Everything Begins In Childhood

That was what happened once when Bogeyman was unfortunate enough to fall asleep on the bench near the entrance of the building where the Oparins lived. Around that time, the Oparin brothers walked out of their building as a group of kids, including Rustem and me, were passing by. Naturally, we all surrounded the bench on which Bogeyman was snoring softly. After all, he was something to look at, if we could ignore the stench.

“He couldn’t find a better place to stink?” Gennady asked angrily. He never missed a chance to demonstrate his valor and other qualities of a future officer. “Just you wait, you’ll be hopping around soon. Guys, let’s make a ‘bicycle’ for him. Who has paper? Run! Get some paper!” he commanded, pulling some matches out of his pocket.

His younger brother was gentler and more compassionate, either because of his age or his disposition. He tried to prevent the inevitable.

“Hey, get up! Please, get up!” he pleaded in his thin voice, shaking the unfortunate drunk and pulling at his sleeve.

“Get out of here, what are you? The Red Cross?” Gennady pushed his little brother away. “You shouldn’t feel sorry for this piece of rotten carrion…” and he quickly got down to business, with all the experience he had.

After checking whether anyone could see him through the windows or from the street, Gennady took Bogeyman’s shoes off. Naturally, he wasn’t wearing socks. His dirty, swollen toes were exposed. One of the boys tore the newspaper into long strips and twisted them into braids. Gennady inserted the braids between Boogeyman’s stained toes. Now, the soles of his feet looked like two tattered brooms made of twigs. A match was struck, and the brooms turned into candles with little purplish crowns of flame, pale in the daylight.

I watched what happened next from the entrance hall of our building where we were hiding. I had retired there before anyone else, for I hadn’t the heart to stay through to the end. Poor Bogeyman woke up from the pain and rolled off the bench with a moan… Now he’ll run, we thought, watching him in horror and excitement, through the crack. He would run and, since he was half awake, he wouldn’t understand what had happened to him and why his toes were on fire. His feet would look like the violently spinning wheels of a bicycle with burning spokes, since he would be running in a state of panic. That was why the boys called this operation “bicycle.”

Yes, we had practiced the operation, and we are very ashamed to admit it, on unfortunate cats. But Bogeyman was more quick-witted than the cats. He bent over and pulled the burning “bicycle spokes” from between his toes, shook his burned fingers and, after looking around, stared at the entrance. His fiery red cheeks and crimson nose, along with his wide red eyes, were such a scary sight that we couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Take off!” tall Gennady was the first to yell, and we dashed out of the entrance with the speed of a bullet. We heard “Take off!” after we had already done so, for fear is a great motivator. It can turn a lame person into a sprinter.

I was running toward the garbage bins. I wasn’t running, I was flying. I could hear his tramping and heavy breathing behind me… He could catch up with me… So what if I hadn’t taken part in the evil prank but had only watched and giggled? He didn’t know that.

“I’ll never do it again… I won’t…” I repeated to myself, since I felt just as guilty as Gennady Oparin.

That was how I made it to the garbage bins. I looked over my shoulder and didn’t see anyone. What I heard must have been my own stomping and heavy breathing.

My heart was pounding so hard that it echoed in my ears. My cheeks were on fire. My face, hair and back were drenched in sweat. Before I had time to catch my breath, I heard heavy running again. Now it was Rustem running to the garbage bins with Bogeyman chasing him. He ran, stomping his feet heavily. He ran fast with no zigzagging, as if he weren’t drunk. Everything now was exactly as when I had imagined I was running from him.

I darted behind the garbage bins. I could see Rustem dashing to the left near the arik. Bogeyman turned too. Then Rustem, without stopping, jumped over the arik, but Uncle Anatoly, running at top speed, plopped into the water.

I groaned. The arik was narrow… Heavy Bogeyman must have hurt himself… but he didn’t. Here he was, wet all over, climbing out of the arik.

To continue chasing Rustem was out of the question. We felt it was inappropriate to laugh. We felt as if we had been doused with water too.

What a strange feeling remorse is. With adults it sometimes works in time to prevent some not quite honest action. A kind of momentary analysis takes place when all pros and cons are pondered. It’s quite different with children, as far as I know. Conscience and remorse begin to torment them after something happens.

