Chapter 5. The Smoke of Homeland

"You’ll have to wait," the white-haired soldier in the booth said.

We had landed in Tashkent an hour before. It was about 5:00 a.m. We could see through the terminal windows that it had just begun to get light. We were taken down the long corridor along with other arriving passengers, our footsteps resounding on the granite floor. And now all the passengers, suffering from exhaustion and uncertainty, were crowded into the passport control area.

"Your business visa was issued incorrectly," one of them was told.

"You don’t have a stamp. Pay for a visa at that window," another one was informed.

A long line had formed at “that window,” but no one was there to staff it. People in the line quietly expressed their indignation. You don’t find such disorder in document checking and processing in other airports around the world.

"What will he find wrong with our visas?" I thought in dismay. "They seem to be fine." But the soldier continued his examination, illuminating Mama’s picture with a blue light and glancing indifferently from her picture to her face and back.

"Is something wrong?" I had lost my nerve.

A long pause followed. "There are many fake American passports. As I told you, you’ll have to wait for my superior."

"White-haired goat!" I cursed, in my mind of course.

His superior showed up after forty minutes. He briefly perused our documents and nodded. “They're perfectly fine.” But that was not the end, far from the end. “Go there.” “Pay over there.” “Your baggage hasn’t been delivered yet.”

Mama, totally exhausted, sat down on the only chair in sight, and even it was backless. "You’ll never drag me here again."

“Yes," I thought, "Over these 15 years we’ve become quite unused to so many things." And there, outside, those who were meeting the arriving passengers had been waiting patiently all that time. Our Yakov, in leather jacket and eyeglasses, was among them. He waved his hand and smiled reassuringly from time to time.

The conveyer belt began to hum and suitcases and various bags began arriving from the far corner of the baggage claim area. Finally, our luggage arrived. The last ordeal – a search – and we were free.

A not-too-tall, well-built Yakov Gavrilovich, with his good-natured smile, hugged Mama and me. "How are you? How was your flight? Is everything all right?"

We climbed into his Zhiguli, and the wheels began to rumble along the asphalt. Mama and Yakov were talking animatedly, as I greedily inhaled the air that burst into the car. It was warm Asian air whose waves enveloped me in reminiscences. Korotky Lane… our courtyard… the apricot tree… the old town… my Teachers Training Institute… They were all here, within reach. Wide streets, ariks (small canals lining the streets), trees… They were all dormant in my memory, hiding there, biding their time, their moment to come back to life.

Turn after turn, street after street, square after square, Tashkent opened up before us. Yes, it was just the same as before. Most of the houses were made of concrete, some of brick. They were low and gray, though so beautiful in my imagination. The wide streets were lined with shade trees, and ariks ran along the sides. Both small and large parks were so clean and well kept. The city was distinguished by its cleanliness. It seemed that janitors, old women in kerchiefs were swishing their twig brooms day and night. A streetcar passed, sending up a shower of sparks. How familiar the squeaky sound of its wheels! We stopped at a light. Electric wires up in front of us began to move and as if before a long-awaited encounter, I became agitated, thinking, “Here it comes.” And here it was – a clunky streetcar immediately rounded the corner… “Puff, puff.” Sparks flew from the spot where the wires crossed. As we were waiting for the light to change, many cars arrived at the intersection. White gas fumes burst from exhaust pipes.

"They’re as stinky as before," Mama sighed.

"It's the gas we use," Yakov responded apologetically. "76."

“It doesn't stink at all," I thought. "Just smells a little. It’s even pleasant.”

They’d been waiting for us at Yakov’s place. His wife Tatyana and daughter Olga welcomed us from the doorway, and as soon as we saw them, we felt at home.

If you mixed together everything good, all the kindness and sensitivity a human being could have, then most likely people like Yakov and his wife would be the result. It was clear from the very first moment of our encounter that they were such people, without any duplicity and pretension.

