Zhusipbek Aymautov

Akbilek

Novel

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Part one AKBILEK

Ust-Kamen land.

On the right bank of the Bukhtarma-river Altai presented its beauty to the whole world.

Where the Irtysh-river falls from the southern Altai heights gliding in the soaring,

Kurshim area hides itself captivating autumn. Primordial silence.

The Altai Kurshim is the Naimans’ nest built since times immemorial and they sit there

densely and well-born gently.

Kurshim winter is grasping, not a snowflake but a fluffy lump falls from the sky, while

summer is flying like fast mountain wind.

When it gets a little warmer, the snow thaws a bit, runs fast in a stream. There and then

every cattle whims, fawns up to the piny ancestor Altai, carefully pattering its

regenerative and guarding chest, I say it right.

The old man Altai raised a hand to its head and keeps the winy Markakol Lake on it safe–

don’t you ever dare to touch it! - with its honey flavor, heavenly secrets and an empyreal

face.

The necklace of Markakol is the snow-white yurts of the Altai people with pearly specks.

The mountain dwellers, Altai darlings, like marals have their own caprice – they look

down nose at the others, nobody and anything constrains them – it is their own will that

lies in the captivity of Markakol breath.

Fresh and sweet is the water of Markakol. The divine udder creatures are fed by its water

and grass. They whiten while being milked peasant wive’s hips from enclasped teats and

fill in leather buckets — it’s not milk but real bliss. And kumiss frets in the waterskins

darkened by past times. It’s healing and thick with golden spots of fat. A man drinks one

cup of it, gets red, his mouth buzzes like kobyz and sinks into the arms of the world of

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paradise. Drunk he is, his soul is lighter than a fly, he has saddled all seventy Altai winds

and kicks up wrestling games and races, and horses clatter playing, and the mountains

rattle.

Oh, if you ever dare to describe Altai beautiful women – all Altai gods will lack the

words. Only praiseful mirrors are able to reflect their faces: their eyes are like the eyes of

fawns, the skin is as white as snow, their laughter is a blistering dawn, and the figure is

svelte as the branch of white willow. When look they backwards swaying a bit and smile

with challenge—you worship the ground they walk on. And when their tongues catch

your sight, immediately you will be pinned with your voluptuous fantasies somewhere

high, perhaps right to the roof of space.

But that is not the point! Are you ready to listen, ready to hear everything-aha? I will get

across thoroughly: how did it happen and why. Come up nearer, take seats and bend your

ears. Not a fairy tale, as they say, once upon a time there lived... I’ll tell my story in plain

words, neither brief but nor overlong it’ll be. So, let’s leave the empty talk, I’d rather

start. I’m not that good at versifying, don’t take it a miss if I don’t seem a phrasemonger

to you.

So, in those lands along the nighty paths a solitary horseman, a dark fellow, is sneaking

on his motley horse. He has left Kurshim behind, ahead is Karaekem, rocky deadend

ravine, ferny with bulrush. It’s even not a ravine but a gap, when you enter it – you never

get out. He hides his face from noble Altai, in the darkness slides at a trot to stony slit.

Who is he, the man entering the narrow gates of underground, if not he is a death-driven

animal or is the earthborn soul that stole cattle?

The rider, before to finally sink in the ravine, stopped the horse, looked around.

Somebody in grey is lying with a gun in a stony bed at the edge of a rocky wall. When

this grey man saw the rider on the motley horse he lifted a white scarf, the latter waved

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back with his whitish hat. Then both the lean horseman and the grey owner of the gun

came closer and together moved into the ravine depth.

Meanwhile so the things are going at Kurshim: people and cattle that stored fat at the

highland Markakol pastures went down to the roots of the mountains and settled into their

wintering again. Mamyrbai workfolk closed the sheds, cleaned up in the house, and lit a

stove. Mamyrbai’s wife, Baibishe¹, waddling with an air of importance, ordered servants

to dust out the thick felt of the yurt and to put it away after folding it. The beloved

daughter of Mamyrbai, Akbilek in white dress flying in the wind, clinking golden

earrings and silver pendants, shook red and yellow blankets and was carrying them home.

She was just running past her mother when the latter, glumly blinking, grumpily pattered:

What’s in the eye there? — and began spinning on the spot...

Nothing is there... it’s to the joy... what eye is it?..

— To the joy it’ll be, aha, — the left eye — and stopped in silence: who had sent her

this bad luck?

After paying for the delivered hay and watching the workers tidying at hayloft, in the

fresh air Mamyrbai reflected on politics - he wouldn’t stand aside while everyone is

involved in the party concerns now. And in the evening he returned home.

The cattle went down the mountain slopes and scattered to their breeding grounds. The

children noise, workers’ shouts, the cattle bellow, a soul-disturbing barking of dogs... The

aul began to puff. The roar of the river. Red dusk. People took care of the cattle, boiled

tea and began to settle for rest.

The sun has not disappeared yet when out of the already mentioned deep ravine four

horsemen tore closely like wolves. One of them is the one on the motley horse already

familiar to us. The three others were in overcoats, with guns and sabers. All the four

rushed to the lowland heatedly without a pause. Bridle-bits grated in the chaps of the

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horses. Lowering, galloping by paths full of winds and twists, they burst into the aul that

nestled as in a den. They burst in noisily. Then they frightened, pressed down the alarmed

people:

— Ah, rascals! Give us the horses!..

The gun is aimed at you, whip is over you! Unless you find horses, will go you for

nothing?

They took away horses and a tripod out of the pot, things... rugs, blankets, bags, pants...

—everything became not yours all at once!

¹ - Baibishe – the first, senior wife of Bai – a large land owner (or catlle owner) in Central

Asia, Kazakhstan, Altai

Yourness... Master...

Oh, Lord, save!

— Have a mercy, we are in no way to blame... — the only thing they could utter.

The servants have just brought in freshly brewed tea; have only praised Allah as one of

Mamyrbai workers ran into the room:

Raided!

Who, who did?

Greyish-grey...

Who are they?

All of them are Russians!

All that Mamyrbai could say was:

— Clear up, hide, run, hide yourself!

The tablecloth remained uncleared, the utilities rolled down, things were thrown in a

mess, Mamyrbai himself rushed with crash either to the doors or deep into the house ... a

moment- and you can see neither his wife, nor daughter or the trouble-messenger.

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Mamyrbai’s finally decided to run, opened widely the entrance door and three guns set

against his chest. Bai swayed and collapsed in the next breath.

Beaten by gun-butts and flogged along by blades, the aul men puffing from short breath,

thrusted their well-doer Aqsaqal¹ Mamyrbai into a shed for cold meat and hung a cast-

iron lock. Remembering the Allah and mincing to the corner of this building, Baibishe

ran up and immediatley came across the Russians.

Where are you from?

Here... here, — she started...

Have this — “here-here”! — and one of them hit her with a lash to the flashes in the eyes.

A white turban slid to the face and the face slid from the mouth.

Bring here the daughter! I said: bring!

Whose daughter, well-doer?!

Your daughter, your!

Oh, I’ve no daughter!

You have! You’ll drag her in!

The Russian slashed again. The woman began to moan, to whimper:

No, I’ve no daughter —she lied as could.

I’ll find on my on — dropped the Russian and dashed to

¹ - Aqsaqal – “white beard” – refers to male elders, the old and wise

search.

The three Russians took the lanterns and started to search the entire house, they looked

behind the bales with things, behind the stove, kicked down a pile of dry, just good for

fire, cow patties—missed they no nooks, any hollows; and where it was impossible to

peep into, poked with a sharp pole. All in vain, there was no girl.

As Baibishe heard at tea about the Russians, instantly she grabbed the daughter –then into

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the low back door and rushed quietly dragging Akbilek and bending down rather far from

home. There-here, she finally squeezed her in some hole in the ground: “Don’t ever dare

to move!”— and returned. Here she came across those three in grey overcoats that hadn’t

found the girl. The Russians angrily but with the same sticktoitiveness pressed the

mother, gave her twenty-five lashes. She was afraid: what if her shriek reached Akbilek

and a maiden soul would jump in panic out of the tender body. She gritted her teeth

allowing only herself to gnash them. How could it be the other way, how could she give

the kaffir her bundle of joy, guarded from both cold wind and the heat of the sun?

Wicked night of carefree aul filled with malicious barking of dogs. There spread

mismatched people’s yap that had never been heard before. There was the entire clan in

the aul, and of all things only three werewolves with guns threshed the life out of it in a

flash.

On the outskirts of the aul shot with fear, the horseman with an unpleasant face and dark

thoughts prowled straining his ears and leading two horses. When growning rose upon the

aul, he unhurriedly headed further in the darkness. The animal under him gave a loud

snort, jerked. The rider drew the bridle, slowly took his leg out of stirrup and softly

jumped down onto the grass. Having bound harness straps of three horses tightly he bent

down, got together as a wolf and moved ahead. Five-six cautious steps and his ears

caught a faint sound, close to rustling of the plant, which broke through never-ceasing

nightmarish bark in the aul. Another step – his foot got hung up above a hole, in which

something moved slightly.

Uncle... — a voice murmured.

Is that you, Akbilek? — as if he knew it full well.

Me, save me, uncle, — and she started to crawl out of a cave.

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I will. Hide yourself. Lie down here for a while, — replied the Kazakh and disappeared in

a fuss.

So Akbilek remained with her arms stretched. And that man seemed to stop somewhere

close, seemed to have already saddled, seemed to hurry. Probably he decided to come

back to her on a horse, now she was saved from death. My God! She implored while that

pattering sound of hoofs didn’t close in but started moving away. The arms still stretched

as if expecting for help of an angel from the Saviour warrior-host but the hoof beat was

on the way far and far away...he rode away.

The hands gave away, knees slid down and she seemed to fall down into a bottomless

underground zindan.

A desperate bark from the aul quietened down, puppyish yelp was replaced by spiteful

growling of dogs and only sometimes a doggess let out a small screech. And then, it

seemed as if somebody whistled. The straying away dog’s yapping began to approach

again, they have already been tearing to pieces, gr-r-r-r!...And in a little while death

would attack with snarling the poor girl. Again there was a horse clatter in the aul.

Somewhere near they talked hushfully. Akbilek’s heart pounded brokenly. What else

could happen to it when a hoof is above it – clip-clop! To hide thunder in her chest she

covered the heart with her hands. Neither stones nor iron but death gritted, drummed in

the temples. And like its harbingers three cold faces hung over her. The hole deepened

into a grave. She beat against cold ground walls like a lark in a cage. Went totally mad:

— Mommy, ah!

Her voice dashed towards the mountains and split against the rocks ringing. No matter

how tightly ruthless forged fingers squeezed her mouth, a desperate calling of her

wiggled out together with her for a moment and again flew up, reached and clung to

mother’s ears. Mother, lost in the darkness and pain, threw herself as an owl to a cheep of

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its nestling. Ran up, God knows how could she seize her dear dove from the hands of two

soldiers and cover with her body. They dragged her from daughter this and that way,

finally hit her with gun-butts, and she left the daughter, but clutched at them. She

knocked one of them down, then another one, started to beat them, the third one backed

off. Released Akbilek rushed to the mother but when she saw what was the latter busy

with, dashed back to her hole, mother ran after her. This moment the military that stood

aside shot straight below her breastbone.

— Alla-ah! — screamed and fell down.

The Russian trio threw Akbilek across a horse and disappeared.

The baby cried excitedly to her mother, the earth and the sky began to shake, hoofs

rumbled, next the mountains thundered, again barked the dogs.

Where, how? — and a chase started straight off.

On your horses!

The earth, the skies have been already howling, stones gritted. Having noticed the

chasers, two Russians broke off their running and started pinpoint firing. One of the

chasers broke into two, grabbed the horse’s mane, sliding despondently off the saddle.

Those who were riding after him drew reins of their horses at a loss, began to get off

them.

Who was that queer specimen on the motley horse? Who were those Russians that

abducted the girl? And what was the name of the man shot in the attempt to free the girl?

Should we call all names? Or should we make them speak on their own?

Let’s vote. Who are for us to report everything on our own, raise your hands? One,

two...no, let those people raise their hands who want to hear the voices of the characters.

Four, Five... Together with me we make up the majority. Thus, let them face the music on

their own.

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First will speak the fellow who caught a bullet.

I’m of dark complexion, middle height, with deeply set eyes, nose is as bulbous as

sheep’s one, but my moustache is foxy one. I am sort of twenty seven. My name is

Bekbolat. On my head I am wearing a winter astrakhan hat trimmed with velvet, on my

shoulders – a Russian-style jacket, grey chapan, triced up with a morocco and silver belt,

there are worn-out high boots on my feet. I have a leather cloak with me, on the belt there

is a sharp knife with an intricate bony handle and small strap from a cover for a drum –

you can’t say that I’m a stranger to the arts.

I am a guy from a rich family, though by today’s measures – from a prosperous one. We

had five hundred sheep, two hundred horses, up to sixty heads of cows; the number of

camels reached twenty, now almost nothing has left from the former flocks and herds.

Our father had been the chief of our people, headed the aul and judged in the

neighborhood over a long period of time. This way he could be even presented: authority.

The elder brother married, separated, and received his part of fortune. My junior brother

studies in Semipalatinsk. After my mother died from consumption in the Year of the

Horse, the father married the whitish, with the nose like bawyrsak, poor old maid, paid

fifteen heads of cattle extra the set Dower. Since that time she has been an albatross

around his neck.

Besides that father paid the routine tax to the mosque and observed rigidly all directions

in the holy month of Ramadan. He also kept by his side a slick Hodge with pointed up

moustache. The Hodge seemed to teach us, kids. For seven years we had suffered

torments with him. In the summer it was a separately fixed yurt, in the winter it was a

living room at home. No matter how I beat off nor used bad words, played pranks and

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then tasted the teacher’s stick, all the same I was taught to read and write. Only after the

father had run the Hodge off for his fun with a neighbor, we breathed a sigh of relief. And

all hell broke loose – since my fifteen, having heard plenty of saucy tales from the

experienced guys, I gave peace to no young woman, sneaked after them at nights, broke

into the doors, squeezed through, tore away... I entered a company of jolly nice dzhigits¹,

was insatiable for merrymaking and tricky jokes, learned to sing and play dombra, to fire

a gun, to hunt with hounds and golden eagles. I‘ve fed, cured, trained and lost so many

birds that I’ve myself learnt to speak bird language. Wonders will never cease! I have a

tireless fast horse under my saddle, a raptorial hawk on my arm; I’m fashionably dressed,

I ride all around the lands shooting ducks and geese, and in the dark evenings I keep my

eye after the beauties but who of them can resist me!

And the father is busy with his concerns, he judges and reconciles, punishing thieves,

untangling squabbles, justifying the innocent and bringing together barrators nose to nose.

He is constantly on the road, and when at home-he sits and whispers secrets with the

petitioners and gives guidance to amenables. Oh, certainly, there should be no other way;

the people will play fools totally. But I, unlike my elder brother, kept out f this. I am not

keen on chatting, I have my own interests. But they have also given up on me long ago,

they say, such he was born,

¹ - dzhigit, also spelled as djigit or jigit – used in Central Asia to describe a skilful and

brave young man, or brave person in general

sometimes they keep a displeased eye, it happens they praise when I return from hunting

with a shot fur animal and that’s enough. That is why I don’t care all these tribal quarrels

and clan honor. If, of course, we have to fight with strangers or to return the woman that

ran away from her husband, then I’m in with everyone.

My father wanted me to marry one hollow dark girl but I beat off and started a talk about

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Akbilek, Mamyrbai’s daughter. I had already found out everything about her. Clear thing,

nobody was waiting for me as a groom with open arms, as a guest I was not welcomed

either. As they, perhaps, considered that I set my eyes more on a dowry. But then, I think,

the father of the only daughter, who seemed to like me too, made up his mind not to break

her destiny to his own will and sent a man to me with such words: let her decide, and I

hurried to her immediately.

I had to turn several times and race with red hares that jumped out of the boulders so that

not to give them run across our road. Then we could have made it to there in time.

Approaching the aul we heard really rabid dogs, stopped and suddenly heard woeful cry

of Akbilek: “Mommy!” – then – a shot. Somebody took off, they’re speeding away, here

I could not stand it and thought – ah, I’d lose my head but wouldn’t let them go away just

for fun! I took after them. As soon as I started to catch up with two horsemen, a bullet

stuck into my right shoulder. It went dark in the eyes, and everything was spinning

around. I don’t know – what next happened to me there. Yeah, my friend, who could have

expected for this? Wonders will never cease! They stood around me frightened; it looked

like they stopped the further chasing. Ah, then we would have caught up with them for

sure. What a terrible pity, I laid myself open, and they sent you to gra-a-ave! Clansmen

and friends, where is my fault? That I lost Akbilek? If pity of at least the size of a fly

stirred in your soul, then why were you standing ramrod straight?

Perhaps the Kazakhs have the right to accuse us both of plundering and stealing the girl,

have they the right to accuse in the death of a man too; have they, if to face it, every

reason to think of us as bandits. How could they, being mountained off, having no idea

what happens in this world and living like wild animals, realize our goals and understand

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us?

Excuse me, gentlemen, could there be found a man who wished his exile from the land of

his fathers, parting with the relatives and close people? A man, who wouldn’t love peace

and carefree, full of high sense life among them? A man, who wouldn’t dream of a

sudden meeting with a beautiful woman in a dark garden, of tender embraces and a coo of

admiration into his ear? Everyone’s will is to live after his own heart, why is life coming

around the other way? What is a justness of lots, awarding one with happiness and giving

grief to the other? Everything is destined beforehand. The man has only to obey the long

arm of coincidence. The Universe forces us upon its inevitable choice: it is a stranger to

freedom.

If it were not for fatality of the Universe, would there we be among the Kazakhs in the

mountain vice between China and Altai? I am the youngest son of the landlord of

Tambov province. My grandfather at the times of His Imperial Majesty Alexander II in

the Turkish campaign commanded an army, and his warrior’s road steeped in glory. My

father waged war too, he served until getting a high rank, in his autumn years returned to

the family manor, sowed bread and kept a rich house. Vastness of well-cared-for fields, a

shady garden, a stone manor house, a stable with racers, kennels with greyhounds... we

had all of these!

One of my brothers graduated from the faculty of law at University and then went with

me to the Military Academy. Of the four brothers I was the most unpresentable but at the

German front I was the first to distinguish myself, the first one who was promoted to a

higher rank. Without any hesitation we went to war to defend the Tsar, Motherland and

our people. And would there live ignorant Kazakhs in good health and well-being unless

we had stood to guard the native frontiers? Would they, if it had not been our, Russians,

swordcraft? Well, they should be grateful to us only for the fact that they hid under the

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mighty hand within the Russian borders. And what is the use of them to the state? Except

for those four roubles of taxes that they paid from every household and the deliveries they

made to food depots? They drink kumiss at their pleasure appeasing the bellies and look

at the women while scratching their thighs. And when they were called out for rearward

works – no! - they balked immediately, got frightened. The Kazakhs are afraid of soldier

service to death. They assure that when they took out the Russian citizenship, the

Empress Catherine promised by way of an oath and with a stroke of the pen on the

Agreement not to razor them to soldiers. Actually, the cowardish reluctance of the

Kazakhs to serve in the army did not cause anybody’s special objections. Who could vow

that the weapon they had in their arms wouldn’t turn against us if we suddenly seemed

enemies to them? In such a case the integrity of the Russian Empire could have been at

threat. It’s quite possible, that having the weapon in their arms they could have rebelled

with all their lands and cattle and fell under the sway of another state. You can’t think

seriously that they are able to live independently. So, they should obey us, the Russians.

There is no nation in the world than we are, capable to reliably take care of them.

Perhaps, they are offended at us because of lands. The land belongs to the treasury.

Naturally, when there was lack of arable lands we had to pass to the peasants those lands

that they regarded to be their own. They have plenty of them. The Kazakhs use to think

that they have the right as it was earlier, to roam across the steppe at their own sweet will.

But there are also other nations in the world apart from them; they also need to live on

somehow. That is why you needn’t be angry if excesses of lands are passed to the others.

You should also sow and harvest, build the cities and live in them. Then noone will

squeeze up at this land. But the Kazakhs don’t want to understand this.

The Kazaks think themselves to be humiliated and blame us. And how would their

offences have found their expression for us if they had been armed and the Kazakh troops

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would have happened within the Russian cities and villages? Wouldn’t they plunder and

rape? However, such has already happened. Just yesterday in Semirechye, when the land

plots were cut off for the migrants, the Kazakhs mobilized into the entire army. Didn’t

they blade the innocent peasants into pieces? Didn’t they rob the belongings and savage

women? Let’s recall three-hundred year mocking Tatar yoke. The Kazakhs were also

involved in it, and brutality that reigned in those centuries – wasn’t it all their doing? The

Russian ambassadors that arrived at the Horde were pressed down by wooden deck on

which the feasts were made. So, my dears, your ventures are also known. But for the

God’s grace, such cards fall out for you, you will hardly demonstrate touching pity to us.

And what a tough luck, no occasion occurs.

Anyway, we didn’t care a lot abot the Kazakhs. No one expected us to be here. Simply

the Empire after collapse split into two, the Tsar was kicked away from the throne, the

power was usurped by the proletarian rabble, soldiers and damned Bolsheviks; and we,

Russia’s best sons who rose against dictatorship, backing off in deadly battles, found

ourselves at the edge of the world. Those who ran for dear life hid in China. And we,

about seventy officers of the army and fleet, debris of all retreating troops, clung to Altai

rocks and now withstand the Reds as hard as we can. They’ve planned to starve us to

death, to finish off with frosts when we have neither medicines nor ammunition.

Otherwise they won’t do us to death where there is a way in but any way out. Do they

seriously expect us to die this way – humbly, idly - in the mountains? They force us to

attack the Kazakhs and take the cattle to scuttle, felt mats and blankets for our bodies.