That was what happened to us.

The soaking wet Bogeyman stood by the arik looking around. Then he trudged along home.

We also went home without saying a word to each other. We all, even Gennady Oparin, were ill at ease.

That very Bogeyman, or rather Uncle Anatoly, passed away suddenly. It happened approximately a year after we played that cruel prank on him. We would certainly come across Bogeyman from time to time after that, but we tried to avoid him. Then I heard that he had passed away… How – I didn’t know. The circumstances of his death were the subject of heated discussion among residents of our building and the neighboring ones.

Uncle Anatoly was Russian, and Russians, as everyone knows, have the most pompous funerals: music, flowers, and all that, not like the Tatars or the Jews, for example, who wrap a body in a cloth and carry it quietly to the cemetery… For us boys, and probably for the adults too, it was much more interesting to participate in a Russian burial ceremony.

We were looking forward to Uncle Anatoly’s funeral with excitement mixed with no small measure of fear. A person who has passed away is alive in your memory, provided you knew the person. At the same time, a frozen face in a coffin and a terrible, nagging sensation somewhere between your chest and stomach remind you – that’s not him lying there, he’s gone… How is it possible to comprehend that terrible enigma?

The funeral wasn’t held in the morning, but rather in the afternoon, after the end of the school day. It was a sunny autumn day. Our whole group, talking very animatedly, set out for the building where Uncle Anatoly had lived. It wasn’t far, just a fifteen-minute walk. We passed the corner of our building where we had harassed Bogeyman. Here was the arik, the garbage bins… We shouldn’t have done it. There had never been a more harmless alcoholic than he… We looked at each other and grew silent, but not for long because the subject of the conversation was very interesting: what had caused Uncle Anatoly’s death?

“Some people say he poisoned himself with vinegar,” Zhenya Andreyev, my classmate and friend, presented one possibility.

“Deliberately…”

“Stop lying, you’ve gone too far!” Oleg was outraged. “Not deliberately, he simply didn’t have any cash to buy vodka.”

“Oh no,” Vitya Smirnov interrupted. “Bogeyman poisoned himself deliberately, in other words, in-ten-tio-nal-ly… because of his wife. You can be sure of that. It was all because of her. Just imagine drinking that filth…” At this point, Vitya stopped speaking and winced as he imagined himself drinking vinegar. “As you drink it, it burns into you, a living creature, but you continue drinking and telling yourself, ‘I’ll prove to her who I am! I will!’”

We grew silent vividly imagining the horrible scene of Bogeyman’s death. We envisioned him in a new heroic light.

Drawn into this heated discussion, we didn’t notice that we had arrived at our destination. Uncle Anatoly’s building was indistinguishable from ours. An open space spread behind it. Hills could be seen in the distance. Local boys had one advantage – there was a shooting gallery nearby. It was not a portable one in a van but a real military shooting gallery, a very big one, the size of half a soccer field, sunk five meters into the ground. Even we could hear the sounds of shots when members of tank crews practiced shooting their handguns, and the boys from that building sometimes managed to see shooting with their own eyes.

A big crowd, bright with women’s head scarfs, had already gathered at the entrance by the time we arrived. They were expected to bring out the coffin at any moment.

Someone was heard weeping near the entrance. A plump woman clad in a dark dress, her hair hanging down and her tear-stained face swollen, sat on the bench. She rocked from side to side and exclaimed now and then, “You’ve abandoned me, my dear, and I’m all alone.”

Obviously, she was that very Marya, Uncle Anatoly’s wife. We boys had no sympathy for her. We decided that she looked like Baba Yaga (the Wicked Witch). If she had lost some weight, she would have looked exactly like Baba Yaga, disheveled and disgusting; all she needed was a broom to fly on.

Women were fussing around Marya, holding her by the shoulders, trying to console her, but her weeping and cries continued, “Oh-oh-oh, how shall I live alone?”

Zhenya Andreyev shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh yes, now she won’t have anyone to yell at.”