Neither I nor Mama knew them very well. And when we had been getting ready for our trip, we had felt somewhat uncomfortable. Who were we to burden them with our grief and the severity of our situation? To take up their time, to crowd them, particularly in a country where every day living was a challenge? But they were the kind of people for whom helping others came as naturally as living and breathing. Perhaps, for them it happened all by itself, without any special decisions or careful consideration. That’s just the way the Ilyayev family was.

Tatyana, a woman of medium height with short hair, walked around quickly giving instructions.

"Valera, make yourself comfortable in the living room, and you, Esya, will have a rest on the veranda. It’s cozy… We’ll talk about everything later… You must be tired after your journey… Olya, is the bed ready?"

It was the middle of the day. Children’s ringing voices could be heard from outside. I didn’t want to waste time taking a nap, but we were obviously exhausted after a two-day journey that hadn’t yet come to an end. Besides, it was a different time zone… I couldn’t argue with our hostess.

"Yura should be calling soon to find out how our trip went," I told her. And with that, I was dead to the world.

Chapter 6. The Unfamiliar Lane

"Valera? Is that you?" Valentina Pavlovna asked with astonishment. Her voice on the phone sounded exactly as it had when she used to stand at the blackboard writing yet another rule of Russian grammar or sat at her desk reading from a book many years before. It was the same clear, precise, unhurried voice, and still a very dear one. "In Tashkent? With Mama?" she echoed. "Look, that’s wonderful!"

I don’t know if she remembered what I looked like, but I remembered her as if she were standing in front of me – her Slavic face with its gentle features, eyeglasses, short hair, her kind but piercing gaze. “Well, Yuabov? Show us what you know.” I generally enjoyed reading so I seldom blushed under that gaze of hers.

I remembered how during summer vacation I would come to her place to pick up another one of the books we were required to read during the summer (of course, there were many other books on her book shelves), and Valentina Pavlovna would tell her children, Kolya and Sasha, reproachfully, "Shame on you. Valera has already read all the required books. And you? What loafers you are!"

I would hesitate, blush and curse myself for not having come secretly at a time when they weren't at home. Now I would inevitably hear from them, “It’s your fault we're always in trouble.”

Valentina Pavlovna shouted “Ah!” when she learned that we would be in Tashkent for just three weeks. "Of course, we’ll get together. Will you visit me?"

"By all means."

We immediately decided when we would meet. I had to plan our time precisely. We wanted to see our friends and relatives, to visit the corners of Tashkent that I remembered with a heavy heart, and to go to Samarkand with Mama to visit her parents’ graves. So, the three weeks would be packed with activity.

It was Sunday. Yakov Gavrilovich and I were riding across Tashkent. Our destination was Korotky Lane, my childhood street, the house where I was born, the courtyard where I grew up, where my apricot tree stretched its branches toward the sky.

The Ilyayevs lived downtown. It was only a ten-minute ride there, but with every passing moment I felt more and more worried and tense, and there was something else I couldn’t put my finger on. Most likely this was all what one would call agitation.

A small park flashed by. There was something that surprised me about it; things around it were both familiar and strange…

"Yakov Gavrilovich, so where’s the Turkmensky market?" I exclaimed after I realized what was missing. "Where’s the market? I remember clearly that it was here."

"Yes, it was, but it’s not here any longer," Yakov sighed. "They renovated and reopened it, and then they had to close it. Prices went up after the renovation, and people stopped going there. It’s not accidental that they say it’s not a good idea to renovate markets."

We had left the small park far behind, but I was still sighing and shaking my head to drive away the memories that were clearly visible, like hallucinations – cool tents with stalls, bright heaps of vegetables and fruits, the merry hum of the crowd, ringing shouts of sellers hawking their goods – it was a strange, sad feeling, like losing a friend.

