It was six month since I had given up plying gambling games. Sometimes I played cards but not for money. Just for pleasure. I liked the game of cards called "Durak" . When I played it Usta Garib happened to be my constant and unfortunate rival. He lost each time, becoming a fool. Winning the game I would leave two cards of six and put them on his shoulders saying:
- These are shoulder loops for you. You are a legendary marshal of fools.
I remember once we sat by the widely open windows of his barber"s shop playing the game. Making a psychological attack, I said:
- Usta, have you ever read Osip Mandelstam"s poems? You see, there"s such a poet, Osip Mandelstam by name..
-No, Usta replied looking at the newspaper "Yosh Leninchi" spread on the table with a pack of cards on it..
- And who on earth is that, Osip Mandilistap?...
- Mandelstam, not Mandilistap - I corrected him throwing a trump card.
- Mandilstap or Mandulstamp... what difference does it make? - Usta mumbled fixing his eyes on the cards.
.-The point is that the poet once wrote rhymes about you.
-Oh really? - Usta Garib said collecting all the cards lying on the newspaper "Yosh Leninchi" for lack of a tramp card in his hand - And what are the rhymes about? - he asked setting the cards right.
- This is what he wrote:
Authority is disgusting
Like the hands of a barba.
- Barba is the Latin word for barber or hairdresser - I explained - He meant to say that power in the country is just as ghastly as the hands of a barber.
- Pooh, sh-shugar! - cursed Usta Garib - did he really write that? Well, well! And
why on earth does he write such rhymes about me? What have I done to him? Dash! I serve people doing it from the bottom of my heart, cutting their hair, and there you are! Ungrateful clients...What editorial office does he work at, this what do you call him...Moldingstuff?
- He hasn"t been working for quite a long time -I said - He was shot during the reprisals under Stalin.
- Oh, really? - Usta Garib said - I thought he was our contemporary poet. Anyway, Stalin was right having shot him. Just think, why should he write such bad poems? He might as well have written, say, about flowers or something... Women... Love... Or about wine and vodka, the way Omar Hayam did, eh? And this poet, what do you call him, takes a pen and scribbles a poem about barbers whose hands he describes as ghastly.
Looking at his hands, Usta Garib meditated for a moment. Then he asked:
- Was Stalin also a barber, I wonder?
Looking at Usta Garib in surprise, I answered:
- Yes, he was a great barber. With a big razor in his hand he shaved all that was growing around.
- Good for him! So he was a colleague of mine. Well, I just didn"t know it - Usta said admiringly. He must have had many clients?
- Yes he had millions of clients, millions.. He had shaved them all - I said finishing off the game, and then added triumphantly:
: - Here are two cards of six for you to sew them up on your shoulders.
- Al Kizim, how do you manage to win the game all the time? Shaitan himself must be prompting you - Usta Garib said collecting the cards - Shall we play another game?
- No, thank you - I refused - I think I should be going. And you look into the mirror and go on playing cards with your reflection. I believe that you will win by all means.
Usta Garib did not respond to what I said. No, he was looking through the widely open windows out into the street where his house stood with a truck resembling a meat carrier. Two men were unloading something like furniture. Watching the scene, Ysta Garib said in surprise:
- Dash! What are they unloading? Perchance, Adil has sent me his debt in goods. My wife is scolding them. Poor Adil! He should have paid me in cash. It"s against the thievish law. I shall not let it pass. I will go and talk to the deal settlers without delay and let them know. I"ll be damned if I don"t! I swear on my sacred noskavok .
- Well, Al Kiziv, come along! I will send his furniture back to him. Let him pay in cash. What do I need this furniture for? I can do without it. I am not a city man, after all.
We ran to the car. When we approached it we saw an officer and four soldiers there. With Kalashnikov submachine guns hanging down their shoulders the soldiers, bending their heads, were standing, caps off, by a zinc coffin. Usta Garib"s wife, hugging the coffin, was crying bitterly. On seeing this, Usta Garib grew pale in the face and lips.
The officer, taking his cap off, came up to Usta Garib and, pointing to the address and, conveying his condolences, handed him in a letter from the Command.
-Oh no-oo-oo! No that! Oh my Go-oo-od!! Allayar-ja-aa-aan! Sonny! My only one! No-oo! Alla-ya-aar! It"s entirely my fault! Allah has punished me for playing the gambling game! Pardon me, sonny!
On hearing the noise, the neighbors came out, and a crowd of people gathered round. Usta Garib"s wife writhed in hysterics, tearing her hair, and, dashing against the pole, badly hurt her forehead. She fainted. The wound was bleeding. Her head turned red from blood. The women took her up trying her bring her round. To stop the blood, some one brought soot from the boiler. Then they put the soot on the wound and dressed it.