“She’s ruined such a man,” we nodded, utterly ennobling Bogeyman in our imagination, though Rustem suddenly remembered Uncle Anatoly’s insignificant shortcoming and whispered frighteningly to us, “Hey, guys, how will they bury him? He… stinks so terribly.”

We looked at each other, imagining that when they carried out the coffin, the familiar smell, the one we all knew, would fill the air.

“Well, they normally bathe the body,” Zhenya remembered. “Perhaps, it’ll turn out all right.”

Meanwhile, a great many people had gathered at the entrance. Boys, particularly those who, like us, had come without their parents, scurried through the crowd. No one paid attention to them for everybody was occupied in their grippingly interesting conversations. The words “vinegar,” “poisoned,” “while drunk” were frequently heard. Spiritual nourishment, to be further savored and digested, was being cooked up in the crowd. The residents of our mahalla would have a good reason to live tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, even a week later. People would ponder this subject on benches, in pavilions, while playing dominos, at bus stops. Uncle Anatoly’s death would be discussed and embroidered with details and fabrications, turning into a legend, almost a myth.

A wide panorama opened beneath the branches of the oak tree my friends and I had prudently managed to climb. We could observe the sea of swaying heads, bright head scarfs, caps, bald heads, skull caps, boys’ forelocks, girls’ braids. The muffled buzzing of voices now and then drowned out Marya’s lamentations by the entrance.

“They’re bringing him out!” Gennady Oparin shouted.

The crowd froze. The coffin cover was carried out of the building, and, almost immediately after, an open coffin with Uncle Anatoly’s body in it floated out on the shoulders of four men. The coffin was placed on stools.

The shouting became louder. Now, it was not just Marya lamenting. For some reason, all the women joined her cries. Marya rushed to the coffin to hug her husband. She was followed by one woman, then another, and a third. They were all weeping right into the dead man’s ears. We exchanged glances. Did they all love Uncle Anatoly so much? And where had they been before, when he had been drunk and lying on benches?

At last, the women stepped away from the coffin. Someone pulled the wailing Marya away. The men lifted the coffin onto their shoulders and carried it from the entrance. The crowd swayed, lined up and followed. Now came the procession. It moved slowly down the middle of the street. As it pulled even with our tree, we bent down and, motionless on the branches, stared at the coffin, not taking our eyes from it. Here it was, right below us… Who would now call him Bogeyman? He looked so smart in his white shirt and black suit. His light hair, no longer disheveled and stuck together, but neatly combed to the side, gleamed in the sunlight. His well-shaven face was frozen into a meek smile… as if he had done everything himself – bathed, shaved, combed his hair, changed his clothes and then looked at himself in the mirror and, satisfied with his new appearance, lay down quietly and died.

After the coffin passed, we tumbled down from the tree and rushed forward, overtaking the crowd. We knew that the funeral would be accompanied by music on the main street, Yubileynaya. Here were the musicians! They were waiting, and as soon as the front of the procession drew even with them, funeral marching music rang out.

That was the moment we were especially looking forward to.

Both sides of the street were crowded with people. People were looking out of windows, doors and balconies. It was as if someone very important, a government official, was being buried. It was amazing how fast people came running to the sounds of the band, like soldiers to the sound of a bugle. They looked at the band, the coffin, the crying relatives, at the whole procession and, consequently, at me, for I, in order to draw attention to myself, walked like a close relative, with my head bent low, as if stricken with grief, but my eyes darted to the left and right in order not to miss anything.

That was how I walked, slowly, taking small steps, along with the whole crowd. It felt like a huge caterpillar crawling along, and the coffin with the dead body was its head. It was a colorful head, decorated with flowers. Wreaths on the sides of the coffin were the multicolored eyes of the caterpillar. The crowd, swaying slightly to the sounds of the music, was its body.

Ba-boom, ba-ba-ba-boom! The drummer beat the rhythm. The drum was so big that he carried it attached to very wide straps, wider than those on a school backpack. And he carried it not with its top up, like a normal drum, but with its top and bottom facing sideways, so he had two surfaces for drumming. Watching the drummer from afar, one saw a man with a huge belly, and his belly must have been so stuffed that it was difficult for him to walk. So, he was pounding on his belly with drumsticks to beat it down.