Actually for those who are still alive it’s also nice to have the utensils.

No need to say that while being at a deserted, making the heart only sick, mountain

caving, a normal man will lose his wits without the known stuff. Lust...by no means it is a

poetic passion, but, I beat my breast, we – are young, the blood in the veins hasn’t grown

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cold yet. To hell with it, with lust, you simply get tired of being in long spite and at each

other’s throat. And we are able to love, can’t imagine a life without a woman, I say - not a

small fish in a big pond. But where are women? The Kazakhs have them. They are people

too. The black eyes of the Kazakh women hold their ground to the European eyes in their

magic. Unless, certainly, to expect from them a charm of Parisian coquettes.

Dislike of the Kazakhs to us is explained only by the ignorance natural for them, ah, what

a trouble – their women do not like us either! But we don’t need their love, we need their

young girls. And our hearts belong to Russian beauties, don’t they? Backwardness gives

birth to estrangement; educated people don’t avoid the other nation, would the European-

educated Kazakhs marry Russian girls if they did not fall in love with them?

If we killed the Kazakhs, so it just happened in the heat of a battle, in a crazy

confrontation... anyway, it’s all the same: to finish off either a man or a hen – one-two

jerks and that’s all. Who knows why is it so: either we got used while living in the jillions

of deaths or we have died out inside...In principle, what is life, and what is death? A man

is born to die. What difference does it make: now or tomorrow? The entire life flies

before you blink. So, take everything from it, all delight and sweetness promised by her

moments. There’s nothing afterwards. And what’s ahead – a red-ear wolf winter frightens

with its blade.

The Reds are all around. Tomorrow is – hunger, coldness and death in a battle. And death

is inevitable whatever face it appears. Any day now we, after stepping over the line of the

earthy life, once and for all will lose the last hope to see our relatives and beloved, the

family home and who will then dare to condemn us for killing and raping women in

agony? In the meantime, we’re still alive. And we survive. The Kazakhs blame us

knowing neither us, nor goals and our ideals. Let them. It’s everybody’s loss.

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I am of small size, with a slightly protruding nose, crop-eared, bug-eyed lad with hair

stubbled out over a low forehead. The age is about thirty-five. My father is Toybazar and

I’m called Mukash, I was lucky neither in the saddle nor in a feast. I pastured goats for a

greedy, grubby, disgusting small master. People there, at summer pastures, revel in

kumiss, boast lying on a side, lazily and drunkenly, and I, in the torn pants, herd restive

goats from a hut along the mountainous paths. When only the folks begin to have fun on

the swings, start games under moonlight with songs and cocky bywords, and I am already

pushed in my back towards a ragged mat nearby Bai’s yurt: “Lie down, you’ve got to get

up early”. When only I sleep tight at pleasure – I am pushed again: “It’s time! Herd the

goats!” – and they will awake me finally with a kick. Nothing to do, I rub my eyes and

herd glumly horny animals having had time only to swallow a cup of sour milk. Till the

very heat of the sun I run after the goats, throw stones into them and yell myself hoarse.

Up to my fifteen years I pastured sheep for Shamanbai, a big fool he was! I told him: I

was tired of walking to death, no, he didn’t allow me to herd on a horse, was afraid that it

would trail grass for sheep, said, they had to eat their special grass, any other one was no

good. There was no end of troubles with a bull, when disyoked in the evening it butted

like a crazy cow, turned off its face, and in the morning you couldn’t put a saddle onto

this stinking restless beast, it wasn’t a ride — disaster.

One night I couldn’t stand it any longer, wide-awake of the thought that folks had fun

there I ran to play too - be that as it may, well then, so that would be the will of the God.

We began a hide-and-seek play; I was a Black-eared dog, the other guy was Wolf. As

intended he carried away and hid at a distance one girl Aisha. I ran jumping to search for

her, looked – another one had already been around her, so-called “Black-eared” big

fellow. Damn, I’m angry: it was me who had to be in his place; I was constantly thinking

- 17 -
of this when the following day after I had herded sheep to a spring and tied bull’s legs, I

started to make myself comfortable in the afternoon in a dry channel, I leaned my back

against steep slope and could barely hold my eyes open. Suddenly something burnt my

face, it was too maddening. I got scared. I jumped to my feet and rushed heaven knows

where like crazy. When I looked back I saw Shamanbai riding a grey horse after me and

flourishing a whip. Wherever I poked like a fly, there was no salvation and shelter, then I

turned my face to him: hit! The only my fault was that I fell into a doze, all the sheep

were safe and sound, all in one piece.

I thought of revenge but went keeping mum. There was another shepherd offended by his

Bai. So we laid a plan and cut two wethers of Shamanbai and a couple of sheep of that

guy’s master. We sank that meat in a cold spring and ate for the whole month. We choked

with it as water washed out a meat flavor but we finished the meat. Our theft was

certainly revealed. A shepherd like us snitched about us. He was as bald as an onion bulb

and tried to toad to his master as a dog. Of course, Shamanbai ciphered twice more out of

my salary than he had lost.

Then I served as a herdsman for another rich man, it was that time when I started growing

wise a bit. I acted on my own: alone I caught up with a stray from a herd horse, broke

horses without any help of other herdsmen. I stood for a night watch on my own too.

Snowstorms made no disturbance to me with my herd. Any danger makes a man of a

man. Just stand against a cold wind, hoofs of wild studs, bands of robbers and wolves in

the endless dark nights. The one who was beaten by wind can saddle a wind too. Any

distance, any danger is simply a fun for me. I’ve become the one I wanted to be among

the horses. The passion revives: herded the horses - saved brisk forces.

That time the women started to notice me too. My name became of some importance, you

could judge by the clothes: as proper as it should be. I began to lure women, those who

- 18 -
were poorer, played long enough with them. I used to bring the entire horse for meat to

such one, and the wolves could be blamed for the loss. Bai herd helped me to make the

Dower. I got married. I also caught the trick of re-firing a brand on other people’s horses;

I had a lot from them too. After I had become the family man, I started to observe the lent

in the due month of Ramadan.

Having eaten my head off on horses, I got bored - a short lead isn’t up to me – ah, I

thought: be that as it may, and went to hire on a steamboat. I saw all the cities down the

Irtysh: Uskemen, Zaysan, and Semey. I learned to speak Russian a little. Without

ceremony I hung about among the Russians and started to imagine myself as somebody

important, stuck my chest out. Everything I did seemed to be right to me. I found a

common language with both the right Russians and the right Kazakhs. I learned

everything they could – to lie smoothly, to spread the word and to hide for myself

whatever lay in a temptation’s way, learned to shuffle and to wind round my little finger.

I’ve become as good as anyone of them because I’ve seen and understood a lot. And I’ve

really mastered a round oath, if it was necessary I could tell where to get off in Russian:

“What a hell! My ass! No shit, you don’t have any rights!”...now I would never be at a

loss. Will there be a quarrel or a fight - it won’t be me to get lumps.When I navigated a

steamboat I raised ten puds¹ for a bet. I used to throw any carcass up on my back. Now I

have no equal among my countrymen, what are they to me? I haven’t done well in the

only one: I couldn’t master literacy. But I’m not alone here. Eh! If only I could write and

read, I would make the Kurshim river flow backwards or would do something of the

sort...

When I returned on a silver saddle to the relatives, I started to be interested in politics,

planned to take one post but the war started, and then the revolution followed. The Whites

ran away, the Reds attacked, they have come into all the towns. When I heard that the

- 19 -
Bolsheviks were for the poor, that anyone who

¹ - pud.-measure of weight equal to 16 kg

joined the Bolsheviks was appointed the head of aul, even of volost¹, was given a rifle,

“understand” was given a rifle, Bai’s cattle and spare wives of Bai too; they took land

away from the rich men and gave to the poor people – then I lost sleep and my merriment

disappeared. I’m walking and thinking: what if I join the Bolsheviks too, then I’ll have a

rifle in my arms... Yeah, it won’t be me if I don’t act as intended. One Kazakh crossed

such way: “Devil you are; now I’m also christened”. So and I decided: “Ah, be that as it

may, then I’ll see what is what” – I went and joined the cell and hung a five-chambered

barrel over my shoulder.

I arrived at the aul menacingly: immediately they hurried to slaughter a sheep for me. So I

started to carry out my service shooting in the air from time to time just for frightening.

Well, in due order I sequestered the weapon which had remained after the Whites, made

searches in the houses of the men under suspicion, withdrew food under the directive

which was called “surplus appropriation sytem” and did many other things that could

benefit the authority. To tell the truth, the people started to turn away from me glowering,

called me “christened one”. The first to look sideways and to grin at me were my

relatives. Clear thing, they looked at me with envy, made up any nonsense about me,

palmed off such things! There’s nothing to do, as they say, when you shut the trap of the

crowd, then will chatter those who stood aside. One local teacher took special pains – a

son of the bourgeois Mamyrbai. He was tireless to complain to the town to these educated

that I, said he, demanded a bribe from him, robbed completely, threatened –arrested.

Before my very appointment to the Head of volost this teacher collected from

complainants papers with denunciations at me and thrust them into the Council. There

they decided I was unworthy and did not elect me the Head of volost. Bai’s fosterling! If

- 20 -
I’m alive, I’ll return you all back! They took away a rifle.

It dawned upon me to put across to the Whites everything that I had confiscated in the

auls from the very beginning: clothes, food, blankets, felts, cups and spoons; I got on the

inside them too. They asked to find for them a good-looking girl. I thought at once about

Mamyrbai’s daughter Akbilek. Such will be my present to her elder brother. I’ve suffered

from Bais all my life;

¹ - volost – administrative division in pre-revolutionary Russia

they mocked at me. Until now I endure their taunts. Why will I feel sorry for this Bai’s

family? I’ll get the desired and calm down, won’t get – will be I a worthless limb.

Akbilek, who was thrown over a saddle, completely hardened to a stone from long jolting

and fell down the ground as a dead body.

She came round in a smelly, crooked house made of six poles covered by felt – kosh¹

among the Russians who were strange to her and wearing clothes odd to her.

By her side, pressing her with the outstretched hand there lay a bristly to the temples man

with swollen nose and matted red hair. Hot, as if from sulfur fumes, breathe coming out

of his downcast mouth made her shiver from chill. She did not understand what had

happened to her and where was she, her glance swept over hanging above her heavy thick

felt and when her memory returned the events of the night, her eyes became two springs

boiling from tears.

A naïve ray of dawn peeked curiously through ragged felt, cheerfully slid over Akbilek’s

face but didn’t hurry to dry her running tears. The darkness that pressed soul made

flashing light to grow sad, and an inevitability of what had happened became especially

obvious; no salvation. But a yearning to slip out of this red hand didn’t retreat. Akbilek

- 21 -
carefully lifted this heavy paw, moved it away from her and stepping like a colt on a

slippery ground, cautiously and looking behind raised slightly the veil of doorway and

slipped out.

The hut, of which she got out, was on the edge of the camp that consisted of seven shabby

koshes with guns leaned to them and every goods and chattel hung over them. Her eyes

were neither drawn by four majestic mountain tops sinking in milky whiteness, nor were

they entranced by forest laces which rose to them. A golden eagle soaring in the mountain

height didn’t captivate them, bush branches that intricately twisted didn’t interest either;

she stared at copper rumpled jug at the fire, smoked tripod and dirty ladle. Poor ladle! I

am like you, muck, slobbed and tears ran of her eyes again.

Akbilek sneaked quickly to the nearest bush when suddenly a

¹ - kosh - nomad’s tent

guard watch that stood on the border of the military camp pointed his gun at her shouting:

“Stay put!”

The shout was so sudden and frightening for her that she gave a convulsive jerk and fell

down. So, she couldn’t escape; the Russian jumped behind her, grabbed and dragged back

to the kosh. Akbilek gasped for air like a caught fish and shouted with all her might...but

no sound she made. When he drew her into a felt den, another two men that slept there

put up their heads, and stretched rubbing their eyes. Then they began to talk over with a

chuckle, looking at Akbilek and made hand-rolled cigarettes with tobacco. The Russian

who gripped her was that red-haired man who recently had pressed her with his hand.

Squeezing her waist he stretched with his mouth to her face. Akbilek faced away not

allowing an evil-smelling mouth touch her. Right there the rest of men began to laugh at

their red-haired friend. A tall pale-faced Russian with black moustache, who kept

sleeping, awoke from their laughter and without standing up looked Akbilek over. He

- 22 -
didn’t begin to joke with the others, only went to a tin washstand and washed his face

with water which he knocked out of its nipple, all the time he was absorbed in his own

thoughts.

The man sitting with a blank appearance in the laughing company always seems to be

mysterious. Laughter of the other people seals him with a shade of sorrow.

A black-moustached man seemed to Akbilek exactly such a man – a mysterious one, even

marked by death. Incomprehensible things always attract. Who knows why he attracted

the excited attention of Akbilek who was lost in captivity. Maybe she longed for

compassion herself. Perhaps because of a naïve guess that he was a stranger here too.

Quite possibly it was her feminine that shows itself especially bright in loneliness. But

whatever it was, something has happened.

And Black-moustached, whether of inevitability to see a desperate appeal in Akbilek’s

eyes, or judging from any other motives, irritatingly took up with a word Red-haired man

who tried to stick to her face again. Next he snatched her out of Red-haired man’s grip.

The latter did not resist, he only shook his head displeased and replied something.

However, he stopped leeching with kisses to the girl. The rest of the men finished

smoking their hand-rolled cigarettes in the total silence and went out. Black-moustached

looked at Akbilek warmly, gave a cough and then started a talk with Red-haired man but

now grinning. At first Red-haired man got sulky and frowned, he insisted on something

with gloomy exactingness. He didn’t yield gleaming with his eye-pupils badly, and then

he began to shrug his shoulders. Stretched up staring right at the eyes of Black-

moustached and threw the words in a jerky and angry manner. They stood in front of each

other as two dogs with a growl: “Gr-r – gr-r!” For a while Black-moustached was making

a dab at doggish Red-haired man, then frowned and went out of the kosh. Red-haired man

stood for some time, obviously cursed and with his fists clenched went out following him

- 23 -
too.

The men in the other huts also woke up: there was a sort of glassy chip in the indistinct

voices. Some of them would come in to Akbilek, look daggers at her: “Aha, kizimka...”-

and disappear grinning. Akbilek hid her eyes from those who came in and waited in

agony when they would leave her alone again. They didn’t, crowded into the cosh again.

Soon they hung up a bucket with water over the fire, brew tea and started to drink it

dipping dry bread into the iron mugs. After finishing tea they began a never-ending talk.

Akbilek recalled her father’s words: “As soon as you treat these Russian dogs with tea,

they start chatting and you can’t stop it”. Red-haired man, as it goes with a tea-lover

while enjoying tea, grew kinder, broke out into sweat drops flowing from the temples to

his cheeks. A man sitting next to him stretched a cup of tea to Akbilek – she didn’t take.

And Black-moustached didn’t return after he had disappeared.

After drinking tea and smoking neighbors left. Red-haired man took a gun into his hands,

screwed out some piece of iron and began to twist it and to turn it over, polish and attach

back to its place. Akbilek was afraid he was about to shoot her just at once. The soul flew

straight to the top of her head, a little more and it would fly to the skies. Here two

Russians appeared wearing hardened to tin rustle clothes. Rumbling with the sabers that

hung in the belt scabbards they stood strictly and told to Red-haired man something

abruptly. Red-haired man answered with only a couple of words and began to get dressed

in silence. When he finished he pulled Akbilek’s hand and dragged her out of the kosh.

Akbilek’s heart pounded waiting for the deadliest. The Russians stood in groups

discussing something. Seeing that the girl was brought out they went in chain to bushes.

“Here is my death, - Akbilek got terrified. — Maybe, it’s even better if they shoot me

together? Or they have any other rules? What if they have planned something?! Ah-Ah! If

they all do it, what will I be like then...”

- 24 -
The Russians lined at the meadow behind the bushes. Three of them went aside. Red-

haired man pulled Akbilek to him, pressed and kissed three times on tight lips. Then,

accompanied by two men he moved to those three men. So there stood six. One of them

shouted something to the people who hadn’t followed them. He got short reply. Red-

haired man and Black-moustached stood closely facing each other, then turned around

and went away as if counting their steps. Next they turned to each other again and stood

motionless against each other trying to avoid eye contact. The rest four people stepped

aside and a voice sounded: “One, two, three!” A speaker threw down his raised arm and

two shots went off. The Russians rushed forward. Black-moustached ran up to Akbilek

waiting for end-all and embraced her hastily.

The dead Red-haired man was picked up and carried away by several soldiers. And

Black-moustached hurried to take Akbilek to the kosh, keeping her in his cuddles and

kissing. It was clear for her that there had been a mortal combat, but why had they gone

away? Black-moustached left her for a moment and returned with a goggle-eyed, pitted,

curly man. The bug-eyed spoke to her in the Kazakh:

— Hello, sister, — and stretched his arm to her. Mother tongue caused her liking and

she reached out her hand in reply but jerked it back immediately returning herself a look

of whatever irreconcilability she could. The bug-eyed was an interpreter and was invited

to speak to her.

— This gentleman liked you. He is a very big nobleman. He is afraid of nobody.

When he saw you, it couldn’t stand it, — and for greater certainty he pressed his hand to

the heart. — When he saw you he asked to give you to him. But he got a refuse. That one

was also a nobleman but a small one. They quarreled and got at grips. That is why there

was a duel – they shot each other. You haven’t liked the Russians before because you’re

the Kazakh daughter from the steppe. Don’t be afraid. No one will touch you. This

- 25 -
nobleman won’t let anyone hurt you. He wants to make you his wife. The other noblemen

wanted to make you a wife for everybody but he was against it, he said: That’s not good

enough, then we’ll all turn to animals. He knows a lot, a clever guy. He is a man like

you’re. The God is one, the soul is the same. Don’t be afraid of him, love him. This man

loves you. He’ll take care of you. He will give you the clothes and food, he won’t make

you work. How do the Kazakh women live? They are maidservants. Bai beats, scolds,

makes to work, a woman goes dirty, bad. And our Russian law is good: we don’t beat

women, - and he clenched his fist in front of her. - We hold them here; we take them to

the theater. We allow them to go for a walk, - all the time the bug-eyed tried to talk

Akbilek round, spoke nonsense.

Sometimes Black-moustached prompted him something. Akbilek curled under her

everyday silk in green stripes upper chapan, hid both feet and hands under its hem; she

only from time to time raised at Black-moustached her eyes filled with large tears and

listened obediently.

The Russian interpreter chatted and chatted constantly. The maiden’s brain couldn’t store

everything he had talked. He said: big nobleman. So what of the fact that he is a very

high-placed gentleman? Has she dreamt about the Russian nobleman? He will feed her

and give clothes. That’s nothing! Would she have entered the house of Bekbolat who had

proposed to her as a maidservant? Black-moustached risked his life for her. Anyway,

there’s nothing special about it, Akbilek has known she was beautiful.

She remembered mother, and tears ran from her eyes again... her mum died so that

to...she even couldn’t think about such... what husband can she think about, she who was

made bare-headed, who shamed herself, who recently has lost her mother?.. Will she be

really a bride to the man who killed her mother, stole her, plundered her native aul?..

Where’s her father?.. Where’s she?.. What do the people think of her now?.. Why haven’t

- 26 -
you died yet?.. What else will have you to tolerate?.. She wished her mother’s bullet had

shot her...there’s no yesterday, and tomorrow...what will happen to her...unknown...along

with all this I’m alive and still beautiful... after all I didn’t do it... there’s no my fault in

this...who is able to blame her? Everyone loses and gets lost himself. There’s no fault.

Thoughts were spinning one after another in the buzzing Akbilek’s head. She bowed her

head peering over an oil spot in the corner of the robe when suddenly she felt a touch of

hot hand of Black-moustached who sat quietly by her side. Akbilek tighted her lips

angrily as if wanted to say: “How dare you!” but she was only sinking in the depthless

anguish. Black-moustached pointed with his chin to the interpreter to leave them alone

and carefully raised her hand to his lips. Akbilek didn’t move over...She had no forces,

only fear.

***

After noisy night raid at the aul Mukash had in his hands two Mamyrbai’s horses and

only one thought in the head: how to escape, to avoid unnecessary troubles. He left a

snaffle in the camp of the Whites and heard from them: “Ah, Mukashka, well done!” –

and on his way home he couldn’t get rid of various rubbish that passed through his head.

Yes, he revenged to Mamyrbai’s son successfully and craftily when he handed in his

sister to the Russians for amusement. But when he was searching for her these dogs killed

her mother. That was too much, but who could have known it would happen so? It seems,

one of those who rushed to chase them died too. Unless these heroes pour everything with

blood here, they won’t go away. Who knows, perhaps that one who caught the bullet at

night was one of his brothers? Maybe they won’t know anything? Perhaps they don’t care

about me at all? Hold on, I’ve gone mad completely – perhaps, the Devil drives me... but

- 27 -
how to arrange everything properly then? I can’t do that: if everything reveals – they will

eat my head off. And I’m not an enemy to my people; I’m not that snake’s creatures; I

haven’t done anything unthinkable...

Well then. What’s done is done, nothing can be redone. And there’s nothing to argue

about... and come to think of it, haven’t the rich men deserved this? Don’t they rob the

people? Why does Bai get richer? Everything is gained by the worker’s back; they are in

clover thanks to labor of the little people. I would look at them, if the shepherds didn’t

pasture their cattle, haymakers didn’t bring them hay, servants didn’t fire a stove, and

workers didn’t dig out wells. The Soviet power fell onto their heads for a good reason.