Meanwhile, we had almost arrived. Here was Herman Lopatin Street, still wide and quiet, with the same shop on the corner. We turned left, and there was Korotky Lane. It hadn’t changed either, thank God. But no, it wasn’t quite the same. Here on the corner there used to be garbage bins with black buzzing flies circling above them. I could hear them buzzing. Could I, or did it only seem so to me? Yes, it just seemed so. There were neither bins nor flies there. All right, it was probably for the better. And now our alley was paved in asphalt. It was a pity that there was no more green grass pushing its way up near the walls, and no dandelions – first yellow, then fluffy and grayish. Various bugs used to scurry back and forth here. They weren't there any longer. Even the walls that formed our alley had changed. In the past they were made of clay with bits of straw sticking out of them. Now they were smooth and polished. What a pity. It would have been nice to pull at the straw.

Only one person could have carried out all those innovations – the new owner of our house, because the only gate in the alley was ours or, to be precise, his. I just couldn’t get used to that.

The gate wasn’t the same. Ours had been made of dark-red wood, with the number “6” in white chalk on it. Instead, I saw something bulky, made of metal in an indistinguishable color. The light bulb on the thin rod wasn’t there either. Even though it had been dim, it had been like a beacon for all of us coming home when it was dark. Now there were living quarters above the gate.

“What the heck is this?" I thought angrily. "What have they done here?" I couldn't quite accept the idea that the courtyard didn’t belong to me any longer. I couldn’t reconcile my memory with the reality, and I continued to look for something sweet and dear to my heart. I heard hens clucking behind the gate, and I was ridiculously happy because they were clucking just as they had in the old days.

I was a little afraid. What if he wouldn’t let us in, this new owner? I didn’t know him at all. I’d never seen him, but I already didn’t like him. As Yakov Gavrilovich was ringing the bell – Another innovation! Why would one need a bell if there was a gate to knock at? – I tried to catch a familiar sound from behind the wall on the right. There had been a time when the neighbor’s cow would press against the wall, chewing her hay with noisy enthusiasm. I used to call her and she knew my voice, so she would moo in answer. But now the wall was silent.

The door in the gate opened slightly. We could see a short middle-aged man with a face as inexpressive and colorless as the metal gate. He listened to us with an expression of perplexity and hostility on his face. He couldn’t understand what had brought us there. I had grown up here? So what? There was nothing for me to look at. Nothing old is left here, nothing. He had replaced everything. Everything here was new. It was his. There was nothing for me to do here. And then, the expression that appeared on his face reminded me of the huge iron padlock hanging from the gate. I understood that we would not be allowed to enter.

As Yakov continued negotiating, now trying to ingratiate himself, now becoming excited, with this disgusting character, I tried to look into the courtyard. But the new owner placed himself in the half-open door like a solid rock. The space was blocked by his shoulders, his belly sticking out from under his T-shirt, and his unshaven mug. I spun like a top and stretched my neck, but all my eyes could glimpse was cement, gray and bleak.

“My apricot tree. Where’s my apricot tree? You unshaven ogre, what have you done to it?" No, I couldn’t see my apricot tree through that human blockade.

A frightening silence hung in the air of the courtyard. The hens were silent. I didn’t hear a single bark or the clanking of a dog chain. Jack couldn’t possibly be there, but it would be good to hear the presence of any dog. A Tashkent courtyard without a dog is nothing. But there was nothing alive in this courtyard after all, for this soulless indifferent guardian of someone else's place, which had been stripped of its soul, didn't quite seem alive.

For a few days I was overwhelmed with anger and longing. Then I couldn’t wait any longer and went to Korotky Lane without saying a word to anyone. I will give in, I thought. I will be polite and charming. I will explain that I have come from far away. I will tell him that I have dreamed of seeing the courtyard of my childhood. And maybe I’ll be lucky, and that character won’t be at home? Today’s a working day… and women… they are definitely gentler.

This time I didn’t ring the bell. I pleased myself by knocking hard on the gate. The rattling sound echoed between the walls.

I was out of luck again. The owner was at home. He opened the door. This time he wasn't wearing that shabby undershirt. He was wearing a suit and tie, but he refused to change the expression on his face. Well, he probably couldn't, even if he wished to.

He interrupted my eloquent explanation decisively and quickly. "So, what is it? You’re from America? I asked you not to come here again."

And the door in the gate was slammed in my face, obviously for good.