It wasn’t just the drummer but all the musicians, playing from the heart, assuming that the louder they played the better. Here, for example, was a man with a pair of cymbals. They crashed so loudly that one would jump every time he struck them together. No way a blacksmith with his hammer and anvil would be heard here.

Then there was the violinist. He wriggled as he dragged his bow over the strings for all he was worth. Sweat was rolling thick and fast down his face, the sound of his violin piercing and mournful. Women who walked close to him wailed to match the violin’s tone.

In a word, we boys were ecstatic about the band. It was the accordionist who didn’t win our approval. He didn’t show enough diligence. He didn’t seem to realize that he was playing at a funeral… Heavy, serious, mustachioed, he was squeezing the bellows of his accordion effortlessly, as if they were opening and closing all by themselves. His face remained absolutely impassive and motionless, so we decided that he was a bad musician. One had to play with feeling and sadness at a funeral.

Suddenly, the procession stopped. Was it really over? Yes, it was. A small truck could be seen at the intersection, its sides lowered, its bed covered with carpets.

It was this truck onto which the coffin bearing Uncle Anatoly’s body was placed. The band stopped playing, the crowd split into groups and began to disperse. The truck and a few cars carrying relatives and friends drove off to the cemetery.

We, in turn, set out for home. It was a long walk, but the impressions we had would be enough for a long walk.

Ilyas’s funeral was quite different, and we didn’t feel the same about it as about Uncle Anatoly’s. Perhaps, it was due to the fact that the feelings we had for Ilyas were more full-fledged and humane. Whether it was that or something else, every time a conversation about the upcoming funeral started, we felt sad. We were sorry for Ilyas. And still we were going to attend his funeral, overwhelmed by that very unquenchable childish curiosity we couldn’t conceal. Ilyas didn’t just die, he drowned. Poor Ilyas was found a week after he had fallen into the arik. His body floated to the surface further downstream, by the fence of the reservoir near the hydroelectric station. We went to his place right away to bid him farewell, not on the day of the funeral but a day before.

To allay our fears, we showed up at his place in a large group – Kolya, Sasha, their sister Lena, Edem, Rustem, Vova Oparin and I. One of the adults took us to the bedroom. Our friend lay on the mattress, covered by a spread up to his waist. His head rested on a snow-white pillow, against which his face stood out distinctly. We squatted near the mattress in silence, trying to keep our eyes off the swollen blue-and-white bubble on which his slanted eyes were not visible, where his nose had slid down to his mouth, which had become tiny. A thin lock of hair could be seen on the upper part of the bubble. That was all that remained of Ilyas’s thick jet-black hair.

I was drawn to look at Ilyas, but as I did, I wanted to avert my eyes, and when I averted my eyes, I could picture Ilyas’s former face very clearly.

I remembered well a day when that face seemed especially nice, handsome and kind to me. On that day, two years before Ilyas’s death, the preparations for a ceremony were almost complete in the school cafeteria, which also served as an assembly and concert hall. We first graders were to join the Octobrists, and the third graders, the Young Pioneers. All the tables and chairs were piled on top of one another in a corner, which made the cafeteria look bigger. It seemed as if its walls had expanded. Sunlight poured through the windows and was reflected in the floor, polished to perfection.

The class on duty, 3A, was responsible for the ceremony. The third graders, wearing red armbands, ran around the hall, their faces concerned, carrying ladders, sticking posters on the wall, inflating balloons, helping set up microphones on the stage.

And they were all mumbling something. We could hear… “I give my solemn oath…to fulfill all the rules and customs…” Today they, the third graders, would have red ties tied around their necks.

But first, it was our turn.

All of us future Octobrists had been brought to the hall and directed to form three circles, one inside the other. The third graders stood inside the circles. The principal was saying something on the stage, but I was so nervous that I couldn’t understand what it was until I heard, “Future Young Pioneers, pass your batons to your young comrades!” And then, the third graders ran to us. I was so excited that it seemed to me they were not running but floating slowly and smoothly on a cloud. Someone floated to Zhenya Andreyev, who stood to my left. Someone approached Galya Bektashova, who was on my right. They were saying something, their hands flashing. Everything was happening in a fog; my heart was pounding, fear mixed with my excitement. Why hadn’t anyone run up to me? Maybe they had forgotten about me.