Deservedly! Who knows, maybe I was led against them by some plan of the God...And

then, the Whites are ready to gobble up each other from hunger; they would have raided

the aul without me. If it hadn’t been me, some Kazakh would have been found to give

them any Kazakh girl for his benefit. There would have also been such Kazakh who

would have rushed headlong chasing to take revenge for his relatives. I’m lost for words,

there would have been such and this would have ended the same way. Of course, every

case is special and the people aren’t able to repeat it accurately. But one thing is for sure:

in the case similar to this one there would have been the man like me. How many military

troops have been there? How many armies tried to rule the people? And they rob and

press. And what do people do? Nothing. They suffer in silence.

And I’m in the league of my own. I have a rifle. Ten people can’t overcome me. The

Russians taught me to shoot; I send bullets one by one. I’m cautious and unnoticeable in

the day. And take the course at nights... what am I to be afraid of? Although, there’s fear,

I shouldn’t have got into this politics from the very beginning. There was no use in

joining the cell, getting involved in search of sorts of enemies with a gun in my hands.

No, I’m not afraid of death, it will be one day. But there’s death and there’s death. And

- 28 -
mine is such...Only it can make people forgive me. Yes, they used to think of me as of

daredevil, dashing fellow and I had my price in the society. I hope not to fall from the

saddle.

With such thoughts Mukash reached his aul. The aul is on the sunny slope of the very

high mountain, in the valley there are five-six low stone buildings. All of them belonged

to his relatives, the head for everyone here is Mukash himself, Aqsaqal is Mullah

Tezekbai.

Tezekbai can’t write his own name; the only fame is that he is Mullah. Out of forty

hadithes of the Prophet that he had learnt once he remembered only “halannabi

gaylayssam – ayt y paygambar galayssalam”. He usually mentions the God and frailty of

life of the man at the funerals, blessing the commemorative flatbreads and when the cattle

died – that’s the whole service; he used to murmur something at breakfast during the

Lent, say a couple of Arab words and that’s all. He knows to harp on only: ayatil-kursi.

The same he repeats when both sacrificing and blessing, and when a woman has anaemia

– again it’s ayatil-kursi. Nobody except the close people recognized him as the Mullah.

And when there’s funeral alongside he gets nothing, if only he doesn’t bury relatives or

some match-makers... as they say, he was good at neither piety, nor knowledge of the

Holy Book. And that is why he wasn’t invited, he wasn’t allowed to go around the

neighborhood visiting the Muslems and collecting the fixed tax in faith and contributions

they had to pay. Anyway, he couldn’t stand such people insatiable to the treating at the

other people’s fires: “What do you want? You’d better lie at home!”

To be honest, there was no particular harm from the impostor Mullah, if not to take into

account his grumbling remarks to the old wife for her untidiness and tasteless thin soup

when he returned home after he had wandered a bit in the steppe with a smoothly scraped

stick crosswise his back and watched calfs from far away. But his displeasure with

- 29 -
untidiness of the old woman was more thanks to the old years; you can’t say that

Tezekbai himself was very tidy and neat...

Nevertheless, Tezekbai was respected in his native aul. Any event, whether it be a

returning to winterings or birth of a child, he is seated at the place of honor and a dish

with purely burnt and boiled sheep head and fleshy hip-bone is put in front of him. He is

the first to be given beestings in time, and kumiss; and when it happens that he isn’t at the

table then daughters-in-law are sent: “Call for Mullah!”

When he put for show his origin from the oppressed masses, Mukash on the contrary

pushed the God in his advanced mentality, however, he, despite of his so conscious step,

held the Mullah in respect and tried to pass him by which was simple:he had nothing to

talk about; he knew everything. In an inevitable meeting he greeted as it should be, but

without that sort of the kind... The Mullah understood his behaviour and he also tried to

go by him faster and didn’t start a talk. It doesn’t suit to the self-respecting elderly person

to stand chatting with every Tom, Dick and Harry.

Approaching the aul, Mukash felt a trifling concern: “I wish I didn’t meet the Mullah”.

He pulled his head into shoulders and bent down to saddlebow.

Mukash’s wintering bulged out of the aul to the east. The wild stone of the walls gleamed

with grinning cherry red light. The Mullah’s dwelling pushed forward with widely open

door. A red dog which lay at the threshold barked as soon as it heard crunch of stones

under hoofs. No matter how hastily Mukash pinched his horse to the gates of his shed,

one non-necked eye of the Mullah, who went out with a jug for washing in shoes and

winter chapan thrown over his shoulders, caught him. In such a way he could scratch out

his secret thoughts and Mukash hurried to hide away from the Mullah. A white puppy

barked when he hastened to unharness the horse quicker under the roof. His swarthy

round wife Altynay, mincing and muffling up in a fur coat, opened the door which he first

- 30 -
closed and poked into it. Displeased, twisting her cheek threw: “Is that you, ah?” – and

disappeared.

Mukash replied quietly into emptiness: “It’s me” – arranged the horse and went home. A

smoky acclimated smell of the low dwelling with one weak-sighted window warmed his

nose with in abundance. It was a pleasure to see his three-year old son Medeu with his

flat forehead and bluish sniffles over open mouth on the homespun blanket. He was

turning around in his sleep and threw out his lovely hands out from red chintz blanket. At

first he wanted to smell his son sweetly but some puzzle emerged in his head against his

desire. And he didn’t dare to touch the angel-like son. It was a sort of shame: first he was

ashamed of the Mullah, now he is ashamed of a sleeping son. And he gave a start as if a

dog sneaked to his leg and barked. But without pausing to think he imitated kicking the

invisible dog straight to its nostrils: “Shut up!” – put off a belt, pulled a red pillow out of

bed, threw it under a window and lay there, stretching his knees up to elbows.

Altynay, sitting on a dirty, straw-laid bench took off her scarf and had only a night robe

left. She started creating ablution as if she prepared to pray; but stopped to blow her nose

noisily. She returned to the bed, wiping red, as if licked-clean by a goat, hands with a

heaven-knows-when torn white rag.

— Why have you twisted up there? What am I to do with the horse? — she began to

grumble at Mukash.

And he even didn’t lift up his head, only said between his teeth:

— Let it go out by midday!

Altynay gave a stare at the husband and said in irritation:

And you? Won’t you get up to give it water? I’ve already warmed up.

No, I won’t, — replied Mukash and covered his head.

Altynay didn’t care much frequent night disappearances of her husband, perhaps so that

- 31 -
he had to do it on service. At first she was a bit afraid to spend nights with a kid alone but

with time she got used little by little. And then, who could she complain here, who could

she trust?

Altynay milks the cows, looks after calfs, sticks the oven with a poker, fires it, carries ash

outside, then returns with water, cooks, sews; cleans up in the rooms, sweeps, rakes mung

out of the stall. She does everything the skies have set up for her. She seems to crinkle as

if she got tired of the hard work and is on her last legs, but here is morning again: she

rubs her eyes, and so have neither arms nor legs rest up till the very night… No, no,

never. Even if she has any free time, she doesn’t let a spindle out of her hands when she

pops to the neighbors for a moment or talks with them in the street. She knows her job –

there’s food to the full, the clothes are in good order, what else? The order in the house is

the wife’s duty, the cattle on the pasture is the husband’s one. This is also set up by the

skies.

Now everything isn’t like it was before, now Altynay is pleased. Why is she? Because.

The spouse has the horse. He has become a respectable man. And such man has the house

to match him. Its floors are carpeted with almost new woven rugs and white felt mats.

Now she has what to shake out when she opens a lid of a forged trunk box and sorts over

the gained belongings. When she wants to dress up: here are cambric dresses, here are

velvet waistcoats. You can boast with such husband. She has the right; after all she is the

wife of the important official.

Altynay, in former times poorish and unsightly, now allows herself making speeches. The

women: “Where is your husband going?” – she replies: “On business to the Head of

volost.” Or “The Head of volost called him”, - and she cocks her nose up protruding her

lip. If someone has underpaid a tax, daughter-in-law is naughty, or there’s another sort of

trouble – Altynay points out patronizingly: “Why haven’t you submitted this to our

- 32 -
consideration?” “To consideration” sounded often out of her mouth and noone could

expect that whatever she considers something or not – it doesn’t matter.

Recent days something has gone against grain for Altynay who imagined her spouse this

way. She can’t understand at once what exactly. Aha, here’s the matter! No, she’s saved

her taste to life all in one piece. She’s had it in her blood to play with keys lordly and

she’s kept this habit.Of course, being a reserved by nature, earlier she has also allowed a

scornful tone to pierce through her talk with the husband, a pretended displeasure has

pecked through too, but without any doubt she’s been quite fine with the husband. And

now she’s really started to shout at him word by word feeling with her skin that it’s all

right. Perhaps it was because that at some unkind time her “to consideration” ceased to

reliably cause people’s former timid assentation?

Sure thing, Altynay carries out pre-praying ablution of hands and legs but she doesn’t

settle down to namaz itself. Do you think she follows the tracks of her husband? She

doesn’t. Any other man would approve her non-diligence if saw how she says grace with

her awkward quirks of knees and bubbly mouth murmuring indistinct words. Every God’s

pilgrim would only exclaim: dear, you’d better wash up cups than to scoff at such holy

thing as namaz is.

Altynay sat at the edge of the bed, started to draw leather stockings on her legs. Again her

restless hand came across a hole in a foot that appeared because of everyday wearing.

When will she get rid of these holes? It’s no good for the wife of the authority to shine

with toes that peep out from the shoes....but here the entire pile of future things to do has

come into her head “to consideration” and she hurried to get up. It was time to go to milk.

She found a dock-tailed cow with a calf that has stuck to its udder. She jumped up, ripped

off calf’s muzzle, look here: this damned has sucked almost everything to dry. She took a

loop on the calf’s neck and pulled it to the torn end of the rope that was hanging on the

- 33 -
bear spear of the stall, but that rope turned out to be short, she couldn’t tie with it. She

pulled the cattle this way and that way and finally tied together scraps of lead as she

could. She began to milk the cow with patch on its forehead. She pulled nipples so hard

that the cow curtsied jolty. Yet still the nipples got swollen from the stubborn fingers of

mistress and milk streamed into bucket ringing its song. Altynay started to turn it every

way in her mind: where to take a rope stronger that the torn one. You can’t decide at

once: the people say – there’s no sheep – you’ll pay the whole camel for a sheep rope.

Rope of mixed wool is no good. It’s very likely she’ll find the rope she needs only in

Small aul at craftswoman Zhamal-apa, there’s no such rope in her native aul. This

craftswoman made a new hammer for her, but it’s disappeared, I think local boys have

stolen it, the other way – where could it roll to?! Damn them! Who is a thief then?

Menacingly screaming and waving her hand Altynay herded cows out of the shed towards

the pasture, returned home with a bucket of milk, filled a black bowl with it and the

massy rest of it poured into old yellow tray. Who but her knows that milk poured into

shallow utensils floats into thicker sour cream? Say what you like, but Altynay is an

economic woman. She squeezed – you can say even!... – scratched out milk for three—

four waterskins of butter. Let them croak but give what they have to. She is so thrifty that

while making sour cream can allow herself only to drop a bit into a pleadingly stretched

shell-hand of her son. All extracted milk she boils to a state of sweet irimshik¹ and makes

salty cottage cheese – curd. She remembers very well, how important it is to soak, grate

pieces of curd in winter evening – and to put them into hot broth. Then after eating thick

soup to the full you can go out to the frozen shed even in one dress - only steam curls.

She sells butter, buys clothes, flour, tea on the gains. When the elderly aul matrons scold

their thriftless daughter-in-laws they certainly say: “What a rotten creature you are! Look

at Altynay, she can sew mittens out of flea’s skin! Such should be the Kazakh wife!”

- 34 -
With her wide back Altynay covered the bearings of Mukash’s night trips as well as his

passion to boast with things and to life in grand style. His wife has enough brain not to

make a parade of everything; she’s hidden expensive things that were gained in the

corners. But is the man able to judge all her virtues? Perhaps he imagines Altynay as a

woman is an ultimate dream for the utterly destitute.

Would your woman grumble and allow herself to be dowdy if she hadn’t any other merits

such as to hide craftily from envious eyes everything that her husband hunted and a skill

to cook a fatty soup from, you can say it, empty water, you godless man! And what

whims have to do with it?

As soon as she coped with milk Altynay rinsed the dishes, brought ash away the

threshold. Next she took out of the stove a darkened wooden bowl that was covered there

by lumber. She poured flour into it and on her knees in front of the bowl she

¹ - irimshik – a kind of home made cheese

began mixing dough for bawyrsaks¹. Her arm joints moved as a machine. She mixed the

dough in a moment and then went to summer kitchen to make fire. She arranged, hanging

on a poker, a large bucket from the Mullah’s house for frying bawyrsaks. Now she is

sitting in the smoke of slightly burning oil and here her son appears without paints, still

sleepy, rubbing his eyes and calling his mum, he gets at her knees.

— Are you up, my little sunbeam? — Altynay, embracing him with her right hand, lifted

and kissed his forehead.

Medeu fixed at flat holed pieces of dough which shone golden restlessly in the bucket and

opened curved little mouth smacking his lips:

— Mum, a piece...

— Yeah, my sun, here’s your piece, — hurried to agree with him the mother and

pinning it with a reed she gave it to his hands.

- 35 -
Quaggy chubby Medeu took the reed at its both ends brought bawyrsak to his mouth and

began to blow diligently at it and bite piece by piece crinkling his face. The fire is

blazing, oil is boiling, bawyrsaks are hissing. Her Medeu is by her side. Now imagination

of Altynay is busy with the thoughts about how she boils the teapot, wakes up her

husband, makes the baby comfortably next to him and only three of them begin to enjoy

holily the food which was sent to them by the Most High.

After she made tea and raised from the bed her “to consideration” who slept his fill,

Altynay reached this her dream too.

To the left she set up samovar with crooked nose, puffing exactly like dear Medeu.

Altynay, lifting with four fingers spread wide a cup with red bandlet, was drinking bitter

tea and sweating diligently. Her husband, having slouched at his will, was also keeping

silence and swallowing up bawyrsak by bawyrsak in silence. And her dear Medeu tried to

keep pace. He lay back on the father’s legs and was chewing with an effort the mash

which stuffed in a mouth, with painstaking he opened and then closed his eyes.

And so they worked hard with the tea that it’s worth to leave them alone. We won’t be

similar to always insatiable old folks and intrusive hungry children who keep their

watchful eyes at everybody who eat; we have our own tea at home. Drat this

¹ - bawyrsak - Central Asian fried dough, donuts

habit of the Kazakh to wait for an invitation staring at the table of the other people! We’d

better find out how the people feel after that night incident. Has master Mamyrbai

survived at his hearth and home? Let’s return to them and have a look, follow me, my

pupils!

- 36 -
Even after they had kept to their beds, long time the men couldn’t come to their senses,

they shook heads, turned around moving as if on the crippled legs, got out of their

dwellings and called their relatives. The women shivered buzzing. They never got tired

calling their fathers, husbands along with this they all huddled to one another as if hoping

to find a saving female in themselves. They clamored, whined, made a fuss with cries:

“Axe, axe” with which finally frightened themselves. Then they rushed to the food shed

of Mamyrbai, broke it open and began to pull him out:

— What? What? Oh, holy men, ah! Are you safe?

Mamyrbai’s eyes fell out of sockets, he kept asking with interrupted breathe:

— Where’s Baibishe? Where’s Akbilek?

— Oibai, auh! Where are they? We haven’t seen... — they were astonished and flung

themselves to the left, then to the right.

Soon the women’s voices poured into one cow roar, instantly it burst the night darkness

with its animal desperation. There left no heart from heart after such terrifying whine. It

turned out – they came across the stretching from earthen hole body of Mamyrbai’s

hostess. But Akbilek as if melted; perhaps those men dragged her with them.

Mamyrbai began to drone hard and crashed down as a sack. The aul was bleating pitifully

as sheep flock already and here their ears caught a sound of horse stamp of a rider that

was coming to them.

— They shot, shot! — approaching cry cut into burnt out crowd like a blade. The

crowd split again, clatter and chatter and confusion arouse.

- What?

They went away!

The hostess was killed! Oibai!

- 37 -
Bekbolat was shot!

Eh!

And who is he, how did he happen here?

Well, he hunted here with Bekbolat. They heard a woman cry and at once began

chasing...

Is he dead or still alive?

He’s still alive, but who knows...

The man that arrived was one of those who had brought Bekbolat to the aul. There they

bandaged his wound and parted to different sides.

“Yes, death, it’s...whether you want it or not but it will take what it wants. Any way you

slice it, any way you look into its eyes, it will sneak behind like a thief, you will only then

know when it mows you down... but who and what can withstand it?” – they had a talk

and the next day, gathered together and buried the old woman addressing Mamyrbai with

condolences: “What can you do...you should endure...so, it’s time...” and anyone dared to

say about Akbilek nothing more than: “It’s even more terrible than death....you should

hope!” It’s such a wound that doesn’t have a heart to name all names. As this wound has

torn away not only Mamyrbai but lay on dignity of everybody and humiliated

tormentingly.

And when the people who gathered at the funeral repast slightly stopped feeling that so

painful sensation which smarted their souls, which said there was their fault in what had

happened too, fault that sprang from their slave nature, willingness to protect neither

themselves nor their close people – then they began to crowd close and fantasize each in

his own way. Some of them said:

— Relatives, someone takes revenge on Aqsaqal. Somebody’s from our people.

- 38 -
Otherwise how could they sneak along the steep hillside to the aul, they didn’t fall

down...

They were echoed to:

— You say it right, if they looked for women, there are lots of them in the known

places. The Kazakhs were in it. How do the Russians know who and where lives? — they

concluded the case.

The others said:

Who could plan such matter?

Who’s the culprit? — they began to turn it in the mind.

Who hated Aqsaqal so much?

A weed won’t grow for nothing, unless Zhamanbaylar’s people are involved in the

matter.

Leave it, who of them dares that? And then, they have never been enemies. Perhaps it’s a

stranger.

It looks like this is on Kurbankazhi supporters’ heads. They joined the party; will they

pity now the other people? — uttered someone aside.

What an utter nonsense you say! What, have the parties appeared only today? There have

never been such cases before, you’re singing the song of strangers, perhaps, you want to

bring somebody the full egg or ripe melon... Kurban-kazhi isn’t able to throw the

Muslem’s daughter to kaffirs to tear her to pieces. He also has children, how will he look

at the face of God? — the white-bearded man with wolfy look forced the accuser shrink.

In my opinion, this case is on Aben’s head — said the man with bluish beak on the

spotted face who sat comfortably with the inverted snuffbox on his palm. — Last year he

managed to push off to the Russians his horse with bald patches, since then as if the blood

has arisen in him: “Oh, how to pull off a deal again!”

- 39 -
— Hey, what can he do? He would dare nothing on the earth without instructions of such

people as Mukash. If there’s nobody behind him, he isn’t able to wipe his ass — again

man with wolfy eyes claimed indisputably.

They handled everybody who had reasons to revenge to Aqsaqal; ten-fifteen persons were

gathered, handled all possible versions but having only assumptions they managed to get

hold of nobody’s hoof. The case was also complicated by the fact that they suspected one

people and justified the others for reasons that were far from the heart of the subject,

reasons related to party conflicts, quarrels of blood such as: somebody has taken

something in the wrong way, the other hasn’t returned something, someone hasn’t shared

the meat of the stolen cattle, the other one because his wife ran away from him, or, on the

contrary, because he stuck to the other wives and daughters, and somebody was

responsible for having a loose tongue – everyone danced from his sore places and pouring

his inside. Somebody was cutting throat, the other one was skinning. In addition to those

who sincerely bothered themselves at this trial there were also such people who came to

gloat over Aqsaqal Mamyrbai secretly. There were unvarnished stool-pigeons, how could

they blunder away a fair chance to settle old scores, if they wanted it so much! Those who

came to express heartfelt condolence were on the small side.

The only matchmaker, somebody from trully well-wishing people and a few neighbors

who the hostess particularly had welcomed with kumiss in the full-brimmed cups – these

were the people who came to express that compulsory sympathy which is shown to both

friends and enemies. And now... although the people sympathized, they still couldn’t get

rid of inappropriate thoughts on this incident.

The company, which parted in different sides after the funeral and various mourning

ceremonies, roamed with brain searches. They listened to, asked again and pondered on

who had arranged such low act after all. That was because such sort of the things had

- 40 -
happened not only to the chopped off Mamyrbai recent days, but another several auls

have suffered in the same way too. The cattle were driven away and the aul people were

trapped, robbed, humiliated, and burnt. The people always have had prick-ears. No matter

you hide or conceal something but there’s always a man who has heard something, that

knows something, isn’t it? They tattled, shook rumors and glances as necessary and came

to the fact that noone but Mukash had been involved in this case. Will you ask how it has

been revealed? Like this.

There was one shepherd who saw Mukash rushing in a trot to Karashat in the late

afternoon that ill-fated day. That is the first clue. When Mukash’s wife became spiteful

one day and didn’t give a bolter to one of her sisters-in-law, the latter said: “As if I don’t

know where you have stashed the people’s belongings! I’ll make you do your nuts and

reel off! I know everything! I know whose that dark red carpet is, and I know where from

you have taken white felt and that cambric dress...” they heard this and immediately sent

an unnoticeable man from Suleymen’s house to Mukash. That man returned and reported:

he recognized the carpet. That was the second clue. A hostess of the green cambric dress

and green sleeveless jacket was found. That was the third clue.

Another guy named Suyrbai assured that he had noticed that the motley horse of Mukash

had obviously spent that night under a saddle. This Suyrbai had never enjoyed

everybody’s confidence, but all the same...that was another one reason into the same

thriftbox - the fourth one. Tezekbai-Mullah also noted that Mukash loved to spend nights

anywhere but home. He is a simple-hearted man. With this clue it will make five.

Besides, everyone remembered that Mamyrbai’s son had collected the necessary material

about Mukash and didn’t allow him to become the Head of volost which caused the

candidate’s offence. So, if it’s not Mukash, then who can it be? “Mukash, noone else but

Mukash” – so has everybody decided.

