore, Leila, by regularly dusting the crystal treasure, served this chandelier more than it served the family – by illuminating the room. An ideal counterpart to this ceiling-masterpiece was sophisticated furniture with typical of the eastern culture curved designs. Placed in the left corner of the living room, two display cabinets were filled to capacity. The cottage china was white elephant and never used to treat guests. As if awaiting for them, a bare table with a thick rectangularshaped panel stretched itself on four ridiculously thin legs in the middle of the room. It was long enough to accommodate a family of elephants.

The left side of the living room was adjacent to three poorly furnished bedrooms. The second floor of the house was uninhabited for most part of a year and, therefore, was also of no use. As you can see, there was more than enough space in Abdul’s house to throw a party and less than enough furniture to cause problems in accommodating volunteers to share the joy. Besides, neighbors were willing to lend their meuble, as they were eager to be of any help to Abdul.

They even helped to write and distribute numerous invitations to all the relatives. Next door mates did not need any official asking to participate in the event, as their presence on the day of celebration was inevitable.

In an unstoppable ant-line, neighbors were carrying additional tables and chairs on their backs to Abdul’s yard. Arranging the scene, they left the central part empty – for dancing. Women from the neighborhood came carrying their sets of crockery and cutlery in boxes, tucked under their arms or graciously holding them on their heads. Soon the whole house was swarming with rushing legs, aching backs, cooking hands. Two days were spent on preparation for the event.

The fifth of August finally arrived – as well as the guests at the door. Abdul in his crispy black suit was standing at the entrance, shaking male-guests’ hands and tossing a few words in between. Hannah was to accompany her father and meet female guests, which traditionally meant kissing them on both cheeks and giving welcoming hugs to every invited soul. A true match to her dandy-like Dad, she was dressed in a stunning red gown, slightly revealing her knees and was forced onto high heels by her mum. The scarlet colour, lavishly coating her plump lips, flattered her white skin. It did produce a wow-effect: it made the girl eye-catching and made men involuntarily turn their heads in her direction. As if shielding from these curious glances, Hannah felt timid but self-conscious. Each minute spent there – under the scrutinizing eyes put together with those sole-crashing high heels – felt unbearably long. But the worst was yet to be faced.

A car with familiar numbers turned the corner, raising all possible dust at its reckless speed. This was the car of the man, Hannah was betrothed to; the man whom she hated with all her heart, the man whose wife she was supposed to become – Ibrahim. The car stopped right in front of Abdul’s gate.

Two pairs of massive legs fought out of the rear doors: Nargiz and Aila. The former was Ibrahim’s mother – a morbidly obese woman of forty-eight with greasy black hair. Her short limbs with fatty flesh, bouncing in all directions, made an amusing spectacle for everybody including Hannah, towards whom her future in-law was dragging herself. The black dress, she had squeezed into, was so tight that it seemed to burst apart at the following uneasy step. She was being followed by her daughter. Aila was a cheerful woman with shoulderlength chestnut hair. She was in her twenties and despite excess weight, her gait was elegant and light. Smiling from ear to ear, she threw a swift appraising glance at Hannah and generously pecked her several times.

Ibrahim lingered in the car and after a while pushed himself out of the driver’s seat. Eyes fixed on Hannah, he was striding towards Abdul. A sore sight to witness: his fat belly-apron was hanging and swinging from side to side with every step. The sun was unsightly exposing his grease thinning hair. His swarthy face looked darker under thick black brows. Beads of sweat were trickling down to his aquiline nose. Ugly spots of perspiration were all over his shirt. His slow movements were given an impression of haste. His whole appearance seemed gawky. Under the compassionate looks of the guests, he finally reached the host and thrusted his wet hand to Abdul: “Salam aleykum!”

– Aleykuma salam! – responded Abdul. Ignoring the expecting hand, Abdul hugged Ibrahim, patting on his shoulder approvingly: “How are the things with you?”

– I am all expectation, – Ibrahim grinned with delight, broadly revealing his yellow teeth of a tobaccosmoker. He was hinting at his marriage with Hannah. Then, turning to her, he nodded his head as a token of greeting. The latter did not look at him, intentionally avoiding any eye contact. The mere sight of this man turned her stomach, though he was supposed to become the father of her children. The man, at whose company she repelled, had something extremely repulsive in his gestures and manners. He was more like a predator than a human. «I would rather die than…» – she thought to herself. She stepped back, keeping as far as was politely possible and forced out: “Hello!”. To her relief, he carried his body further and joined other men.