Usta Garib was still whining. I, too, shed my tears sincerely because Allayar was the nicest boy in Matarak. Usta Garib kept sobbing. The soldiers, whipping their tears with their helmets, were also crying.
Usta Garib cried so loudly and bitterly that he lost his voice and became hoarse.
Meanwhile the soldiers carried the coffin into the house. By lunch time all the relatives had gathered there. There were sympathetic people outside as well. They stood feeling with Usta Garib and talking in a whisper.
Finally, Sheikh Zainutdin Ibn Gainutdin, the imam of the mosque, arrived to utter the mourning prayer for the soul of the deceased.
He told people what to do:
- Mullah Salim, you go to the grave digger and dig the grave with him.Mullah Churan, you run to Gassalam. Tell him to come and wash the deceased. Mullah Buribay, you go on your car and bring the welder Irgashbay Ibn Rahimjan, so that he might open the lid of the zinc coffin.
After his words had been translated the officer came up to him and started speaking. I translated him. He said as follows:
- I forbid you to open the lid of the coffin and demand that you abide by the laws of the USSR. For according to the Constitution all people, young and old alike, are equal before the law.
Here is the official paper which says that opening the lid of the coffin is strictly forbidden. If you don"t want an epidemic to spread you had better stop.
But Sheikh Zainutdin Ibn Gainutdin interruptd him:
- Yes, you are right. But the Soviet laws and the State Constitution are not for the dead,
so you have no right to mpose a ban on us. After one dies one becomes independent of the laws passed by humans. We just have to open the coffin to perform the act of ablution оf the deceased who is a convinced Muslim belonging to Islam, and we should wrap him in a shroud and bury him according to the laws of Sharia , that is the laws of Allah.
Then the officer said:
-All right, Comrade Mullah, but in that case you will have to hand in a written refusal so that I might give my account to my commanders.
- Agreed - said Sheikh Zainutdin Ibn Gainutdin and wrote an explanation note on the paper given to him by the officer.
Now Buribay Ramazanov had brought the welder Irgash ibn Rahimjan who lived near Usta garib"s house. They quickly filled up the welding unit with carbide and got down to work cutting the lid of the coffin. When they had finished Ramazanov opened the lid and for a moment stood stock-still in puzzlement, like a bronze statue. All those present who dared to look into the coffin also stood petrified. The one lying in the coffin was not Allayar but another young man, red haired, with his throat cut. Little yellow centipedes ran about his face.
Ramazanov vomited throwing it up on the lid of the coffin. Usta Garib stood staring, now into the coffin, now at the officer. Then, pulling his knife out of the sheath, he dashed toward the officer and the soldiers. He shouted like mad.
- I will kill you! I"ll be damned, if I don"t stab you! What an outrage! Where"s my son? Answer, you jackal! Where"s Allayar! Tell me now, you brute! Why are you silent, you swine?!
Usta Karib was foaming at the mouth, like a mad dog. The frightened officer withdrew the pistol from the holster aiming at Usta Garib. Zainutdin Ibn Gainutdin started soothing Usta Garib:
- Mullah Garib, pull yourself together. Your son is probably safe and sound, in praise of Allah. You should be grateful to God Almighty for He loves the gratifying...
Seizing at the opportunity, the frightened officer told the soldiers to load the coffin with the body of a young soldier of the Soviet Army back into the catafalque. The soldiers did as the officer ordered, and they left the scene quickly.
. The citizens were at a loss. Zainutdin Ibn Gainutdin started beating a retreat to the grave diggers and other organizers and addressing to Usta Garib said:
- Compose yourself, Mullah Garib. It"s good that we opened the coffin. It turned out to be a big misunderstandg. But that soldier, too, deserves compassion. Somewhere in remote plces his parents are waiting for him. . God rest his soul! All people, regardless of belief and race, are children of Adam and Eve. All people are equal before God. The damned war! War is a Satan"s creation! Let us pray for peace in the world so that young men might not die. Let us pray for the safe and sound return of Usta Garib"s son. Amen, Allah Akbar! May God bless us!
We prayed for the soldier of the whole world and for Allayar. Then we all went home.
Durak - (fool, also known as Stupid or Idiot) a card game that is popular throughout most of the former Soviet Union
Osip Emilyevich Mandelstam (also spelled Mandelshtam (January 15 [O.S. January 3] 1891 - December 27, 1938) , a Russian poet and essayist, one of the foremost members of the Acmeist school of poets.
Noskavok - a finished container made of cleaned little pumpkin (fist size) used for keeping granulated tobacco which is consumed by Uzbek people by putting a pinch of it under the tongue - (author"s note)