- 41 -
Now there’s Mukash within the eyeshot of people. What will they do with him? How to

take revenge? Will they kill him with an axe? Will they bring him to justice? Or will they

kill him themselves? Will they burn the house and drain dry? The people were about to

accomplish both this and that action, if not all of them. Yet, there hasn’t been a chance.

But there’s the fact that has made an end to everything. And this fact was in the

following.

Mamyrbai, deprived of wife and daughter, from early in the morning sat on the hill in the

open steppe and stared somewhere. Suddenly he saw a rider with fluttering in the wind

ears of winter hat who was rushing towards him from the neighboring aul. The rider rose

up and greeted him. As soon as they said hello he reported:

— Bai, have you heard what had happened this night?

— No, I haven’t.

Oibai, what’s going on!

What is it, my good-hearted?

— Thanks to our God we will get a chestful of fresh air...

Has anything happened to Mukash?

It hasn’t, oibai...

Speak then!

The Reds have seized all the Whites in the mountains.

How have they? And where’s Akbilek?

— Nothing is known about Akbilek....So to say, everyone has been gripped one and all.

— So then... how did it become known? From whom?

— The people from Turkulak aul came. There stayed a detachment of the Reds and

Mukash allured the Whites there and the Reds seized everybody there. The Whites were

so confused that they didn’t move about. These dogs are strong against the women only

- 42 -
and when they are pressed down, they are nobody.

— And how does Mukash manage to deceive everybody?

— He’s found a loophole; he’s a cheat, a famous adventurer...

That means that he’s been in on it together with the Russians again...

You bet! A big position is waiting for him again.

—This is exactly what the bastard has planned. Holy men, ah, what has happened to

Akbilek, aha? You’ve found nothing about her...

Mamyrbai stood up roughly and dragging himself moved home. Hurrying people he sent

five horsemen to search for Akbilek.

Let these horsemen ride around the auls, ask passers by in the steppe while we tell the

news about Akbilek.

Akbilek, straitened and frightened like little goitered gazelle, with her eyes full of tears all

the time was thinking about mother and aul. She refused even from a crumb of bread.

Even though she petrified and squirmed from hunger and wanted the only thing – to die,

the butterfly of her soul was still ruffling in her chest and didn’t want to fly off. It’s

surprising what a drop of nectar has the winged soul found in this foul life!

A man is an enduring creature – he will survive death, he doesn’t care bondage and

torture chambers; he gets used to everything, he can live at war too. Even a man

sentenced to death eats, drinks, dreams sweet sleeps and life doesn’t wear him down. I

don’t think there is more enduring creature in the world than the man is.

No matter how numb was Akbilek but she gradually shook down with her fate.

Whether it be a charm of being or fear, self-love or passion of the man... whatever,but

when Black-moustached orders: “Kiss” – Akbilek touches his face with her lips, “Laugh”

- 43 -
– he says and sees mouth stretched into a smile; he asks: “Speak” – and she mutters

incomprehensible for her Russian words which she learned by heart: “Love you”.

For almost a month Black-moustached clang like a limpet to Akbilek. And so he

wandered with her along green mountain meadows and in the forest. There he armed her,

here he hugged her waist, there entwined her hair with torn flowers and here picked up

sweet berries for her. He took her to springs on bushy slopes, took shoes off her, washed

her feet and kissed them tickling her heels with black moustache. And if Akbilek got

tired, he carried her arranging her head on the bend of one arm and maintaining the other

hand firmly under her knees. He did everything on his own: gave her tea, fed from his

hand, plumped up and made bed in the most remote part of the dwelling. And when he

arranged her by his side under a grey overcoat he pressed her so tightly to himself and so

hungrily and long while sucked in her lips, caressed her body that Akbilek’s heart rose up

to her throat, pulse was fastening hot and she, burning and forgetting herself she grew

weaker and opened to him...

What was next she didn’t remember....As if she had happened to be in the other world.

Willingness of Black-moustached to kill anyone who touched his kyzymka, his

admiration of her which grew into puppyish gladness to lick her legs, tiring reluctance to

make a single step away from her, glance full of drowning tenderness, words like verses –

all of them were incomprehensible for Akbilek. Do the people scoff at or humiliate the

others this way? Or is he really in love with her? If not, then perhaps his behavior can be

only explained by the fact that he hasn’t seen women for a long time? She wasn’t able to

think this thought to the end, especially if to remember that no matter how close was

Black-moustached with her, everything in him - from smell to gesture – has still remained

strange to her. They were so different how different were the sky and the earth but when

their bodies ran into one, all the differences seemed to disappear. From time to time

- 44 -
Akbilek, who thought that the man shouldn’t wheedle so, tried to justify his kneeling

before her, and I have to say she did find. He is the man, her husband, but he is

unorthodox! Everything he does – sits, prays, speaks, drinks vodka, eats pork, stinks of

cigarette smoke – he does improperly. And how can she allow his sinful chest press to her

white breasts?!

In the twilight hour of one day during their sitting in the ravine the Russians started to get

ready to go somewhere. Talking excitedly they cleaned and shot guns, looked through

harness, saddled horses. Just that time Akbilek was returning with Black-moustached

from their walk in the forest thicket. Right at once she hurried to hide in the hut, curled

there on a soldier rag and remembered the aul with a sigh. She pressed her face to the

kosh grating. Through a cosh rent it could be seen how Black-moustached went up to the

crowd of the Russians who were preparing for a journey busily and hastily, and began

talking to them. He returned frowning and with tight lips and looked over the bolt of his

gun, next he began to pack his clothes and lifted his saddle...And when Akbilek raised her

head and looked at his face with a dumb question: “Where are you?” – he threw anxious

eye on her. Although it lasted only for a moment, it was so heavy that Black-moustached

casted down his eyes as if became confused. In some time he went out and returned with

the interpreter already. The latter translated his words:

— We’re leaving to war. What will you do?

Akbilek stared at him in amazement not knowing what to reply. and when she heard the

question:

— Where would you like to be? — Akbilek dropped her head, shrugged shoulders and

in a wailing voice asked:

Won’t you take me back to the aul? ...

Black-moustached shook his head no and asked:

- 45 -
Do you want to go with us?

To war?

— To war — Black-moustached uttered and put a hand on her shoulder.

Akbilek waggled her head:

Then leave me here.

Won’t you be afraid at night?

If I am, then let it be... I’ll stay here... will you return? — she emitted.

It’s impossible — Black-moustached replied in a wavering voice.

As soon as their conversation broke off another three Russians entered. Watching their

mimicry and sharpness of voices Akbilek realized the most terrible threatening hang over

her. Black-moustached was angry at them. Through his slitted eyes he spoke through

clenched teeth and made them go deadly pale. The Russians twitched their necks and

began to draw off with the fingers their collars as if from choking.

Akbilek guessed that he replied to them: “I won’t give her to tear to pieces” – and she

fixed with gratitude at Black-moustached. After those Russians had left Black-

moustached sat down and ordered the interpreter with an abrupt nod to go out too. For a

while he sat with his face down and rubbed with his hand drops of sweat on his forehead,

then shook his hand, jumped to his feet and stretched the hand to Akbilek as if begging:

“Come on”. She stood up immediately.

Black-moustached took Akbilek’s hand and led her out of the kosh to the right, towards

the bushes around the spring.

Gusty humming wind. No moon. Heavy darkness. Dark icy straggly clouds hid the

mountain tops and a dark hungry hen was picking grains of stars in the sky. The subtle

rays of hope that had kindled before were dying out with the stars. Akbilek’s heart, full of

anguish, was fading away with them. With gleaming eyes she was peering at Black-

- 46 -
moustached’s face.His face went dark, eyes became bloodshot, nostrils were flaring. His

pace was firm which she didn’t like especially. The heart squeezed and fell to heels. They

went deep into the thicket and when they were on a meadow surrounded by the trees

Black-moustached stopped, stood motionless for a while staring at Akbilek’s eyes,

hugged, pressed to himself and kissed her lips three times. Then he went five-six steps

away from her but first his hands that lay on her shoulders as if ordered rigidly: “Stay this

way”. He gripped a rifle from his shoulder and pointed it at Akbilek. With a scream

which stretched into a moan she rushed straight against the trunk. The Black-

moustached’s pointing arm gave a start and the rifle fell down to the ground.

— What for? What have I done wrong? Ma-a-aster! What have I done?.. - Akbilek

burst into tears with her entire body shivering and hung on his neck. — Kiss me, please...

Lovingly.

Black-moustached raised his arms a bit and hugged her half a heart, patted her back with

his hand – he’s taken mercy on her. Again he began staring at her face. Then picked up

the rifle and returned to the camp with Akbilek. There he called over the interpreter and

explained:

— I love you, I’ve ruined my soul for your sake, and I don’t want anybody to love you

after me.

Akbilek froze to the tiniest bone. “Oh, the Creator! I can’t, can’t believe the Russian! All

this time he acted like a loving husband and saying goodbye he decided to kill, he

loves...only himself! Hard-heartedness...hard-heartedness, what is to shed blood for him?!

He wants to live...but I don’t want to die either! Take pity on me...” – these thoughts

floated in her mind and the last moment she’s found what to say:

— Don’t kill me! Let me live! Perhaps some day you’ll need me again, you don’t

know for sure, do you? I’ve got a dream that I was following you and called you to the

- 47 -
town. You’ll return alive and go back to your people...believe me.

“Good wishes – half the battle” — this is a simple proverb but it warms up any heart,

especially if the man goes to die. Black-moustached took Akbilek’s words for a good sign

and, as if accepting her prophecies, kissed her on lips.

In the twilights which are pleasant only when you’re at home sitting under cosy lamps,

the Russians obeying guttural order jumped onto saddles and moved in a single line out of

the narrow neck of the ravine. Akbilek’s shadow, frightened for ever, humiliated and

corrupted by man’s affection, also began to move away from Akbilek together with them.

And while tapping of horse hoofs was heard she sighed unintentionally: “A-ah..” and

breathed out in a whisper: “Allah...”

Akbilek wandered lonely through the abandoned camp of the Russians as a stray puppy

but solitude was no burden for her. To die straying in the desolate mountains but not of a

bullet seemed more preferable for her. Until the last sound of riders moving away was

heard she couldn’t believe: “The Creator, have You saved me?” It went quiet. And she

threw a handful of sand after them – like buried, sighed with relief and finally looked

around.

Dank shaggy heap of clouds covered like a two-humped male beast the white mountain

tops spreading over all slopes with impenetrable darkness. Here watching them star

hurried to disappear from the skies like timid shepherd who saw bold thieves sneaking to

his herd.

Chilly haze, halloo! How to see in it the dark mist swirling in Akbilek’s soul?

Autumn leaves! Why are you dooking, who you, faded away, are trying to lull, halloo?

Quails, come on there on strong branches, you’re carefree and happy-go-lucky, halloo! It

must be nice to you to call and hope for sympathy of inky night. Are you to appease the

anguish in Akbilek’s heart? Or are you sure that you’re blessed to bring to the God a

- 48 -
doleful cry of a small duck pained by white-tail buzzard, which is nosing the ground

among lopsided empty koshes but still gazing at the sky?!

Clouds, halloo, why wouldn’t you disperse?!

Leaves, halloo, you’d rather cover the sad beautiful girl than fly asunder on the ground

rustling!

Frozen winds, don’t dodge dissolutely but bring to the father a message about his

daughter left in deadly gap.

Oh, heartless forms of nature, ah! Your Altaic language isn’t known to wounded beauty!

Gone is the beautiful hostage who didn’t want to consider your gloomy masks and please

your will! She trusted herself to the God of Altai and was gone!...

The night darkness grew thicker. Akbilek was horrified. Something, a large number of it,

flew over her head. Shiver penetrated Akbilek. When something flies up with crash,

flutters in the grass, rustles in the bushes, hoots – Akbilek gets motionless covering

herself with arms as if she is just about to be grasped by mysterious monsters. When she

lies down – there’s no sleep. And she’s absolutely scared to sit. But to move somewhere

she’s afraid, besides she can easily get lost and injured in the darkness... Still the sharp

thought doesn’t leave her mind: to go away from this place as soon as it’s possible. But

where can she go to in the middle of the night? She can’t make up her mind. The native

place seems to her, there are Kazakh things there, Kazakh utensils....Next to it there’s a

kind of dwelling – kosh, apparently it’s already familiar but she’s not able to make a step

there no matter how terrifying it is under the dark sky.

Not knowing what to do now Akbilek is sitting hunched up, cringed and is looking

around fearfully. One night seemed to make a layer over another one. Even a trough

which is knocking around here in front of the nearby kosh isn’t seen. The Creator, ah!

How soon the dawn will be?!

- 49 -
At some point the coming from forest howling seems to her. It’s so sinister. Some

shadows began to romp about in the nearest kosh that stood open and crooked like a

witch. Akbilek used to hear the wolfish howl near the flocks outside the aul: the sound

was the same. It can’t be, ah! Are these wolves?..What am I to do? Come off it, the

wolves won’t dare - how they know whether there are people in the koshes. And the

Russians with guns are so frightful – they’ll be afraid. Or have they already understood

that the latter left the camp? When these Russians were here, the wolves didn’t dare to

give a squeak...

The kosh door jamb creaked quietly. It seems someone has come in sight but noiselessly.

Fear has big eyes but it’s dark as midnight. She’d rather stand but she can’t. The howl

was heard again, more distinctly and clearly. The howl kept growing. Shaking mountains

it swept all other sounds. Akbilek’s hands stretched themselves to one of the poles and

drew it out of koshs’s felt. With her both hands she caught the fathom-long pole – you

can break any spine with it, she stood behind the hut. Who but her should meet the

wolves fully armed, there’s noone really. The howl seemed to cease. Akbilek put down

her cudgel and fetched her breathe but it turned out it was too early to calm down. A

splash of water came from the spring...

Who is it?..A man?..An animal?...It doesn’t matter who. Akbilek sat down and gripped

the pole again. She caught her breath and froze.

Here a couple of two round red eyes flashed in the black shroud. Red-red eyes which

burnt with fire. Akbilek stood up and ran to the kosh, pressed with her back into the most

remote edge. And what could she do if the stick fell out of her hands in front of entrance

to the kosh. She crawled carefully, stretched her hand outside and began to fumble on the

ground...

Look: two lights multiplied into four. If only it were so! Another couple of crimson spots

- 50 -
flashed after them. Six burning wolf peepers looked like sixty to Akbilek. The blackest

night filled with fiery eyes only. They shimmered, here fading away, there burning out

again, flickered, approached...

Is this all real?...the grass is already rustling under them.

There-here, here they are...

Oibai, ah! A pack of wolves!

Where will I go now?!

Be careful, here they are swaying curtains of the kosh, sniffing the ground...

Oh, the Creator, ah! Will they really find her?..

Oh, holy men, ah! One of the grey creatures has found a bone at the fireless hearth and

sunk its teeth into it.

Just imagine what has happened to Akbilek!..

She didn’t dare to breathe, and so she froze.

Soon in the open aperture of the kosh that hid Akbilek there appeared rumbling wolf

muzzle...

Akbilek’s desperate cry which cut through the night made a wolf jump aside, for some

seconds gave her hope for saving but rapacious eyes flared again, chaps grinned,

rumbling grew louder. The wolves rushed forward, spinning on one place, roared with

deep-chested hum. Akbilek understood that the animals would certainly lunge at her and

decided to outrun them. She went heels over head by leaps and bounds, grabbed the stick

and began to wave it around shouting: all the same she could see nothing.

From time to time she heard a particularly vicious growling. Sometimes it gave sweetly to

her hands from a blow by the pole either on the flesh-eater or on to the kosh. Spinning

was faster and faster. Akbilek, having lost her senses is waving and waving with her

stick. The wolves closed around her. Akbilek hits out, wolves dodge, Akbilek beats, and

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wolves jump at her. Akbilek prays to God, wolves rage. Akbilek pipes...wolves

growl...Akbilek shrieks, wolves howl...And so she fought with them, long time fought...

Akbilek nearly has already choked of nervous breakdown, in fever and casting, she’s

dying, there’s no escape... “I’ll fall now, now, now they’ll clutch at me, tear to pieces,

eat...” – the thought was flashing across her mind when suddenly something flared under

her feet. The wolves jumped away. It turned out to be coals of the fire – they drank tea

but coals didn’t extinguish... Akbilek immediately began to throw them around with her

legs. Wonder! Fire, ash and twigs that smothered secretly came up with a bang. The

wolves backed off together from burning flame.

Akbilek hastened to throw dry twigs and crust that laid prepared here to the fire. And the

wind pleased her, blew the fire high up as if justifying: “Actually I was on that side, see?”

And the more fire flared up, the dimmer grew the fire in the wolves’ eyes. You won’t die

before fire dies. The fire goes down and Akbilek’s life is destined to fade away. And how

not to spell magic here?

“Shoot up, my fire, shoot up! Flare up, mazda¹, flare up, give more fire, give! Cowardly

animals, dumb enemies! Here’s fire, here’s a gun! Go away, don’t approach to me! You’ll

burn in fire! I’ll burn you, I’ll scorch!” – Akbilek jumped and shouted in half-madness up

till very dawn: “maz-da-mazda” and saved

¹- mazda – to be in flaring fire

herself.

Altai shook off his wrinkled loins the dark night with bloody eyes and monstrous fangs,

scribed thinly lineaments of sunny fabulous beauty Kunekey in the melting moonlight of

the leaden sky. The sky dome was filled with whiteness in the uprise, the mountain tops

gleamed with gilt. And just when the red and heavenly dawn’s gate opened, Akbilek left

looking back fearfully. She belted herself with a rope from the felt coating which covered

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the kosh chimney and went in the soldier shoes which she had found in the kosh, the top

of them reached her waist. In her arms she had the night pole. Who else was she going to

beat with it – she didn’t know, however, she took it with her.

The dawn broke, and the wind came round, the clouds split up. The larks flew up from

their nests, dashed towards the rocks demanding from stony leviathans the payment for

the right to see sun-faced Kunekey first. The larks, halloo, you’d better ask her for

Akbilek. However, you needn’t; anyway she is going shining. Her face is illuminated.

And she has a beaming day ahead! In a moment she forgot that scary long night, deadly

dance with wolves, pattering by tips of soldier heels from stone to stone, you can’t catch

up with her!

Akbilek was running like the sound of letter “E”. She hurried to her people, she has

already seen enough of the Russians, strange, disgusting, who wanted to kill her – such

were they! And she had no other way than to slip through the eye of a needle. Behind her

there were deserted mountains, mountains full of monsters: wolves, bears, albasty¹, boars

with an eye in the forehead. In front of her there’s a narrow path full of animals too: no

one can gurantee her that night fangs won’t meet her on the future road.

Who but her will bring her out? So mother’s mollycoddle moves heavy boots, having

forgotten about food, sleep, tiredness, desiring only to see the edge of the native aul.

Hastily leaving along the mountainside Akbilek took one last look back. The camp

koshes below looked lopsided, unreal. But that mountain forest, that meadow, that shady

place, those rolling stones – each of them was the eyewitness of her humiliation. There

her maiden honor was scoffed at. When her look falls there and burning shame covers her

in the next breath

¹ - albasty – female demonic creature, dangerous for mothers giving birth

where there’s everything in a pile: both the feeling of guilt and disgust. So puppy poos at

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the cleanly swept rag of the hostess. You take it for withers, poke it with its nose into its

filth, it turns off its snout, whimpers, tries to move backwards. So is Akbilek like this

puppy. She didn’t want to see anything, turned out. No matter how Akbilek hurried, all

the same the tocks, boulders, stone fractures hid from her the native flat face of the

steppe. But there came an hour when the sun rose over the entire mountain range at the

height of a spear. Breathless Akbilek got up the edge of the stone trap and saw misty

steppe space. She was so glad as if she was at home door. She came to such delight – give

her wings, she’ll fly up!

Her knees doubled under her, ankles began to crunch. Nothing, she dragged further.

Trying not to swing her arms she went down the slope to the valley. Crunch in the legs

seemed to quite down. She hoped she still had forces; indeed it became a sort of easier to

go on the even ground but as soon as she went up another one hill her legs leadened,

began to ache and as if broke down.

Where are her tireless legs, as fast in playing tag as hare’s legs? Was she put an evil eye

on or anything worse is approaching her? It’s terrible to imagine, ah, what if suddenly

convulsions happen? I wish any aul appeared, if it isn’t an aul, let it be a lonely Kazakh, if

it isn’t any Kazakh, I wish it were at least any animal. But the hills only came up with

hillocks; they just looked as barriers, and nothing or anyone else can be seen.

After passing another wasteland Akbilek stumbled upon the steep stretching

across...God’s mercy!.. The river, the river! At the opposite bank there ran up a road. It

means people are nearby! Akbilek straining herself began to walk faster. The river turned

out to be narrow, rolling round stones in the stony gully with splashes. She went out to a

smooth river bank, pulled off her boots, took off her chapan, camisole, picked up the

dress’s hem, rolled up sleeves, washed her face and drank water. Her throat was

completely dry, she was very tired. When quenched her thirst she sighed with relief.

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Akbilek sat quite for a long time at the water’s edge. She thought: “Here water flows and

stops, flows and stops; there’s no end to it, nothing threatens it, it doesn’t know what

death is. It doesn’t feel anything. Whether I drink it or no – it doesn’t care; it’ll give to

drink to both a bad man and a good one. It’s also the God’s grace. It’s God’s mercy! And

I haven’t got anything of it!”

For all her life water has been flowing in front of her eyes but such thoughts have never

crossed her mind. She was amazed how they have come upon. She bent towards water

smooth surface at her feet and saw her reflection. Her hair was shaggy, she hurried to do

it up watering the locks. She wanted to comb the hair but didn’t, thinking: “For whom

will I smarten myself?” She got up, looked around in search of a quiet place near there to

have rest a bit. It turned out she had a tingle in her legs, then she pinched about three

times calves, hips, it seemed to pass off.