All the guests had almost arrived by 5 p. m. and took their places at tables. Separately from others there was sitting Ali – brimming with the best mood since the day he was born. For him, this celebration was a farewell to this city, these people, this shell-like world! Receiving congratulations, he could not help looking down on them: “Small people with small wishes.”. This thought crossed his mind, whenever the guests approached him. Some of them were genuinely happy for him, others exhibited insincere gladness, but all of them were equally complimenting him on his resounding success.

The first sounds of traditional music came out from the band of musicians, who were blowing into their clarinets, standing in a line on the improvised “dancing floor”. Abdul welcomed the guests by inviting them to join his dance. According to the local tradition, the host should be the first to hit the floor and, approaching each table, to absorb guests in merry-making. After that, all felt free to eat, to drink or to shake a leg on their own will.

Meanwhile, women were serving the main course. They were running back and forth, devoid of a chance to take a breath or a glass of wine, though toasts were coming from different ends of the tables. Praises were told to Abdul for bringing up such a talented son and bottles of vintage were drunk in one go.

The celebration, which seemed a real nightmare to Hannah, lasted till dawn. The loud music coming from the clarions was muffled by deafening gurgling laughs and cluttering dishes. Several lord-drunk men struck the dance-poll, whistling, pulling themselves on sandy ground, raising dust. These men were Abdul’s colleagues. They were in similar positions at work and on the social ladder. They were so much-alike, that one would take them for relatives – rather than colleagues. Some kind of an indescribable expression bound them: they wore their heads slightly backwards, as if they were looking at the sky. This made their chins protrude in an arrogant way. Clinging to one another as a gang, they were dancing and indulging in cheerful pledges, keeping to that alternate pattern till the end of the bash.

Letting the dance floor to the drunken men, women flocked in several small colonies, gossiping and at times exchanging glances with the nearby bunches. Some of them were killing two birds with one stone: by pecking at the delicacies, stuffing their mouths with cakes and other eastern oily sweeties and by stuffing their ears with delightful descriptions of their companions’, who gave out all the slightest details of the well-known relatives. Every so often, they burst into laughter and trashed their thighs with greasy sticky hands. Then, not bothering much about hygiene, young mothers caught their popping in and out off-springs and fed them on some finger-smashed mixture of edible stuff. When the youngsters refused to stop or open their mouths, they were pinched ruthlessly, which only added shrieks to the cacophony around.

Hannah, on par with the rest, was rushing in and out of the kitchen: cleaning, arranging plates on the tables, and simultaneously trying to bypass those getting in her way. But there was one person she could not pass by anyhow – Ibrahim.

Hannah was standing at the sink, washing-up, fixed on the process and the sound of running water. Using the moment, he approached her noiselessly, so that she did not acknowledge this presence in the kitchen. He silently wrapped his hands around her waist from behind. The poignant scent of alcohol together with the acrid smell of sweat turned Hannah's stomach again. His huge beer gut was pressed against her fragile body. Breathing heavily, he turned her around and tried to kiss, but Hannah defended stoically by pushing him away: «You, drunkard, you… brute… lemme go! Or I will shout so loudly, that everyone will… mmmmm!..».

He covered her mouth with the right palm, squeezing her body and leaning on her. He was kissing her neck anxiously: «I am sick of waiting! You want this, don't you? You… you little cunt… You will obey me!».

Even being that drunk, he knew quite well, that he was risking: anyone could appear any moment at the door. After a while, he heard someone calling his name and this was Hannah’s salvation from the paws of the beast. Removing, he eased his tight grip, and let her fall down on the floor.

Pulling herself up and mastering her emotions, she got upright. For a moment the dimly lit kitchen felt like a deep well, where she sank hopelessly mumbling to herself: «I have a choice! Yes, I still have one!». The thought of «a deadly choice» never left her mind. Like a little bee in the bonnet, the idea of a suicide was buzzing in her head.

Any teenager in a seemingly blind-end situation, like Hannah’s, would turn to a suicidal thought. “What difference does it make”, – she would think to herself, – to live with the person you hate – and hate each day of your life – or just finish it?”. The answer was obvious. In the first case, you subject yourself to eternal suffering, whereas in the second – you end sufferings in eternity.