At that moment, a figure floated in my direction. Ilyas Ilyasov stopped in front of me. He undid his Octobrist star slowly, pinned it to my blue shirt and patted me on the shoulder.

“Congratulations, Valery! Now it’s yours. You’ve become an Octobrist.”

A smile lit his face as he turned around and began to walk away. It seemed as if he were floating, just the way he had approached me.

I saw his olive-skinned face with its broad smile and white teeth as I sat in Ilyas’s bedroom. And I didn’t want to think about what had happened to that face; I couldn’t.

Other people arrived to say farewell to our friend, and we left the bedroom. We sat on the bench near the entrance; we just sat there silently, swinging our feet. We didn’t feel like talking.

“The funeral will be tomorrow,” Rustem informed us. We knew that the funeral would be the next day.

What if this funeral were with music, like Uncle Anatoly’s.

“Uncle Anatoly,” I said pensively. We hadn’t used his nickname Bogeyman since he died.

“Is there justice in this world?” Vova Oparin echoed. “There’s no justice.”

We wordlessly agreed with him.

Even though there were many people at the entrance on the day of the funeral, it was very quiet. People talked in whispers, no one lamented. Ilyas’s mother didn’t wail and cry. Her face remains etched in my memory. It was absolutely motionless, as if it weren’t alive. Her eyes were sunken with black circles around them. People supported her on both sides, but she could still hardly walk. A stretcher was brought out. Our poor friend, wrapped in a dark cloth, lay on it. And all that was in silence, without music, crying or lamenting. It seemed strange that, with so many people around, it was so quiet.

Just as at Uncle Anatoly’s funeral, the procession moved toward the main street, though there was no coffin, just a stretcher, and a strange silence hung in the air. It was still silent when it reached the place where a van awaited. There were no musicians with instruments waiting for Ilyas.

It was a nice autumn day, still, quiet and clear. There were no dust devils swirling through the streets as so often happened at this time of year. It seemed that even the weather knew that it needed to play its role in sending Ilyas off on his last journey, in accordance with Tatar customs.

Chapter 20. We Don’t Give a … Spit

A gob of spit sailed down smoothly from above, moving in an arc until it plopped onto the asphalt below my window. It was accompanied by a sound I knew all too well. A second one followed, then a third, and so on, without stopping.

The frequency of the spitting allowed me to determine exactly how many members there were in the spitting party up above.

I, along with my friends, was so often engaged in that fascinating occupation that I had studied all its stages in detail, the speed at which the gobs fell and the sounds they made.

Now, my friends, the Edem brothers and Rustem, were engaged in spitting on the third floor, and I sat at my window on the ground floor and watched them play, without annoyance or envy.

“Aaaa-khem” was heard from above.

I knew very well what would follow.

That aa-khem sound, for instance, had just come from Rustem. I knew that he stood, holding the window frame with both hands like a gymnast holding onto a bar. He leaned back, threw back his head and snorted like a horse. Why did he do that? To get more saliva in his mouth… He now bent down to the very edge of the window and spat with all his might.

We boys had a different name for a gob of spit, we called it a kharchok. Consequently, the game, which was a competition to see who could spit the farthest without leaning out of the window was called kharching. It wasn’t a pleasant-sounding name, but… that was what we liked to call it.

So, why wasn’t I taking part in that wonderful competition today but rather sitting on my veranda as a detached observer?

I hadn’t been invited. It had been two days since the boys stopped playing with me and talking to me: they were ignoring me completely. Even though we hadn’t quarreled, I could guess what the matter was, and, though suffering from loneliness, I couldn’t force myself to ask for a truce.

We hadn’t quarreled, but our fathers had.

Ball playing near our entrance had been the cause of the quarrel. A big group of boys including Edik, Rustem and Kolya had been playing. In general, ball playing near the entrance was forbidden, but the boys broke that rule every now and then. Most often they would break the rule near our veranda. Perhaps that was what made the game especially delightful.

My father was the most explosive and intolerant adult in our building. That meant that the players enjoyed every opportunity to drive him crazy and listen to his yelling.