A shallow scour in the abrupt bank stroke her eye to the left. Without thinking too much

Akbilek put on the camisole, threw chapan on her shoulders and dragging her cudgel after

her moved to it.

She could hide there at the creek. Behind her – there was a wall of stone clay, in front of

her – there was water, to the right – there was a creek, to the left – there was the bank that

flew down from the steep. She sat hugging her knees and hunching looked at water. The

sun began to strike down, the forehead grew hotter.

“Here’s the river. And where are the people that live here? Isn’t it usual to settle down at

the rivers in autumn? And there’s a road along the bank...Oh, probably, the local people

ran away from the Russians! Everything around is torn off frenziedly! Now they are

nobody!..How many girls, poor things like me, have disappeared! But such as happened

to me, it’s hardly occured to them. I haven’t seen any other girls at the kosh camp...Or did

they kill them just at once?.. The Russians, oh, so ruthless to the people they are! I won’t

- 55 -
mention these damned, what if they appear again! Why haven’t they returned? Perhaps

they came across someone? Who do they fight so? Maybe they fight with the Kazakhs

from the outskirts? No, what for do the Kazakhs fight with them? What do they want? Do

they want to destroy all of the Kazakhs and to have their daughters, wives, the cattle? So,

why did they all disappear at once? It’s enough three-four of them with the rifles to go

plundering the entire aul... And they were leaving away hiding, looking around like

frightened. Or has there been found justice to them? Who is their enemy? Oh, holy men,

ah! Father used to tell something about “the Whites, the Reds”. Is there the matter in

here? Are the Reds also the Russians? Do they also grab the girls – and go in hiding? If

the Russians...so, they are perhaps the same as Black-moustached. He wanted to shoot

me. Oho-oh, my poor head! The Creator, ah! What am I to do?!” - wondered she and

guessed and then left it.

Water is flowing; splashes clean...Akbilek is watching at the clear water but muddy

thoughts are lulling her. They have lulled, her eyelids close down. Fearing to fall asleep,

afraid of something sudden Akbilek opens and opens her eyes that gather straws. There’s

no way: the sun warms up – it’s one, splash of water, a question without an answer – it’s

two, she didn’t sleep the whole night, was walking all morning and half of the day, got

tired out...

Waking up Akbilek gave a start and immediately lifted her head. She got scared, of

course! She happened to be God knows where, just about in a pit near a river. Here she

remembered how had run away from the dark mountain ravine. Got up to her feet. The

sun has inclined to the horizon, it went dusky. She looked over that bank peering at it,

looked attentively over this one, searched for a ford; her feet were loose in the boots

again. She was walking here and there. There was no ford. She was measuring with her

pole a depth of water, it was deep everywhere.

- 56 -
It took her long to come out to shallow water covered with round pebbles from the edge

to the edge. The course rushed in dimple. She took off the boots, pulled up underwear as

higher over the knees as she could, with her leather stockings under the arm and crossed

the stream stepping carefully with her white chubby feet over smooth stones.

The hill was seen in half-verst¹ away. She decided to go up it and to look for the people

with her eyes.

She climbed up; it turned out to be even higher uplands. Akbilek began to look around in

search of a road. Ahead there lay the hilly steppe, behind there was the ridge of

mountains. Akbilek’s aul was situated at the foot of the mountain ridge. Not to the east

but in the south-west it is, the mountains are not similar to her native ones; they stretch

across those distant peaks. So, she has to walk to Mecca without holding away from

¹ - verst – Russian measure for distance used in pre-revolutionary (mostly) and post-

revolutionary times

the mountains but getting round them. Having decided all this, Akbilek began walking

along the mountain passes trying to go through gentle, open places.

A rearing, deserted valley. Entwinement of pale grass, thickets of wild flowers, hillocks,

embankments, red sand clay, and overgrown landslip seams. Grey mice, mottled magpies,

brown hares, larks – you can see no one except them. People, who can show up, halloo!

The deserted steppe is like a burn. How do the shepherds pasture the flocks in it and don’t

die of boredom? Hey, bare boundless wasteland! Sad is a view of a lonely traveler in the

bare steppe.

Akbilek goes drearily along the steppe that still promises a saving, her knees are loose in

the tops of the boots. A red-footed falcon is following a mouse, squawking straight like

an eagle. There in the distance a lark flies up and falls down clearly, permeates heights,

- 57 -
having no forces and trembling wings to stop still even for a moment. A voice of this bird

disturbed particularly, the other sang differently – what has happened to the poor thing?

Another four-five birdies were scampering in a circle around her, here coming closer,

there moving away; the tiny patronesses were bustling: they would fly up, chipper

indignantly and fly off aside.

One moment the lark darted down recklessly as if attacking. And Akbilek ran to the

birdie like a shot. The place where to she rushed was thick with grass. Akbilek hurries up

looking closely. The winged little thing, which sank to grass thickets, began to romp

about, stirred there deepening into tangles of thick stalks and went noisy swaying the

grass. What has happened to this poor creature? She ran up and saw a grey snake that lay

springily spreading flat the greenery.

The snake throws up its sharp head, death is in it. Diamond eyes fix at the lark, bifid

tongue flickers; the snake whistling crawls by its side, bewitching. Now it curls then it

stretches emitting poisonous steams, now it’s ready to jump. The lark isn’t able to take its

eyes away from the gleaming snake’s eyes. It waves the wings frantically, throws up

miserably, balls – and moves down there, straight under the snake’s teeth. There it

flutters. One, two: “Hop!”, and that’s all. The terrible snake eyes the birdie keenly with

piercing glance, licks itself with the fork of the tongue, lies and waits when the lark itself

jumps into its mouth.

Akbilek felt sorry for the lark. She slapped with her pole just on the sharpened villainous

head. She simply hammered it into the ground, the narrow body began to pull itself

desperately. The poor birdie came round a bit: moved, span on the ground, shook itself as

if peeling off something sticky, waved its wings noisily and flew up to the sky like a bit

of fluff. Akbilek gave two more strikes on the moving snake and went further.

She stepped away and remembered the words she had heard as far back as in the

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childhood: “Snake eats lark bewitching it”. How does she? “You’ll see on your own” – so

they said. “I wonder what kind of magic is there in the eyes of this vermin?” she was

surprised. The incident with the lark seemed to take weariness off her, she began walking

cheerfully, and her heart was beating strongly giving back the even pulse. She was glad

that she had saved the lark from certain death. And she was glad for her courage to kill

the snake too. This was a good sign. The birdie is so defenseless, why is it to die?

Birdie, birdie —so my name’s,

I’m not a simple clod of feathers,

Boy gave me hurts and offences, ^

Now then feel your orphancy!

So a bird curses in children games. But it’s no ways to blame. She’s come to the

conclusion. And then came up a question which made her ponder again: “And who have I

offended?” She imagined herself as the lark and her offenders as creeping creatures.

“I’ve beaten down the bird’s ruiner, so somebody will certainly kill my offenders too” –

and she’s found her decision to be right.

She kept going and thinking this way when suddenly in front of the hill a whitish pointed

spot flitted. Akbilek got scared and sat down immediately pulling her head into her

shoulders. She hid herself, you couldn’t see. She was afraid to look raising herself – what

if these are Russians but she had no patience to hide any longer – so much she wanted to

see: who was there? “If these are Russians, they’ll find me all the same, everything

around can be seen, come what may, I’ll take a look” – she decided and after she sat for a

while, rose up and watched. At the foot of the hill somebody restless goes as if in a race.

He mumbles something strange in his beard, there’s something like an owl clapped on the

head. A guess came up that the Russians had no such pointed hats. It was just a relief, and

a cone on the head became clear: it was a common Duana¹ – a magician, a healer and a

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holy man. There he has a staff in his hands.

— Hey, Duana! — she didn’t understand how she exclaimed, how she dared to call. A

dervish stood as a horse at full speed, reared, stood motionless for a bit and then turned

around and went straight to her.

Akbilek began to recognize him: the legs are dirty with clay; a sharp top of white hat is

crowned by an eagle-owl’s feathers. A staff is made of snowball-tree, covered with dry

tripe; it has tinkling rings and bells. He has fortune-telling shoulder of a lamb, beads of

Prophet Khidr hang from his neck, there’s a knife on his side, nostrils are flaring, chest is

unbuttoned, Adam’s apple sticks up, forearms are bare, and fingers are outstretched. He is

beetle-browed watchfully; the beard sticks out with locks. He’s relaxed but vigilant

keenly...he is that very man who you see once - recognize at once – he is that dervish

Iskander.

Who is he, dervish Iskander? Is he dangerous for Akbilek? And while he’s cautiously

moving towards her, we’ll try to tell you what kind of man is this Iskander.

There are no magical paths and mountain passes which Iskander hasn’t walked through.

Whether it be Ust-Kamenogorsk or Borovoe, Semipalatinsk of Kar-Karaly – everywhere

there’s been left a trace of his bare feet. He’s seen both a steam engine and a steamboat.

He even has composed a song about this: “Ste-a-a-mbo-at, auh, ste-a-a-mmboat!..”

Iskander has no house. Wherever he finds a place by the night – there’s his shelter there.

Whether it’s a cleft or half-ruined old grave wall – they make a home for him. He has no

relatives. His relatives are the Kazakhs. He hasn’t cattle either. All his wealth is in front

of your eyes. He’s indifferent to the things. When you give him little money – this is a

prize for which he arranges in the first aul on his way competitions in wrestling or races

for children. He wanders without a bag. He takes neither sweets nor substantial piece of

food, he’s given to eat something and he’s pleased. When he comes to people, he parades

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to the place of honor and proclaims: “Allah is the truth!”- and gives out at the exhale

something indistinct, then he taps everywhere, touches with his staff here and there and

goes away. He can give to any person his pearl beads and feathers of an eagle-owl.

¹ - Duana – wandering dervish – holy man

Anyway, mostly girls and daughters-in-law obtain adornments from him by request.

Iskander isn’t able to lie. He doesn’t know how it is possible. He never thinks of a man

badly. He calls older people as fathers and uncles. And he addresses women: “mommy”,

even if it’s only the youngest daughter-in-law in the house of other people. Everybody of

the human race is “my child” for him. He never raises his voice onto anyone. He never

replies to the person that offends him, only shakes his head. Sometimes he is asked:

— Duana, scare this prankster.

He replies stroking the delinquent child:

— Leave the child, my good one, won’t scare, won’t scare!

Iskander adores children most of all. When Iskander appears the kids follow him in a file,

they don’t leave him until his very departure. And dogs especially note him; to tell the

truth, they follow him barking and growling. He goes shifting his staff steadily and if

even a dog sinks his teeth into the stick, he never beats the animal. When the children are

busy with studying then Iskander hurries to shake hands with the Mullah teaching them,

and here immediately children jump and stretch their hands to dervish. Iskander asks the

Mullah to let the children go and then gives them free rein. Sometimes he stays for a

night in an aul. He squats near a house in the evening and holds a bent right arm to a kid

that as a rule stands out there. Then he begins to move him round and push down here and

there. Such is wrestling for him. The children are interested; they get in line to for a battle

with him. If a boy falls down, Iskander lets his hand out and says: “Eh, athlete, you’ve

fallen down” – and if the boy stays on his feet then he says: “Hey, mighty man, you’ve

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won.”

Iskander believes everything he is told. “They say, such-and-such wants to see you, he

wants you to bring him coal from a town” – they say to dervish and he replies: “Aha-a,

that is how” – and goes to the mentioned so-and-so. There was such a case when in fierce

winter days Iskander walked fifty versts to some Ishan Isakay bringing on his back a sack

with coal for him. Moreover, he goes barefoot either loosening sand or snow. Such his

soul is that his legs have never been acquainted with any footwear.

Praise is what Iskander likes. Tell him: “Honorable Duana, they say, you have competed

with a steamboat?” – he replies pleased: “Oh, father, there was such case”. He’s raced

with an ambler and with the horses harnessed into a bullock cart. He affirmed that he

made his good running. Honor – to running – that’s all he can boast of. But those who

have seen him running assured that he happened to be behind the horses only in the races

for long distances. Sometimes he takes something into his head and he begins to run near

auls on a level with stallions for two-three miles. And when you ask: “Duana, how do you

manage not to get tired?” – responds – “Oh, The God gives strength”.

So runs Iskander, never seeking rest. Only enters any home on his way, exclaims “Truly!”

– and runs with his hands over the face praying, and the next moment he isn’t there.

He doesn’t tell fortunes, doesn’t predict destiny. He assures: “it’s a sin” – and shakes his

head from side to side. However, you can’t say he’s been diligent in prayings. Sometimes

during namaz he goes up to the praying Muslims without washing his black heels and

settles down nearby. He doesn’t utter anything from surah of the Koran but he moves his

lips, reads something as if inwardly. From time to time he proclaims: “Truly!” – and

gives dreary sound, and that’s all.

Iskander isn’t very good at chatting, his answers are short. And when he speaks, he can

reply with a poem. If a master of a house says suddenly: “Duana, we have no lamb to

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treat you”— then you hear such a patter from him in season or out of season:

Eh, when you don’t have a sheep,

So wisdom’s your reward.

Wisdom’s everywhere seen,

So from above a feast you’ve got...

Nobody has ever seen Iskander displeased, with a protruding lip. Whenever you look at

him he’s friendly and smiling. But nobody has even thought over why he is as he’s, how

the heart pounds in his chest, what blood runs in his veins, what energy drives his body.

They only thee and thouh to him: “Duana, Duana” – and only mention: “Such man can do

everything”. Iskander’s life is a secret. Of course, Iskander is a man. But what kind of

man is he?...

Perhaps that’s all what can be said about the man who Akbilek met. The dervish

approaching her pronounced:

— Ah, my child, my beam, dear... Where are you from? Akbilek not knowing what to

say became confused and drooped.

— Uncle Duana... me... me... of Aqsaqal Mamyrbai... — and went silent.

She was ashamed to confess that she had been under the Russian man, although it was

against her own will… It’s impossible to keep silence either; she had to say something.

She rubbed her forehead, fluttered her eyelashes and dropped her eyes to the ground...

She murmured:

— I’m the daughter of Aqsaqal Mamyrbai... got lost... now can’t find my aul ...

Duana didn’t ask how and when she had got lost.

— Er-er, my child... got lost? Mamyrbai, Mamyrbai, Tauirbai, Suyrbai... I know,

know... I’ll take you with me, look after you, bring home — and he offered his hand.

Being happy because the dervish didn’t begin to ask her about anything, Akbilek

- 63 -
followed him gladly. Iskander dragged her after him with his left arm and with his right

arm he moved his staff: only his dry, as if cut of wood, feet flitted. He goes, goes and

pities her in tune with the steps: “Eh, my child, eh, my baby, the eyes are swollen, legs

are beaten, she’s suffered hunger, and herself is faded...” And Akbilek has no words to

say; only sometimes she looks at sticking with locks beard of the pilgrim and his

darkened under the sun bosom. Warty fingers hold firmly Akbilek’s wrist. He hurries so

fast as if somebody there far away has been tired of waiting for him desperately. Akbilek,

who has got tired very quickly, is late to move her feet. She’s been warped like a baby

that has been dragged behind his severe mother. Finally she couldn’t stand it and begged:

Uncle Duana, could you go a bit slower, please...

Eh, are you tired, my child? —he let her hand off and walked not so fast.

However, he still measured steps with his sinewy legs to the bullish hum of his chest so

lively that it was hard to make herself heard soon. Akbilek, who fell behind rather far

from him, tried to hold him back with a conversation:

Uncle Duana, is the aul far away from here?

Ah — he stopped. — We’ll get there, get.

And he again pulled forward. Akbilek was absolutely tired but was shy to admit it. She

talked again hoping to hold the traveler back:

— Duana! — she nearly cried.

This time she asked if he had met any military people in these places.

— Eh, an army? There are piles of enemies, there are, there are, — the dervish

muttered into his beard.

Dissatisfied with the answer Akbilek asked which side her aul was.

— There it’s under that protruding nose— and he pointed to the mountain that

appeared blue in the distance.

- 64 -
Akbilek understood that this day she wouldn’t be able to reach home. She wished to limp

to any dwelling... what was near for Duana with his pace, for exhausted Akbilek with

giving away knees wasn’t achievable. He goes, she drags herself along...They have

already covered so much...but still she wouldn’t be able to make it. There, at the very

horizon on the slope something showed itself – either it was dark cattle in the pasture or

darkened grubs.

The sun set down preparing for the evening prayer.

Akbilek got hungry and exhausted. She kicked off her pain-filled boots. She had no

strength to go at all, and feeling nothing she just sat down. Duana, which had run a half-

verst from her, returned to her in jumps when heard Akbilek’s thinned sorrowful voice.

He realized that this time she was unable to move even her finger.

— Eh, my child, eyes are swollen, legs are swollen... you’re tired, I suppose? Ah, I’ll

carry my child on my back. Get on it, come on! — and he exposed his back.

Akbilek hesitated daring neither to climb up him nor to refuse do it. It seemed

embarrassing for her, the maiden, to clamber up the spine of the cobby man. She

remembered at once how Black-moustached had carried her in his arms when she had

been his wife, pressed to him, kissed... anyway, isn’t it a sin to allow her body which was

befouled by endearments of the kaffir Russian to press to the back of the holy man? But

dervish was waiting patiently repeating: “Get on, get on, my child”.

The relatives are far away, she has no strength to go. Out of despair she had to get up,

sighed trying on and stretched her hands to Duana’s shoulders. She simply forced herself

to hug him round his neck but Duana was all right – he started to his feet like a workhorse

and with a cry: “My holy feast is with me!” rushed on further. He passed his staff to

Akbilek and her hanging aside legs he pinned with the corners of elbows. He clasped,

shook her for stronger settling and walked on in a sweeping manner along the hillocks

- 65 -
and stones.

Akbilek imagined what kind of rider she was and was ready both to laugh and cry.

Anyway, she was satisfied. Firstly, because she saw herself riding away from the Russian.

There with him there was no even hope to remain the human. There she put up with

anguish, humiliation, shamelessness and death itself. And there was no evil intention in

the fact that she goes on Duana and the pledge of this is holiness of the dervish. She

desired the only thing – to get to the aul, to father. When she sees him, she will hug him

after separation, pray above her mother’s grave and will begin to take care of her parent

as mother did. But no matter how she calmed herself down her heart all the same was torn

off, squeezed with a loop. Who did this? You remember yourself. And what does joy

have to do with this? What does salvation have to? You can’t, can’t look at everything in

a different way. It’s silly that life is taking a problem-free shape again. Any way you slice

it – from all the sides around the dark clouds were encroaching, covering the light. She

had only to suffer through the illness, to live through it...

If to put away the feeling of tension that arouse in her in the beginning of unexpected

riding, in the course of it Akbilek has forgotten who she is sitting on. It seems that her

mother is carrying her, a little girl, on the back and the days from the childhood have

surfaced in her memory. She has a white chintz dress on, under the hem there are red

panties trimmed with black silk; a hair pony-tail sticks out on her vertex. She is a

barefooted nice girl who prefers running to smooth step. She decorates a goatling with

white and black thrum flourishes and feathers of an eagle-owl, then imagines it like her

horse and races with the the same kiddies like her. Together with the fry they pile on

father who dozes peacefully and he startles under the children hanging on his shoulders

and neck. Then gives up noisily: “You’ve laid me down, laid me down!” They play hide-

and-seek hiding behind dozing camels, stumps, boulders, in a creek...Behind the house

- 66 -
they arrange a house from a tripod for a doll woven from willow twigs. They put rugs

under the doll, and hang muslin on her head because you know it is certainly wooed to, it

becomes a bride and they as worldly-wise women gossip about on the occasion, demand a

bride price from the relatives of a groom...She cuts patches for dresses of a doll-bride

from mother’s dress squares; certainly she gets quite a blessing from mommy for this. But

still, how can’t mother but love her! She snuggles up her daughter to stomach, kisses the

cheek with gusto: “I can’t see enough of my white-white little daughter!..” Where’s

mother now? Oh, the Creator, who and what will fill echoing emptiness now? Who will

touch sighing Akbilek’s forehead with the lips when she appears at her home? Whom

with will she cry, who’ll console her? Again Akbilek begins to grieve; again she’s on the

verge of tears. And she would cry but right now straight in front of them a lark flew

quiveringly out of a grassy bush and distracted her from tears. By these minutes the sun

has also set down to the horizon. It darkens.

Maybe not to the point, but she’s just thought that it’s hard for the dervish to go with a

burden. In two-three crosses through hills and creeks he took Akbilek off his back, rested

a bit, stretched his hardened spine, started like a riding horse. God knows where from

barking of dogs sounded. Akbilek brightened up:

We got to the aul!

We got, my child, we got, — replied dervish and threw her up once again on his back.

Akbilek thought she felt a smell of boiled milk which finely interissued with a smoke of a

burning kizyak under a cooker.

We’ve come, uncle Duana! Now I can go on my own.

Eh, my child, we have to go and go— declared the dervish not thinking to lower her off.

And when gurgle of boiling milk was almost heard, dervish stopped.

— Here, below is an aul — he announced.

- 67 -
Akbilek crawled off his back. She stretched as she could stiffen hands of the dervish. She

wanted to stretch his legs too but he moved over, then she shook hems of his chapan and

went by his side again.

Soon the aul that nestled up to the hill slope appeared. You can’t say it was built as a

completed settlement. It didn’t even look to have a friendly row. There were seen five-six

running aside winterings here and there. They as if declared to an attentive man such are

our masters, they keep away from each other without the good of the cause and without

desire to live one nest. Cattle stood gloomily near some of the sheds. It looks like it’s

going to be driven to camping-grounds. A large building at an earthen hillock smoked

thickly. A shadow moved to it from a little dwelling to the right. To the left of the slope

there’s a shed with some things in front of it, it’s hard to distinguish how, but many. Not

knowing which house to choose Akbilek walked mechanically but dervish suggested:

Let’s go to that house.