This hatred toward Ibrahim had a solid background. It was not because of his physical repulsiveness – far deeper! The grain of hatred was seeded, when she was six. Then Ibrahim used to live in the neighborhood and was a frequent guest at Abdul’s house. Actually, all Ibrahim’s family were welcomed whenever they wanted to entertain themselves in her parental mansion. Leila used to go extra length to support a good relationship with the future relatives. Being inattentive towards Hannah, she refused to notice, what was going on with her only daughter.

While Abdul was at work, Leila was keeping herself busy by meeting her friends at the expense of Hannah’s solitude. On one of such days, Ibrahim dropped in to see Ali who had left right before the former came. Only Hannah was there. Feeling free and pleased by such a chance, Ibrahim sat on the sofa, observing every move of the poor little girl. She was playing with her dolls, fully absorbed in her imaginary world. Then she looked at him, sitting in the opposite direction and watching her intently. Suddenly he asked: «Would you like me to show you a new game? I bet you don't know the way it is played!».

With her childish curiosity, Hannah got immediately interested in the game she had never played. She was told that it was a “secret game”. All she had to do was to keep silent. He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards himself. Even now – eight years after the event – that heavy disgusting breath was fresh in her mind. He ran his hand over her legs. Then, raising her quickly, he made her sit on his lap in a way that her legs parted, baring her privates. He pressed her against his body and started rubbing violently. She didn't know what to do and begged him to let her go, as she did not like the game at all. He hushed her squeezing her mouth. The pain of rubbing caused nausea and Hannah was about to vomit when he abruptly stopped. He took her and threw onto the carpet. Hannah was in total confusion. Now a man of two meters height stood above her putting his finger to his mouth in a hushing gesture «Shhh!». Such incidents kept repeating from time to time, until Ibrahim’s family moved to a new house in the eastern part of the city.

Although Hannah was too small to give a reasonable explanation to what was happening, she was ready to do anything to avoid this game in the future. But she couldn’t tell anyone about it as she was beaten by her parents regularly into the state of total submission. She was not able to make out, what her fault was. The only thing she wanted was to avoid was being beaten. Should she tell her mum about Ibrahim? Was it her fault to play the offered game? Her little soul was tormented with these questions. Each time Hannah was beaten black and blue, she came to question what her fault was. Why was she punished? When she got brave enough to ask her mum about it, she got an answer, driven from the common wisdom of the locals: “Those, who don’t beat daughter, will beat their knees!”. It was a proverb, used by natives, and it served a paragon to her mother. Pondering over “the common sense”, Hannah made the conclusion that being a girl was a mistake in itself.

Each time Hannah encountered Ibrahim, a feeling of disgust stirred up in her system. The fifth of August was not an exception. Although she did her best to wear a mask of calmness, Hannah could not conceal the distress – so clearly it was declared on her countenance. Hardly anyone would look carefully enough to see the state she was in – especially after a sleepless night.

It was at dawn, when the phantasmagoria finally finished. The guests started leaving one by one, expressing gratitude to have been invited and granted small boxes of packed food. They praised Leila on her lavish hospitality. It was a tradition to give takeaways after parties or funerals. A little bit of everything, left on the tables untouched, should be equally distributed.

After all, there was wisdom in it: one could not eat up everything, before the products went off. Back then, it was an unimaginable luxury to throw away food. Not even a slice of stale bread, not a single edible crumb could be found in the dumps. Although Abdul's family was leading a luxurious life, which was measured by the amount of food in the fridge, even they took due care not to waste anything. If a family could afford red meat and greenies, it was equal to being wealthy. If, besides the mentioned, a family could pay visits to doctors on a regular basis, they were looked upon as almost millionaires. Whereas the middle class’ usual cuisine consisted of potatoes, bread and meat byproducts. When it came to the poor, they might get along with grains and…, well, it hurts to think about the limited diversity of their menu. To throw a bash was available only to people in uniforms with shoulder straps.

Therefore, no one would miss an opportunity to take part in such social events. It was a good chance to be fed and feed your non-invited members of the family. That night, everyone, especially Abdul's neighbors, left the house satisfied and joyous. On the coming day they were not going to bother with the most mundane question, they had to face on day-to-day basis: «What shall I feed my family on?».