And whose house is it?

It belongs to a rich man Musa.

And what if we go the one that is nearer?

Akbilek didn’t want to go to a rich house. Rich house means that everything is all right in

it. And certainly decent people live in it. In her current conditions it wouldn’t be quite

cautious to poke to a respectable house. It’s no good to go to decent people having such a

look.

Could we go to the nearer house? — repeated Akbilek.

The people who live in the houses that are nearer are hungry, and I suppose you, my

child, are hungry, you have to eat... — said dervish loudly.

So what of it... We need only a sip of milk, perhaps they will find a place for us where we

can lie down— Akbilek didn’t calm down.

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Yes, even the holy man can hardly pluck out something that has been taken into woman’s

head. Iskander-Duana didn’t persist. Now can you tell that he is as weak-minded as

everybody thinks him to be?

— Eh, my child! Well, all right, — and he turned to the first wretched dwelling on

their way.

But as soon as he turned around and stepped, Akbilek almost caught him for the leg:

—Don’t tell them there, uncle Duana, who I am? Tell them that I gathered kizyak and got

lost, and you’ve found me.

Dervish frowned and said:

— Eh, my child! Is it good to lie? Liar is an enemy of Allah— and he walked already

at an easy pace.

A lazy dog when heard a knock of the dervish staff moved only an ear but when a hat of a

strange man appeared it had to stand up. It realized that it was impossible to lie quietly

and began to bark diligently. Here a woman in the torn leather pants got out from under a

cow hugging a bucket. She rearranged the white hood of a married woman which slipped

aside – kimeshek, only the nose peeped under it and wiped at a dog with her leg:

— Go away, go away!

Dervish put the staff behind his back and approached her:

—Hey, mother, we’re guests sent by the God.

The woman didn’t reply, stretched out her neck trying to see Akbilek who kept beside

dervish’s back.

And who is this girl?

So, can we stop at your place? Will you allow?

Oibai, auh! When the rich people live there... We aren’t able to accept guests properly...

— she only could say when Akbilek jumped to her:

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Auntie, we’d be glad to have acidified milk. We went to you knowing that you wouldn’t

offend us...

Oibai, dear, auh! Well, if you came... that’s that... share everything we have with us— the

woman grew kind when heard a tender voice. She was ready not only to accept her but to

warm if can.

If so, come into the house! — and she took the uninvited guests to her narrow dwelling.

— Don’t get to the crossbeam. Lower your head, there, there!

The hostess went after the guests pointing how to get through lopsided door. They

entered. Akbilek pulled the rope hammered to the door to close it but it tilted even more

and like a stubborn animal didn’t want to move. Akbilek gave up this venture.

It was dark in the room like in a stone cave. The woman led dervish who clung to her

blindly somewhere and Akbilek dragged herself there too.

—Who’s there, mom? — a voice of a child sounded. Hay rustled under Akbilek’s feet.

Stink spread from all the corners. A hole shimmered; apparently it was a sort of a

window. Akbilek arranged herself awkwardly next to dervish on some rug that lay on the

ground. Here dervish exclaimed his words loudly:

—Truly!

Akbilek gave a start and the woman exhaled remembering ass out of surprise.

The child screamed, cried and calling mother made for her. And mother told him:

Shut up! Take him, Duana! He will cut off your ear!

The kid immediately fell silent.

Eh, my child, don’t cry! I won’t cut off, won’t —dervish calmed him down.

Where’s the goddamn lamp gone? — said hostess moving her hands around her and got

outside grumbling. Soon she returned bringing a smoked cover from a metal jug. She

fixed it crookedly on the edge of the stove, dropped oil on the punky wick, and softened

- 70 -
the light with her weather-beaten hand. Then her hands disappeared in the darkness again.

Fearing that woman can take an interest in her once again, Akbilek asked piteously:

—Auntie, can I drink water?

Dropsy of heart occurs from water, drink some curdled milk— she replied.

Then give me some curdled milk mixed with water. I long for a drink.

—I’ll give you to drink, dear, give.

The woman began to potter about in the stove jangling her pots and pans.

At this moment out of the stove like in a fairy-tale there appeared a shaggy head of a very

little grubby girl. Dervish who put his staff against the wall behind his back, suddenly

bent forward and drawled-whined something of his own. The draggle-tail began to stare

at him.

The woman brought Akbilek a flat dark scoop gazing into her face attentively; the latter’s

eyelids were closing, she had to hold the piece of plate at her lips. While Akbilek was

drinking, she was standing, looking at Duana and was scratching her leg through a hole in

the hem with crunch. She had hardly left as Akbilek fell on either a winter coat or

cottonwool pants, in other words some house lumber, and covered herself with chapan.

As Akbilek began to fall aside dervish moved over and then stood up completely and

almost by feel got out of the house. Having seen that her guest lay down the hostess went

out too. Akbilek didn’t know what was next as she fell into sleep.

In the yard the woman pressed on dervish asking him all about his traveling companion.

And when she heard: “Mamyrbai’s daughter”, she said having understood everything:

“Aha!” The fact that she had laid down in her house the daughter of the famous

Mamyrbai was such great news that it couldn’t get enough place in only one woman. She

certainly had to run quickly to Milch Camel for a handful of flour.

What nonsense! Will a normal person beg for flour from a camel? It goes without saying

- 71 -
that the woman ran to the neighbor known as Boz-izen. Yeah, the Kazakhs are smart

enough to give such name to a decent woman. Thanks that they didn’t give a nickname

sort of But-zhimas with a hint that such woman never clasps her thighs. However, if you

wish we’ll tell who this Boz-izen is. We can do this easily. To gossip, to gab is a pleasure

for us. So, let’s start, well then, off we go.

So, we’re talking about a wife of the famous Musabai. Every aul dog knows that she was

called Milch Camel for megalomania intrinsic to her. If only all of a sudden even the

steppe spoke about its significance it would never over-talk Boz-izen. A stream of

bragging has been running from her mouth up till now even though the boaster has

become older pretty well. No matter how enemies tried they couldn’t dissuade Boz-izen

in falsehood of the choice of her passion. Her thin-necked husband with outworn beard

couldn’t say a word listening to his spouse. Yeah, sure, Boz-izen would be the first and

matchless not only in the aul but probably in a half of the world if one red nosy bitch –

Birmagan’s wife who doesn’t give her to open her mouth – weren’t in the way! Women,

beauty, when they begin to scold, they tell such things...but enough, let them!

So, what are we talking about? Aha-a, about that poor woman who rushed to Boz-izen. I

wonder why she hasn’t run to the Red-haired, who, by the way, is her relative. Well then

there’s some kind of cunning here. Surely she’s decided to take advantage of the

unthinkable event and to milk the camel once again (it should be said, she’s already

succeeded in this).

When the neighbor entered, Boz-izen was lulling her fair-haired child Anaurbek, who the

Red-haired calls only as a bastard. Of all things, she named her son after some famous

Turk about whom she only chanced to hear something! Indeed, lousy dog would certainly

be called as Wolfhound.

— Calm down, Anuar-zhan! Take a sleep, sweety! — and she taps with her hand son’s

- 72 -
shoulder, strokes, arranges a blanket, tucks in at his side, looks and can’t see enough.

When she sees the neighbor-woman at the door frame, Boz-izen bends her brow

importantly:

—Kumsinay, are you on business or so?

—On business... There’s one... — Kumsinay edged away, edged away and approached

Boz-izen.

Boz-izen spread the sides of kimeshek on her shoulders, sat down comfortably and

waiting for more or less fresh news placed to the neighbor her ear which could be guessed

under thin white fabric of the covering. The latter began to whisper.

—Ah, leave it! — Boz-izen threw her head back but in the next breath she bent with her

cheek to interlocutor as excitedly as a hunter to a rifle’s butt. — So is she alone?

But they couldn’t talk to their hearts’ content as they were informed that the husband

returned and the hostess had to stand up and go to the front room. She came back with a

cup of flour, gave it to the neighbor and said:

I’ll come.

Come but there’s nothing to watch at. She’s asleep.

Kumsinay’s objection for Boz-izen is like a stamp of a louse for an ear. Without putting

off so important day indefinitely she hurried to a summer kitchen where her mother-in-

law was boiling milk and winking at her she told the latter everything she had found out.

The old woman tasted milk and began to stroke up fire in the stove. With a look, as if I

care nothing, Boz-izen rearranged her mane under the kimeshek and began to search for

her husband. The spouse eased oneself at the backyard and fumbled with the pants: one

hand was on the belt, another was under it. When she came across him, Boz-izen pulled

his hand out of the depths of his underwear and stroke dumb:

—Oh, have you heard?!

- 73 -
Having informed in such a way everybody in her house, Boz-izen dashed outside with the

news. She went out and moved from house to house having huddled her hands in front of

her. So she went crash along the entire aul and reached Kumsinay’s dwelling with a tail

which was made up quickly of one girl and two women.

Even though Boz-izen isn’t a wife of a big boss but she is aware of all events that happen

in the volost. She breaks in on party squabbles and twists the rich people with all her

might, keeps her eyes open and likes to be in on things, so a public person she is. She can

fight with men either in draughts or in cards. For company’s sake she can put tobacco

behind her lip. Her guest sings certainly and when he gets all steamed up she drawls a

song together with him. She’s an insider with the young people too. Only one tiny flaw is

inherent to her personality: the dress she has on is always ideally perfect but she doesn’t

care other woman troubles. New blankets are thrown anyhow, the bed is never made,

litter is left, and things are in a mess. Disgusting Red-haired constantly shoots off mouth

about her: “She even doesn’t sew her ass!”

A pretty romantic girl, which looks like Boz-izen very much, is shifting around her. This

is Aytzhan, isn’t she? Yes, she is. Boz-izen praises her Aytzhan, asks to play music on

dombra, to sing songs, drives with the guys and she is with them, and when it comes to

jokes and indecent phrases, Aytzhan is never able to compete with her. So, she’s married

this Aytzhan recently and now is bored without tricks but here the God has sent Boz-izen

such lucky chance to have fun:

— My God, why not to come to us, she dragged herself to this miserable Kumsinay,

why really?! — she goes and boils over.

Boz-izen is curious: what is this girl like that the Russians have been after? Why is her

Aytzhan worse? How is she dressed? Of course, these aren’t the questions. It’s important

for Boz-izen to know what has happened to her after the Russians. Just to find out this.

- 74 -
The Russians dropped to her aul too. The women and girls hid themselves among the

rocks but she came to hands of three soldiers, suffered from them. One girl from the

lower house in the aul also couldn’t hide and went mad after such things, now she lies

quietly there at the stove. However, is even such violence able to destroy in woman her

nature in its most natural sensual meaning?

Boz-izen comes with retinue to Kumsinay’s house –somebody lies curled up in the

corner. It’s unlikely Duana. It seems he wanders somewhere behind the house where the

dogs’ barking comes from. Boz-izen passes a lamp to a companion, comes up to the lying

girl and lifts a chapan hem from her face. Akbilek sleeps snuffling, a trickle of spit is

stretching from the edge of a bit open mouth.

Eh, poor her!

Kumsinay came behind:

And what did you want? Let her sleep.

Boz-izen raised chapan on the sleeping girl higher, looked over bone buttons of the dress,

looked almost under the hem, felt all pockets, and touched leather stockings. When she

finished her manipulations, she arranged wild hair and concluded:

—This is the girl, from all side she’s the girl!

They started discussing chapan made of silk and sleeveless jacket embroidered with

semiprecious stones, and cambric dress. One of them says: “The dress is like Aytzhan’s

one”, another doesn’t agree: “Aytzhan has better one”. Boz-izen has to talk herself. In her

opinion it turns out that the women don’t understand anything in the matter. Aytzhan has

everything five times higher quality and richer. Aytzhan is cleverer too. The same

Russians didn’t keep up with her, she saved herself from shame. And she was lucky too

(the fact that she got pregnant then from someone of them, doesn’t count).

The women chatted, gossiped to their pleasure, blabbed and broke up – each went to her

- 75 -
cauldron.

Waiting for his wife, Musabai whatever pondered over, but came to nothing in his

thinking vain attempts, lying lean on the bed just like the Arab letter ‫د‬. The point is he

was from fast-growing rich men and in the new status he still felt quite unsteady (only

yesterday he was among the urban poor, actually as well as his wife). And he uprose

thanks to his wife, it may be said, everything is gained by her figure. And here his two

fillies were lost and then found at Mamyrbai’s pastures. He couldn’t reach to get them

back. Mamyrbai certainly had to cover his people even if their case was obvious horse-

stealing otherwise how would he look in the eyes of his people, how would he hold them?

And now his daughter has come to his hands, how couldn’t he take it out her. This is a

dark thought that’s wandering through his mind. To hide the girl – but the entire aul has

already known about her. Even if his people don’t snitch, Birmagan will rat. This worker

has been quarrelling with all the men for the whole summer, has been sticking to women

like tar. And his red-haired woman... What if to take her away to someone rather far off?

It will turn out too. Or, maybe, to put her under some guy to heighten disgrace? But what

is a profit from it? No, it’s necessary to think of such painful strike for Mamyrbai to

know...But what could be made up here? This is a problem – a difficult one. Here his wife

has appeared and began to tell what a beauty this Akbilek is. She’s described her in such

a way that a lustful desire has risen in him. What could he bypassing Boz-izen?

So what is all her beauty to me! — he only could exclaim in a fit of anger.

And who said that you have to care about her? — she immediately cut him down to his

size.

Musabai had only to lie on his side, puff and bulge his eyes. “Move aside!” – the woman

pushed him, lay with her back to him and became sad remembering the old insoluble

question: “Why did I marry this fool?”

- 76 -
At midnight they tried to wake Akbilek to have tea but she didn’t arouse. And when she

opened her eyes in the morning – the house was full of people. She looked to the right

and here her second uncle Amir sat.

My dear! — Amir cried, his jaw’s trembling and his hands were spread wide apart.

Uncle! — Alikbek could only say. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder and burst

out sobbing.

Two guys from her own aul who came with Amir looked at each other and no matter how

they tried to pin groans in the throats, they couldn’t resist and shook with roar the roof of

Kumsinay’s dwelling. These sounds prompted women to come to excitement and they

started to wail in chorus. Even Boz-izen leaned against the stove sorrowfully and sighed:

— How else!

But all the same the crowd of women wasn’t satisfied with the developing scene. They

considered that Alikbek didn’t cry bitterly enough and there were no bright intonations in

her sobbing. First she couldn’t wail desperately as it’s usually done even at common

seeings-off or, let’s say, funerals. Couldn’t she bring out with melodramatic statements

her hiding heart ravishing and strained so that to splash out overfilling her anguish with

more or less decent agony. She simply sobbed and that’s all.

Well, Akbilek didn’t learn to wail properly. It seemed to her that it was too long for her

first grieve – farewell with the parental house. She used to behave like a child in her

fifteen years...She bawled once only at quickly limp body of mother and then she had to

mourn over her own little head quietly-quietly. Could they understand the reasons of her

so simple behaviour at all – it’s unknown but they were very disappointed to see only a

weeping child before them.

They stood and sat, crying silently for company’s sake and looked at each other until

- 77 -
Amir explained his fast arrival:

— As soon as a messenger appeared from this aul at night, sleep vanished as if by

magic. I jumped up the first horse I saw and dashed here.

That means, while Musabai was chewing over his revengeful thoughts, Birmagan sat his

man on the fastest racer and sent him to Aman without looking at dusk. The red-haired

Birmagan’s wife also did her part. She got into sympathy to Akbilek deeper than the

others and occurred closer than everybody to her at this moment too. She took her hand

and trying not to stare at her, said:

—As soon as we heard, we felt so sorry for you, more than for our own daughter. What

else could we do?

Here one of Amir’s friends added:

— This is the way the relatives show the relationship — he said and gazed boldly at

Boz-izen as if he let her know: “You’ve sort of queened it here recently and what are you

now?”

He knew, of course, about the clash between Musabai and Mamyrbai. Sure thing, he’s

likely to know personally those barymta¹ – offenders who had driven Musabai horses. As

soon as Red-haired heard about kindred preferences in the next breath she caught up to

the said and pulling her shoulders added:

—Eh, yeah, what do we talk about here... we don’t cling to the crap of the other people as

some Kazakhs do...

But Birmagan didn’t let her speed up by interrupting needless woman’s attack:

— What’s the use of talking about it!

But even the skirmish between the spouses didn’t make Boz-izen happy. It looked like

she wouldn’t be able to thrust in her

¹ - barymta – one of forms of tribal arguments – (here: stealing of horses)

- 78 -
last word. She darkened and shut flat lips tight. Would she have to bear such things here

unless this grunting wild boar had sent the messenger on the horse at night? And this red-

haired woman of him...Stinky bitch! You can’t count her dirty tricks!

Kumsinay began to brew up tea. The aul people went out to stretch their legs. Red-haired

began to invite Akbilek to her house. Amir after he had given thanks to the God, talked

about returning home. Here Birmagan began to intrude his hospitality too but the guests

hurried home

—Then if so, I’ll saddle for Akbilek my chestnut ambler and bring her to the father on my

own as is right and proper! — announced Birmagan and walked out.

This turn of events has finally struck Boz-izen. She came back home and:

— You won’t see the life, you glutton! He sits at home as if pressed by evil spirit! —

she began to gnaw the husband.

Musabai kept silent.

At his horse-standing Birmagan threw a beautiful blanket on the saddle of his chestnut

horse, sat Akbilek on it and himself jumped up a young mare. Together with her and

Akbilek he moved on to the way desired for everyone.

And the dervish went on his own way.

On the way Amir began speaking how good it was that she had met the dervish in time,

like there’s some use from Duana too because he wandered here and there and

everywhere, however he didn’t approve his taste for poverty, he considered his habit for

nothing to go barefooted both in winter and summer as shameful one. Later he told about

the captured Whites, about Mukash.

Akbilek, who rode with her face lowered down, kept her ears open. Only now she heard

about the capture of the Whites... She understood who the man had been that had come up

to her when she had hidden squat that night in the hole and who had ordered to her before

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leaving somewhere: “Lie here for a while.” Mukash! That was him who pointed at her to

the Russians. She went over all the past days and touched Black-moustached with a tail of

her memory. A moment – and he’s again in front of her: with his caresses...with a

rifle...And she got surprised that she’s alive, that she was going home with her uncles.

With this strange surprise a feeling of shame fell on her. Now she’s not the former

Akbilek, now she’s slobbered, trampled, bedraggled...The body which was virgin clean

like beestings before now is bitched-up, soaked with sin. A crow nested between her

untouched, snow-white breasts. Not a maiden she is but a bitch. A dirty pitch fleck has

unglued her innocent earlier heart, nothing can extenuate.

Oh-ah! And how is my betrothed? He will refuse... certainly he will refuse! What’s the

use of leavings of the Russians for him? And if he refuses, who will pick up then? For

people I’m as an ulcer, purulent ulcer.You knew all this indeed, knew! Perhaps,

something is wrong with my head...I wish the wolves had torn me that night so heavily

that there wouldn’t have been left any nail from me, brazen one?!

Everyone will turn away from me! From the girl, worn out, old tart. And the skin is all in

wrinkles, breasts are a kind of bangled, the back is crooked, thighs are sort of

flattened...Lips are pale, all is cold. I looked in the mirror there, at the Russian’s – the

face was so faded away, it looked like a walleye appeared... I lived only just a little, and

I’m already an old woman!

My God, my God!.. Why won’t I get lost right now, won’t die anyhow! Let the horse

stumble under me, let me fall to its hoofs without a sound! I wish the ground fell through

under me and it swallowed me! It may be done this way: a black cloud would appear

suddenly and strike me with a thunder! If it’s also impossible, then let a witch fly against

me and choke me! Well, if this doesn’t happen, then as soon as they bring me to father I

wish I fell down, fluttered eyelashes - whack! – and that’s all. It’s better to die than to live

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and remember.

Akbilek looked over the sky – no, a menacing cloud which she called out hasn’t appeared

in the skies. She looked down – the ground is the ground, it hasn’t even started. She hit

the horse’s sides hoping that it would bolt, stumble - naughty horse even haven’t thought

to fall off its feet, it keeps going as it has been doing quietly in line with the other horses.

Akbilek looked at the uncles nearby. They haven’t thought to stare at her, they are

looking ahead whipping the horses, stirrups are only squeaking under the soles of their

boots: “When will they finally get off us?”

Akbilek dared to watch what was there ahead. She took a look —here’s the aul already.

She saw the native buildings — tears came up to her eyes. Here the women that saw them

from far away hurried to her home. And there the dogs from her father’s yard began to

bark. There even heifers-neighbors pulled their muzzles to her side bleating. Here the

women’s moaning sounded to her.

The wounded soul seemed to relief among the sounds of wailing chorus. Akbilek wanted

to sob with them. The shining sun disappeared behind a veiling of tears. As if in a fog,

grey-haired people drew nearer to her, the old women held her under elbows, kissed her

on forehead and took somewhere and there put in front of a huge-huge man. The father.

Akbilek cries and cries...

Poor little Akbilek! Who but you should weep tears? You’ve lost your mother that bore

you in her womb and fed you patiently like aruana its colt! You’ve lost a key to

tomorrow, seemingly inevitable happiness. The golden pot turned over and rolled away,

golden oil spilled. Adolescent girl’s heart stopped beating – it’s charred. Your spring bud

not having had time to blossom, has withered, has become rot. Your light soul is covered

with ash. Cry, heal with a tear! Wash away the anguish with tears! Cry out the sea of

tears! Let this sea storm! Let salty waves billow! Let sink in them those who offended

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you and let every drop of the sea cried by you will be a poison for them! Let everyone

who they love and who love them whimper in the eternal mourning like you do.

Part two

WOUND

A rifle bullet rips out the whole piece of meat – it can house a fist. If you don’t cure a

wound, neglect it, then say good bye quickly. If you’ve stopped such a packet, there’s no

salvation.

Lead smashed Bekbolat’s shoulder so heavily that the wound gaped as a cave. “The bullet

should be taken out...Grassy chewing – it helps thousands injures and wounds...” –

everybody put in with his advice until a telegraphist that came from a city claimed:

“Unless you show him to a doctor, he’ll die.” They decided to take him to treatment. In

the town they found Mamyrbai’s son, there’s nobody else. Tolegen, almost a relative,

began to run over every town offices and obtained an assignment to hospital.

Bekbolat lay in the hospital for about twenty days. It looked like the doctors treated him

perfectly. In a couple of weeks the arm got alive, the wound began to close. With time he

sort of fitted in the hospital, and although only boredom reigned around he became

accustomed to its grey bedsheets, unbearable stink of excrements, to vegetable food

despite of the fact that this was terribly windy food for his stomach.

The day came when the doctors finally allowed him to go out to spend a penny. Bekbolat

went outside.

Fair-haired mothers dressed in everything white, with white armlets moved here and there

in the yard talking to each other. They carried some bottles, towels, teapots, basins. A

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doctor with finely curled moustache and smoothly slickered, as if by a heifer, hair, also

dressed in white crisp clothes, communicated with the mothers in Russian while going

rounds in the hospital and giving some instructions. Hospital walls, and ceiling, and

floors were smooth as if a plane went over them. Everything was swept out, everywhere

was clean – a mosquito had nowhere to catch hold. Seeing all this order and feeling better

from day to day, Bekbolat thought: “How a patient wouldn’t recover here? It can’t be

otherwise.”

Bekbolat had nothing presentable on his feet – shoes were shabby. He was dressed in

yellow robe with tarpaulin collar; the head was tied with a white scarf. He dragged

himself past the doctor trembling like a mouse chilled in water.

The doctor asked: “Where are you going?” – fixed eyes at him and apparently

remembered that he himself had allowed the patient to get up, said: “All right, walk

further”, — and winked at him.

Toddling in the hospital corridor and yard seemed to strengthen a bit knee joints and the

entire body a sort of improved in health.

Having opened the gate, Bekbolat got outside. He wouldn’t like to see hospital corners

and timeworn bed linen which was soaked with unbearable smell of medicines for ages.

In front of his eyes there’s a day shining with all colors. The air rings. As soon as he

looked at the blue sky he felt as if he’s taken a new lease of life. His face has brightened

and thoughts have clarified. He’s cheered up and went to move to home grounds. He

wanted to see his people as soon as possible so much. And if to speak about matters of the

heart he remembered Akbilek. “I’ve seen the light of the day, have recovered. And what

sufferings does she endure? Does she weep? Or have the Russians killed her? Or have

they altogether..” — he hurried and stood up at the edge of a steep bottomless cliff.

Itching has covered the entire body, a tender vein as if broke at the top of the heart. As

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soon as the wound began to close, these thoughts never left him day and night and he felt

an abyss under him. His heart was breaking hundreds, thousands of times but this time the

heartbeat was felt somehow differently. He visualized Akbilek again, but in the endless

steppe filled with free and careless flow of the living world, beside the reality he saw her

as a flowering stalklet.

Tolegen, cautious well-built guy, visited Bekbolat in the hospital two-three times. He

came and asked with sympathy: “How is the wound? How do you feel? How is appetite

— he carried on a conversation only about this. After all Tolegen is Akbilek’s blood

brother, which confused Bekbolat and prevented him to ask about her. And he himself

didn’t start a talk about the little sister. Trying to find out with roundabout questions at

least something, Bekbolat asked him what the people spoke now but Tolegen replied

simply: “Well, in general, everything is as before... Nothing special is heard...”— and

said not a word about Akbilek. “What kind of man he is? Didn’t he really go and visit the

father? After all, his birthmother was killed, little sister was stolen, and his soul should

surely hurt. Or is he really just as he’s? Has he hardened here in the city? What’s the use

of such son to the poor father?”— Bekbolat thought watching at him. But no matter how

these thoughts disturbed him, he didn’t reproach him of anything. And the latter talked to

the doctors in charge, popped in at a parting and left again. There was, like, the little

sister, but she came out. “What does he want from me” Why does he go then?” —

Bekbolat racked his brains never realizing what kind of man this Tolegen is. This his

reservedness brought Bekbolat to a dead-lock and caused vague fears.

Now the recovered Bekbolat couldn’t especially wait to find out as quickly as possible

about everything that had happened to Akbilek. But from whom and how? Will he meet

any Kazakh? Yesterday when he lay on the bed it seemed to him some Kazakh went by,

he passed and disappeared. “I wonder who he’s. How did he happen to occur here?

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Anyway, aren’t there any Kazakhs in the nature that visit doctors?”— and, leaning

against the walls he shuffled off behind him, passed a corner... He made his way to the

back door of the hospital...and saw two in fox treukhs¹ sitting and talking about

something. Having run against them Bekbolat rejoiced:

—As- salamu alaykum! ²

The Kazakhs turned their heads and threw sharp glance at him. One of them, as intended

for the Kazakh, replied to his greeting. The other swarthy-faced one, shoed in Russian

boots and dressed in perfectly-stitched chapan, - a bit of a gift! – glared with cocky eyes

and bulged his lip. A neat black malakhai³ hung over a smooth, like an onion, face.

Bekbolat greeted again. The Kazakh reluctantly returned his greeting as if saying: “Who

called you here?” The Kazakhs stopped speaking at Bekbolat’s appearance. But I guess

soon they felt uneasy: the owner of the boots asked Bekbolat’s name. Having heard his

name, the guy started talking affably:

Aha, are you the very Bekbolat? Have a seat— and he moved aside inviting to sit down.

— You’re the one who has been shot recently, aren’t you?

Bekbolat asked:

—Do I know you?

I’m Shiny from Takyr’s people — answered the guy in such a tone as if everybody in the

world should know his shiny face, grinned and stroked the shaved clean head,

highlighting a special importance of his shine. — And his name is Musatay, he’s our

kinsfolk.

Bekbolat said to Shiny:

—Er, it seems I’ve heard something about you.

Shiny started and immediately eyed him keenly:

And what have you heard of me?

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Bekbolat replied with a slight hesitation:

I’ve heard that you’re trained, real genuine guy.

Shiny answered to these Bekbolat’s words:

Have you heard perhaps how we had a run-in with Matay’s Aben because of people’s

tears? What will be then— only Allah knows — and he stretched his neck abruptly as a

hawk that noticed a duckling.

¹ - treukh- three ears- a fur cap with two ear flaps and a back flap

² - an Arabic greeting often used by Muslims around the world. It nearly translates to

“peace be upon you”, but is often considered the equivalent to “hello” or “good day” in

English

³ - malakhay – a large fur cap, differed from treukh in folding front flap while treukh had

just fur trimming

Bekbolat pretended that he understood him:

-Er.

“Er!”— and there was no more sound.

A raven was found for an eagle! Who’s Aben and who’s him? That one is a lion and this

one is a mouse. Seven volosts eat out of Bai Aben’s hands humbly. Didn’t Aben go to

St.Petersburg and visit the Tsar as a guest? How could he think to fight with such a man,

what shine was a ground for this with the strength he had? He’s obviously light-headed

guy...that’s all that came up to his mind. But Bekbolat didn’t express his appraisal of the

declared battle. He missed the different news and began to ask carefully about the other

things.

Shiny’s been aware of all the news, has heard all gossips. When only you listen open-

mouthed – he bursts out. His tongue never stopped. Bekbolat began to grow stunned with

his chatting, the soul was off. But that guy was pouring and pouring into one pile: what

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party won at the elections; who takes bribes, who gives; who put out his daughter at the

elections as a bait; whose cattle, house was plundered; whose daughter, wife ran away;

who quarreled - fought with whom; how the Whites make war with the Reds; for whom

was a complaint shoved down; about whom the newspapers published; who went to

prison; who was freed; for whom a bail was paid. There were no unfamiliar Akims for

him. There were no people who he talked to. He knew all the laws. He saw everything

with his own eyes. He tried everything to the touch, to his tooth. He carried everything

without spilling a drop. He persuaded, swore, from time to time speaking in Russian

weightily. Bekbolat stiffened, turned sour which had never happened to him before; he

didn’t believe but gaped at the words of Shiny. Finally there came a moment when Shiny,

after he had proved what an expert of laws and how eloquent he was, reached the ultimate

level of self-satisfaction. The flow of words that walloped on Bekbolat seemed a thick

shrub with the branches pushing each other without any gleam. He was rushing among

the phrases like a hound dog for ghostly hare. Helpless to catch hold at least one word he

heard only buzzing. However, although it buzzed terribly in the head he still caught one

interesting for him news. This news was about capture of the Whites from Karashat

ravine. As soon as he heard about this he himself began to talk:

Er, all right! Holy men, ah! Have they taken everybody?

Everybody. They have given a tug to everybody and have lost noone.

He wanted to ask: “And where’s Akbilek?”— but the tongue didn’t turn to ask about her

in public. The Kazakhs could think: “Why does he ask about the girl who the Russians

had played with?”— and they’ll begin to mock. Realizing that the questions increase and

the conversation has no end, the natural Kazakh that had come to Shiny couldn’t stand

and stood up with the words: “I’ll go somewhere — have one business”, and left. With

his departure Bekbolat stared at Shiny more openly betraying his excitement. And one

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moment he winked at him as if a man who wants to trust him his most intimate words:

—I wanted to ask you about something.

Ask, ask, — said Shiny pattering.

And what about Mamyrbai’s daughter: have you heard anything about her?

No. I haven’t heard about her. The Whites were brought to the town just yesterday by the

evening. We can find out. I understand, she’s as they said, your bride— replied Shiny and

added in Russian: — Pity, pity!

Holy men, ah! If you can find out, then do it for me...

I’ll do. I’ll find out today or tomorrow. The people come from those places every day...

But what’s the need in it now?

“What’s the need?”— these words hurt Bekbolat: people believe that noone needs her for

sure. Bekbolat clenched a bitter lump in the throat and said:

—All the same.

Shiny agreed with him for show. A mother in white dress came out to the porch and

addressed Bekbolat motioning him with a finger:

—Hey, Kyrgyz!.. Doctor...

Bekbolat got up to his feet and Shiny nodded his head reproachfully and spoke in Russian

loking at Bekbolat:

—No, they can’t but humiliate: “Kyrgyz and Kyrgyz”, tramp’s brat! — He looked at the

nurse-mother: — why don’t you address the comrade as “comrade, citizen”?

Bekbolat smirked; still it was not clear at whom: “Really! They lacked such a stallion

indeed!”— and he disappeared behind the hospital door.

***

— Er, so it’s this Shiny they have rumored about! —said Bekbolat going along the

hospital corridor.

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It turned out they called to eat. Bekbolat sat down unwillingly to swallow a thin boullion

from a tin bowl. Whether water or soup – it tasted all the same to him: the thoughts were

turbid, torn as if in fever.

Did the Russians kill Akbilek? Or is she alive? If she’s dead, there’s nothing to talk

about. And if she’ alive and sits at home, then what?

Oh, what was she like when he first saw her, when he called in to her with a company of

hunters with golden eagles! The face is white; forehead is open, with swan neck. The eyes

are sparkling, eyebrows are thin, and lips are tender, plump like those of a baby! The

figure is delicate, flawless like spring sprout. And when she tinkled with necklaces in

braids jumping off the place; when she rounded a white hem of a dress with her knees

sitting down again; when she walked in dandified shoes leaving the room; laughed her

silver ringing after whispering to her mother; when she poured out tea slightly

embarrassed and presenting herself as a timid girl; when she lifted up a drinking bowl

holding it up with three fingers and snapping eyes from behind of falling heavy eyelashes,

one of his friends dropped sugar by a bowl. He tried to laugh off:

—What quivering ducks there are in these lands! They feel hawks from far away.

And he heard a response from the mother:

—Sure thing, if hawks are sharp-sighted. — And here she added: — Akbilek, my soul,

see the guests off to the horses! —she also went with her to untie bridles from horse

standing. Akbilek’s lifted hand which bard itself being whiter than silk: “Farewell! Safe

travels to you!”— and, sparkling with her eyes she bowed the head histrionically...he

remembered everything, every thing, he wished he forgot.

Her voice was especially unique. She laughs and you don’t know what world are you in.

All the women of the world are unworthy of her nail, her footstep.

And so day and night, and the next day Bekbolat thinks of Akbilek. No matter how he

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tried to think of her with disgust, even hatred, she stands in front of his eyes the way he

saw her for the first time – as angel in the flesh. He tried to drub her image of his head

with the memories of his ambler, of his gun, his hunting stories – everything was in vain,

went by. A stallion, animals, fun, and the most sophisticated airy dreams – she shut in by

herself everything. Ultimately everything led to the thoughts about her. Akbilek entranced

everything by herself. He couldn’t understand why.

Bekbolat here gets up from a bed, there lies he down, it’s unbearable for him. He popped

in several times to Shiny with the only question – there were no news. It became

completely awkward to ask. Indeed, he soon will be a laughing stock for the entire world.

The entire Universe was placed at the edge of Shiny’s tongue for him. It draws to him and

that’s all. But Shiny’s always busy; he has his endless conversaions with every Kazakh he

meets. Each Kazakh that spoke to Shiny gives birth to hope in Bekbolat: “Er, this one,

maybe, has told something about Akbilek”. But his expectations have never come true.

Bekbolat stands leaning against the railing of the hospital porch. Shiny sits on the logs

near a shed and talks to another Kazakh. Here, at last comes the moment when he saw the

interlocutor off. Having wrapped himself with a hospital robe he hurried to Bekbolat

shaking his head and sounding off in Russian:

—What a swindler, what a che-a-at!

—What? What did he say?

—The deuce knows! — and he continued in the native language: — He assures that they

decided that a postman of the robbed post-office wasn’t at fault. Now there’ll be hell to

pay. And I was arrested exactly because of this post-office!

And Shiny explained the crux of the matter. Bai Aben was at enmity with the Head of

volost...The Head of volost passed a sentence upon him, and after he sealed it with a

stamp of the aul foreman he sent it with a post to the town. Aben found out about this

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intrigue and sent three riders behind them. They caught up with a cart and after they took

away the post from carter, they delivered cargo to the town. The sentence was destroyed

but the rest of papers were carried to the Council. There they declared: “The carter almost

attacked us himself, he demanded the only our horse, didn’t get it, in the next breath he

threw the post over the sides but we collected the papers on the road and here, brought

them”. The Head of volost is Shiny’s relative. Apparently Shiny prompted him to make

up the sentence with policy. It didn’t work, well, clear thing why he rages: “The deuce

knows!”

—All the same, everything is oiled. The materials are already sent to the province. Any

day now I’ll put Aben to prison. God sees everything! I won’t be Shiny if I don’t put him!

— Shiny got excited striking in conclusion the speech with his “the deuce knows!”

When finally Shiny shut up Bekbolat tried to change the subject:

That guy, dressed as the Russian, is he in service anywhere?

Shiny looked at him with bewilderment, grasping why he asks:

—Ah? He’s an agent of the Cheka¹.

There are no Kazakhs unaware what the Cheka is and who agents are. But Bekbolat

doesn’t care, he draws his interest:

And who is he for you?

Do you think there are places where there are still no our people? Everyone in the Cheka

is ours!

Then how did they arrest you?

Oh, dear! It depends on how to look at it — and he winked to Bekbolat. I’ll emerge the

next day. How do you like my prison? The solution is always found. I was arrested, no

doubt, but here I’m, lying in the hospital. — and he waved with his arm God knows to

whom.

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Bekbolat said another couple of unimportant phrases and then asked about the girl. Shiny

replied:

No, nothing has been heard yet... — and added: — Instead of thinking about the girl,

you’d better think of the girls’ tricks.

Er, what does it have to do here?

The deuce knows! The agent told an interesting story here.

What story?

There lived one teacher Madisha here. But you, perhaps, don’t know her. A hack. There

was such an arrogant old man Nogai...He had a shop. His wife was the Kazakh. They had

three daughters: Kadisha, Madisha and Zagipa. Randies. Madisha was very young. So

this Madisha dated with a Commander of one detachment. She loved to ride quick as the

wind on his horse outside the town. So, one night someone flounces lying in a melon

field. An old man – a watch went to

¹ - the Cheka – The All-Russian Extraordinary Committee for Combating Counter-

Revolution, Speculation and Sabotage

look what was it and they two ran in different sides. The watch looked – something was

left white on the ground. He sees – a sort of short panties. So the watch brought these

panties to the Cheka. As expected, they called Madisha to the Cheka and asked: “Do you

recognize?” — and she tried to grasp panties here, then cried there. Oh, what a shame,

ah!...This exactly incident we were laughing at... She brought scandal upon both the

Kazakh and the Nogai, aha? Bekbolat didn’t find the story funny and he muttered as if it

concerned him personally:

She did it on her own will.

Er, these town girls need just the only one that to shake with their amenities, —

pronounced Shiny and further began to speak about some unclear problems.

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Bekbolat listened to him and having no desire to admit even in his thoughts Akbilek’s

involvement in this dirt, he said:

—The town is surely the corrupt place.

And so they were talking when in the hospital gates there appeared one more Kazakh.

Shiny immediately jumped up to him and cried:

—Er, Zhambyrbai, how are you things going on?

Having greeted, Shiny took Zhambyrbai to the logs, seated him on them and they started

a talk. They talk and talk. Bekbolat is all his eyes, watches them. Finally Shiny took a

look at him, then again caught hold of Zhamyrbai and again asks him something.

Zhamyrbai answers, Shiny interrupts him and again asks something. Then he smiles at

Bekbolat and calls him over with a hand.

Suyinshi!¹ — he demanded an award for tidings of great joy.

Take, take, — Bekbolat hurried with response.

The girl has returned home fine and dandy.

— Oh, holy men, is that true? Holy men, ah, is it? — he only repeats.

Shall we lie?

Holy men, ah, holy men, ah!

Since that minute Bekbolat has been thinking only how to get out of the hospital as soon

as possible. The next day Shiny talked of Bai Aben again when they met:

¹ - notification of good news. A messenger informing about the glad news with a cry

“Suyinshi”asks to repay him.

—I want to submit one more complaint. If to write it from your name, what do you think?

Bekbolat horrified. If he sued anyone these were only wolves and foxes; and the judge is

a golden eagle. He didn’t have, thanks God, to write the complaints for animals. Sure

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thing, he answered as he answered:

—Dear, I won’t be able to. In these matters I’m noone.

—But why are you so timid! You have nothing to fear here. All the facts are here, in my

bosom — and he stretched out of the inner pocket a bundle of papers, out of it a piece of

paper and started: — Here, here, this paper discloses him completely. And in proper time

it was sent long ago. This is a draft. Shiny rustled with the paper and began reading. Let

us listen to it too, who knows; maybe it’ll be of any use some time.

“To Semipalatinsk gubprobkom ¹. A copy is sent to the leadership of “Kazakh

Language”. Notice from Zhamanday Taykot-uly, the resident of N county of Sartau

volost.

The children of Aben Matayin who grew rich, drank out the blood of all the people in

Sartau. For example, in 1887 he was the Head of volost in Sartau. During that time he

behaved as an independent owner: a kind of autonomy, a power of Khan – taxes,

collecting tributes from simple people, revenues, post, titles, ranks, posts — were

concentrated in the hands of henchmen of Aben Matayin. And his son Aben had all

documents of the aul foremen and people’s judges who his father elected himself. And

when it was necessary for him, Aben took out a paper and signed whenever it was his

wish.

—Is that true?

—And how do we know?

—Then listen.

2. By that time Aben Matay-uly had propagated horse thieves everywhere and took

the best horses from them. Since that time he’s had in his hands: a chestnut horse – from

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the thief Akhmet Sagynay-uly; black horse – from the thief Bosaga Salyk-bai-uly; and he

also took a grey horse.

—I don’t know.

¹ - a council of the province during the post-revolutionary Soviet times

3. He also seduced a wife of one man and later as being of no use sold her to

somebody for cattle. This habit of him has been known until now. He seduced the wife of

Beysen Abish-uly, sold to Kulyk Burzhykbai-uly. He also sent his assistants to freedom-

loving aul foremen, and if those had low-fat meat on the table, he passed them a sentence:

they should have brought to him after they had butchered that much of horse, this much

of camels for their fault.

—And this is also true?

—It used to be, he liked to go on a visit.

4. Here is the list of workers of Aben Matay-uly: six horse herd wranglers of which four

pasture at night and two in the daytime. Three sheep breeders of which two pasture at

night and one in the daytime; one man pastures camels and another one – cows. For his

two houses there are four milkers of mares, two people muck out, in addition to them for

these two houses there are six milkmaids. He didn’t pay a kopeck to all of them. The

causes: widows owe for husbands, someone owes for cattle, to some man he promised a

help in getting married, to another man he promised to tame the woman on a loose, the

third person he accused of theft, he just considers the other man as his slave. He believes

that such things are allowed to him by faith and service. But the life has such an order as

after the Tsar-Liberator there’s been no such official right to have slaves. Since then 52

years have already passed. Musapir Zhaytugan-uly is his slave, he herds his horses. And

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his children as slaves pasture the master’s sheep.

— So, what will you tell to this?

— Is it so not in vain? If you are rich so how do cope without workers?

5. I also inform that in1914 Aben Matay-uly had a work contract at Kokkol factory.

He delivered there coal for 11 kopecks for a pud, and he paid his carters 9 copecks. He

delivered one million of coal. It means that due to the carters he profited 20 thousand

roubles. In those times, if to count, for a fact an average horse cost 20 roubles. So, due to

all carters he obtained a thousand of horses. And he was friends with a factory manager.

He presented him with two beautiful horses and two perfect foreign two-barrelled guns.

And when the contract was finished he ordered to steal those horses presented to his

friend-manager. And he betrayed his sidekick.

—Haven’t you heard about this either?

—We have, people talked not in vain. But how do we know how much revenue he

received from the contract? And he returned his horses, that’s for sure.

Also in 1916 he took at Saradyr fair from a merchant Petr Pavlov a contract to deliver to

the Irtysh river 30 thousand puds of raw wool. He received for this 1 rouble for a pud and

he paid 90 kopecks to each carter. Thus, he ate three thousand roubles of people’s money.

Those times a sheep cost 6 roubles. It turns out that he enriched himself by 500 sheep.

When on July 25, 1916 at Karabass factory there was issued a decree on recruitment of

the workers from non-Russians, Aben Matay-uly acquired a defense contract for

recruiting. He received 96 horses from those who wanted to be free from the work, in

addition he had the payment form the factory under the contract for the recruited workers.

Moreover, he wrote down into the lists children and false sick people instead of men aged

19-31. He demanded a horse from each of the other people, and if they didn’t give then he

threatened to throw into prison. In such a way he got 140 horses. Four people made

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money out of this with who he shared earnings: Akyp Zhamyshbai-uly, Seyit Tolemis-

uly... - Shiny broke off here since Seyit happened to be no one else but the blood father of

Bekbolat...

Puzzled Bekbolat could only say:

No, our father has kind of nothing to do with it...

If he hasn’t, so he hasn’t, — said Shiny and continued to read.

Besides, after he had made friends with the town Commandant Alexeyev in 1919, he

pressed the people he hated and threw them into prison. For their liberation he obtained

large sums. The Commandant arranged for Matay-ula the winning at the elections for the

post of the Chairman of Provincial Assembly. After that Aben Matay-uly went to Shili

and Shengeli. There he entangled people and brought 30 horses.

Also last August the Head of volost Abbas Matay-uly referring to the alleged order of

Kolchak and District Council ordered to collect the tax in the amount of 130 thousand

roubles. He hurried the aul post people with the threat to send a detachment on tax levies.

He took money away from all big people. We believe the third part out of the money was

appropriated by the Head of volost Abbas Matay-uly, Aben Matay-uly and...(he stumbled

at a name again) and the aul foreman Zhusip-uly.

—Will you argue there was such a case or wasn’t?

—Why do we have to argue? He collected the money. But who knows who and how

made profit ...

— When you don’t know then listen further.

10. Besides in 1919 when he was in Semipalatinsk he found a way to Kolchak’s

treasury and promised to deliver to the army 300 horses. After returning home he sent 70

horses. He brought textiles for 70 thousand, tea for 30 thousand and factory tanned

leather, apart from these one hundred and ten thousand roubles. And instead of

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undelivered 230 horses he transferred to Kolchak’ treasury 500 roubles. But again after

this on the ground of collecting horses he sent the best ones to his herds. Despite the

telegrams which were sent to him officially, he didn’t deliver any horses. In such a way

Matay-uly and (he muttered indistinctly a name) – uly appropriated these 230 horses...

— It was that time exactly that our father didn’t agree with such cases, that’s why he

separated from him — Bekbolat began to assure the snitcher.

I don’t argue with this either, but they communicated.

And could be it the other way?

No, we’ll discuss it later...

11. After this there were the national elections. The representative of Shamen

Aydarbek-uly came to Sartau and after negotiations with Matay-uly he recommended

Zhusip-uly who had been the third aul foreman 20 years ago, to the post of volost

revolutionary commissioner. There was nothing to do, what could be asked – so only one

Matay-uly replaced by his will a choice of all population for their volost revolutionary

commissioner. Later he announced that there came an order to slaughter 40 bulls and with

the help of police they took away from 40 people the bulls they had.

—Right. And they took away one our bull.

We know that the Treasury paid for this slaughter of cattle. But this made it no easier. We

know who of our villains ate this meat.

Besides, Matay-uly built for himself two winterings in two places. One building is near

Shakat spring on the lands of Alkebai and Korabai, Boksar-uly...He built his second

house at the eastern bank of a lake, after he had taken the land away from the children of

Kurmanbai, and he occupied the northern bank, having taken the land away from the

children of Toppazar. He deprived everybody and made the poor people suffer.

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And will you say this is a lie?

No, I won’t. He built winterings and occupied the lands.

He brought together the best builders of log-houses from all sides, forced them to work at

the construction of one wintering and then of the other, after that he didn’t pay for their

work. He doesn’t cook food at his house but gives orders to the neighbors: we’ll come to

stay, cook kumiss and boil fatter meat. If he eats with his henchmen a fat sheep at

somebody’s place, then the people don’t consider this day unprofitable.

To put it mildly, the people of Sartau are sheep, Aben Matay-uly is a wolf. No matter

how many sheep are, what can all they against a wolf?

All these evil deeds are known to everybody, it’s worth only to put them together. And if

a fair man goes round the houses of injured people, he’ll be told everthing about the

crimes that aren’t known yet.

The purpose of my notice is: if the just power shows its justice then the ideals of a great

number of people will be satisfied.

I also ask in my statement: let my name a secret for Aben Matay-uly. Matay-uly’s anger

is terrible, he won’t leave me alone.

Informer.

May 20, 1920”.

Shiny finished reading his denunciation, bulged out his blaming finger, lined on the paper

with the nail of the ring-finger:

There are 15 facts here, 15 unsinkable criminal cases, you can tie a stone to an ass, with

might and main!

How do we know? We’re common people, — said Bekbolat and made a helpless gesture

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being afraid of this piece of paper. In those troubled years his father was at quarrel with

Aben. The reason of it was that they didn’t come to an understanding when divided the

sum obtained from 300 horses undelivered to Kolchak, so his father had a grouch on

Aben. Since then he had responded to none of his invitations. Aben decided that a coward

wouldn’t lift his head and while collecting 40 bulls he took one away from Seyit too.

Seyit didn’t come to senses. Then Aben started to support as a counter to Seyit his aul

fellow Durbeuil and made him an important person. Seyit couldn’t allow Durbeuil to be

in a command, so he organized his party in the aul. Aben winded Durbeuil up. And the

latter referring on Seyit’s debts to someone sent the police to him and took away a cow

from him. Seyit tried to return the lost by his son’s arms but with no result. Since that

time the kicks by knee from Aben have only increased. He even encroached on the

women of his clan, his lands, sent horse thieves. There’s no doubt about it – he’s made a

lot of unjust things. Seyit had no one to base upon in the struggle with Aben. He couldn’t

stand out openly any how but even so he pulled up his socks and somehow or other he

edged Aben’s protégé out of the position of the Head of volost. He proposed the town

shoemaker-Communist to his place. Although the shoemaker was the Communist but still

he was feeble against Aben and he went mad a bit. He turned out to be quite bad Head of

volost – see how he was beaten with the post recently. Bekbolat knew this story already

by heart. It was unpleasant to him but he couldn’t simply put it off.

—Our father was really displeased with Aben. Is it possible to clear his name out of this

statement?

Shiny replied counting for a naivety of his fellow:

—Er, absolutely, — he assured without mentioning the fact that a copy of the

denunciation had been sent to the authorities long ago.— Because Shiny has taken care of

people.

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But Bekbolat caught on some evasiveness of the reply and decided to talk over all the

reticence:

And what if this statement has already been sent?

Er, it’s easy to correct. We’ll find a way out.

—It’ll be right if we find, — that was all what he said although he didn’t believe fully

Distrust to Shiny had its reasons. And how he could be trusted here?

Shiny is a notorious swindler. There’s been no intrigue he’s been involved in. He started

as an interpreter working for Bai Aben. He took a distinguished schooling from Aben,

grabbed everything that came to his hands. He also participated in the theft of government

money. He “borrowed” from many people – they tolerated, so he arranged everything.

After the take-over as soon as the Tsar was thrown off the throne he was engaged in

organization of elections, started the payment of bribes. Sometimes he’s invited to a toy¹

in his honor but he turns up his face, like, eat your meat youself: he’s shown his great

importance. Why wouldn’t you be hard to please if seven girls wash your feet? He

presented himself either as “Commissioner” or “taxman”, claimed he had an order, a

mandate, and collected a tribute around all volosts. Not to put too fine a point on it, he

used to kill, steal and make counterfeit documents with forged seals. Everything he

touched was ruined, grew poor. A hundred of times he went to jail, a hundred of times he

got out of it. He lied both in Russian and in Kazakh with the same craftiness. He’s

tempted many girls, corrupted and gave the elbow then. To marry and then divorce for

him is as easy as to reverse a hat and to put it on. Even the stone thrown at his head stuck

to him. You beat him and he grows fatter as a badger. He jerks hoofs as a stallion. The

protruding forehead shines, eyes play, the nostrils of the snub nose tremble. Lean is, the

zinger, flies up like a devil. You can’t trace how his arms flicker, can’t follow where he’s

moved to. He has one hundred masks on his face.

- 101 -
Bekbolat thought in a daze: “Of all things, such people also happen! He’s surely

immortal! Such man will survive even in an icy country. In any case, I have to get out of

the hospital to the people, to the steppe, to the Kazakhs, and this man...let him go hang!

He only messes about!”— with such thoughts Bekbolat moved to the hospital ward. He

met the doctor without the white coat in the corridor, perhaps he was going home already.

And again he stuck to the doctor with the old question.

When will you allow me to go?

Tomorrow, tomorrow, — the doctor replied.

Bekbolat cheered up a bit, he lay down onto the bed and again thoughts about Akbilek

came upon.

¹ - toy in Kazakh – feast, banquet, wedding

The next day in the regular hour the doctor examined his wound, talced it with a white

powder, re-bandaged and gave permission for discharge. Bekbolat took off the hospital

robe, dressed all in his things and felt as if he became the man again. He went outside,

dusted off chapan’s collars, moved his shoulders, drew himself together like a bird that

leapt out of a cage and, without looking back walked away resolutely.

The day is cloudy. It rained at night, there’s mud in the cart rut.The familiar town, the

familiar street. The mothers, soldiers go along it, they cross it. The square in front of the

Province Council is filled with the Kazakh horses...

Bekbolat went past two-three quarters and reached Tolegen’s flat. Tolegen wasn’t at

home, he was in office. The Russian cook prepared dinner at the stove.

Aman, aman, — she greets, recognizing...

Er, don’t you cook too much meat?

Guests will come, — she replied in Kazakh as she could.

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What kind of guests?

Commissioners are coming.

I’ll be a guest too, — said Bekbolat smiling.

Good. We’ve plenty of vodka, pork, — she joked.

Leave it, eat your pork yourself!

The cook laughed. Bekbolat wanted to speak on many things but not with her...He passed

from kitchen to the rooms. The cook who has cleaned the floors recently, cried:

—Hey, wipe your feet! — and gripped him for the sleeve.

—Eh, leave me! Feet are clean! — Bekbolat answered stretching the soles of boots over a

wet rag that lay at the room entrance and entered a room.

Two clean rooms. The center of the first room is occupied by a big table. Around it there

are chairs. In the corner on the hanger there are Tolegen clothes: two trousers, a pair is

made of black cloth, the other is from blue diagonal cloth; a fur coat, tarpaulin raincoat, a

short camisole and quilted pants. It’s unbecoming for Tolegen to wear both camisole and

aul pants. “Why does he keep them?”— Bekbolat thought.

He sat in this room, looked over and felt clothing nodding his head in bewilderment:

“Does he wear all this himself?” Then he went to the distant room.

Between two windows there was a desk. On its surface there was a folder with papers,

banded with leather, a rectangular stone container with a copper lid. At the edges there

were two bronze candlesticks and some other things for pens and cigarettes. That table

had a built-in shelf tightly filled with books. Opposite the wall there was a shining mesh

bed with white pillows and a wadded blanket. In front of the bed there was a small plush

rug, above it – big photos, at the lower bed board there was a mirrored wardrobe, and six

chairs upholstered with velvet.

Tolegen is a gentleman by nature. The Soviet getleman. And he has the Soviet title. His

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friends call him no other but Prodkom¹. Everything in the world can be found at

Prodkom’s place: a suite made by “Moskvashveya”² and black caviar. The life of

Prodkom for him and for his friends seems natural. But every coin has two sides. So he

has sometimes to hear from his friends about his growing prosperity:

Where do you take all this from?

Tolegen smiles ironically and answers:

Such is the circulation of things in the nature.

The reception of guests at Tolegen’s house is connected with the same circulation. And

what to do? The party members began to speak that the killer of his mother, accomplice

of his sister’s rapists should be appointed to a post. They say, Mukash has services to the

Party. The choice of a place was delegated to Revkom¹: Revkom member Baltash is a

poor man, an evasive one. Who knows what he will undertake. What if he, all of a

sudden, sends Mukash as the Head of volost to Sartau? In addition to this it should be

taken into account that Bai Aben has quarreled with every rich Head of volost and made

mistakes: he won’t stand apart.

Finally there appeared Tolegen with a bulgy bag under his arm, in a grey cap under which

black curls and mouse eyes were seen. He screwed up lips subtly. Entering the house he

talked to the cook, looked over fixedly, appraised:

—Terrific, terrific, — he said in Russian.

Having heard his voice Bekbolat came out to meet him. He met between two rooms,

greeted stretching hands. Tolegen hurried to step over a threshold and then brought his

yet still stretched hand close to the guest’s hands. It wasn’t clear why. Perhaps he’s heard

about the Russian superstition and cared not to greet

¹ - abbreviation which stands for Food Commissioner, used in the Soviet times

² - acronym for the Soviet textile manufacturing enterprise in Moscow in 1920-1930

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over a threshold.

—How is your health, how is the wound? Have you recovered?.. Good... The service

takes all the time away, I couldn’t get out to you— and he begain noisily condemn

himself for the fact that he hadn’t visited Bekbolat in the hospital last time. He laid the

bag on the table, went to the kitchen, gave some orders to the cook and returning

continued: —There is also news from the steppe. And in your aul everything is all right...

And our father... — he hesitated. — He seems to be in a good mood.

He kept silence that his sister had been found. He waits how Bekbolat would behave and

that one said with a faint joy:

—Yes, I heard, everything got well.

Tolegen feeling that Akbilek is still desired for Bekbolat, looked at him more cordially.

Not knowing how to exactly express his liking for him he drew out of a pocket a silver

cigarette case full of graceful expensive cigarettes:

— Will you smoke?..

Bekbolat who had no habit to smoke tobacco, still found it inconvenient to refuse. He

reached out awkwardly to the cigarette case stretched to him, poked with two fingers and,

scattering cigarettes, yet managed to catch one. Two-three cigarettes rolled on the table.

—It’s ok, ok, — Tolegen hastened to calm down the wildish fellow-countryman, picked

them up to his cigarette case.

Bekbolat was flattered by almost timid affability of Akbilek’s educated brother and in his

thoughts he admired the future relative: “This guy has achieved everything, anyone would

boast such brother-in-law.”

Tolegen took out of his deep pocket a white handkerchief, abundantly sprinkled with

fragrant eau-de-cologne. He waved with it and thoroughly, pushing its head with his

finger to a nostril, wiped his nose. It was impossible, improper to keep silence with a

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guest, particularly with the groom; he’s not a savage but what to speak about — isn’t

clear. Tolegen walks around the room, wipes his nose wih the handkerchief and thinks of

acceptable subject for conversation. A coming party seemed an appropriate theme:

¹ - abbreviation used for Revolutionary Committee, a body of authorities in the USSR in

the years of 1920-1930

—I have to accept guests today. It’s wonderful that you’ve come in such proper time.

He wanted to tell a saying that the unexpected guest is led by the luck of the master of the

house but he resisted. It seemed too much of the Kazakh to him, too much ambiguous.

The groom may not like it. Bekbolat also wanted to respond to his kind words but he

didn’t know what to say, only softened the expression of the face which seemed to him

more eloquent than any word flows:

—Ah-a, — and that’s all.

—One comrade has come from the center of the province. So he was invited, — Tolegen

explained.

It should be understood as: look, here’s my world, my ambit of acquaintances; secondly I

have contacts with the center of the province too, for you, groom, I’m an important

person. Bekbolat had to support this conversation, he moved again:

—And who is this guy?

Tolegen answered that his name was Akbala and he was a member of the provincial

Revkom.

After a conversation in such a manner, Tolegen referring to the need to watch the cooking

of food, left the room. Bekbolat found it awkward to stay in the rooms on his own without

the master and went outside to stretch.

- 106 -
 ***

The first guests were Ykan and Typan. Tolegen met them:

—Ah, Yka, come in, — he shook his hand and sat him down on a chair.

Bekbolat put his hand to his chest and also stretched the other hand to him. Ykan took a

look at him over his glasses and let him hold his fine-boned baby hand:

—How do you do?

Tolegen offered a chair to a swarthy jowly man:

—Ah, Tyla, here you are.

Bekbolat, thinking that he does it wrong when shakes with both hands, rallied his spirits

and held rigidly with only one hand his warm soft palm. Typan tried to look down upon

him:

—How are you, dear? — and, as if he moved his shoulders sat next to Ykan.

Tolegen jokingly addressed two guests:

—No matter how many you ask, but the people with the Kazakh vestiges never want to

come in time! I’m glad to see you! — and he looked at his watch with a thin bracelet.

It sounded drearily enough. Ykan took forced fright as if condemned with a terrible

crime. He stared like a stuck pig and said gaping comically:

—What, we’ve come early, haven’t we? — and tossed his head dejectedly.

Typan matched Ykan:

It’s not us who should be ashamed of our fathers’ traditions. What’s the use of shame,

when you aren’t full? — and, having looked at Ykan, he gurgled with chuckling.

No, not early. First of all I said that I was glad to see you. — Tolegen started to smile

widely.— Here, have a cigarette! — and he pulled out of the pocket the same silver

cigarette case and opened its lid.

—Eh, that’s another business, — said Ykan with satisfaction. He took out of a pocket of a

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short worn beshmet¹ an oblong snuff box, opened it carefully and put in front of him. —

Thank you. I only fiddle around with my own tobacco, — and he added some words in

Russian.

Then he pulled out of the snuff box a square piece of cut paper, put it on a finger and

licked, strewed grainy tobacco and began to roll up a hand-made cigarette. Having rolled

it up more tightly, he slobbered its edge properly, made up a cigarette as thick as a ring-

finger with an end similar to uncircumcised boy’s dick and squeezed it carefully into a

mouthpiece which looked as if gnawed by a horse. He put back the remaining pieces of

paper to the snuff box, closed its lid tightly and the snuff box went to his pocket. And out

of it he pulled flint and steel, zipped the flint with his left hand and the steel with his right

one and started to strike sparks, a light flashed and flared.

Bekbolat watched attentively all these Ykan’s tobacco manipulations. He was enchanted

by their thoroughness and strict order of actions of the smoker that was equal to

preparations of severe worshippers to namaz with their mouthwash, foot-washing and

spreading a prayer rug. Smoking, Ykan filled his mouth with smoke and then puffed it in

entire clouds. He reminded to Bekbolat a troubled bull lifting with its

¹ - an oriental quilted coat

nostrils whirls of dust in the evening time. There was some kind of exaggeration in it.

Ykan acted more culturally, blowing with smoke a smoky cloud already hanging in front

of him. His hand with the mouthpiece fixed between the index and ring fingers, was

soaring aside. He was in a state of bliss.

Someone may be surprised with such a detailed description of Ykan’s tobacco smoking.

Does he have anything to write about? I’ll note – I have. We can also smoke.

How else but smoking tobacco, neither opium nor vodka, you can distract yourself with

when you’re in no humor, bored, your eyes want to see nobody and anything, when you

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sit and regret that another empty hour is absolutely punk, when you repent and grieve?

The doctors call tobacco, opium and vodka a poison. They assure that we poison our

bodies with them, burn veins and spoil blood, cause diseases and fast aging, and generally

kill ourselves. But in the first place isn’t yearning the same poison? Doesn’t it eat out a

soul? And spite, curling in the bosom – doesn’t it poison and shorten life before

everything else? A poison is killed with a poison. We won’t condemn Ykan’s smoky

blissout, let him even naswar put behind his lip.

Our condescension to Ykan can be explained. Earlier he lived in a big city, was known as

a horse breeder. He knew a price of a fast horse and of wine, was married to a Rusian

lady. He participated in the congresses of Kerensky’s supporters. As he considered: he’s

seen the world. And when the Reds took the power his so nicely arranged household

began to fall down. He had to return to his own place with senile grey hair and infirmity.

There were roving around the flats, the corners. He wasn’t able to buy a coat for daughter

and shoes for son. All that he had left to him was to grumble freely into his old woman’s

ear. The service is trifling, he set to work as a Department Deputy Chief. So, why Ykan

has to be reasonable? Wht else has he got to do unless to smoke biting tobacco with

delicate manners? Leave him alone, why do you care about Ykan?

And what about Typan?

Typan — here’s he, sitting cross-legged in new shoes. Black trousers are made of solid

cloth, though only the remnants of the former wardrobe. Dark jacket hasn’t gone out of

style. Turn-down starched collar is triced with a tie in black polka dot. Like Ykan, he

didn’t graduate any university; he neglected the service but had authority in the society of

his own.

It’s clear that Ykan is displeased with the current peace. The Bolsheviks don’t give at

least five kopecks for honor and foundations. They don’t care your knowledge,

- 109 -
experience and your noble grey hair. Another headache is pension. Will he have it or no –

it’s a complete darkness. Moreover, the youth began to think too much of themselves,

they press with their instructions: “Act this way, do that way”. Such as Baltash even

doesn’t say hello when meet, look sideways, with the exception of, perhaps, Tolegen, he

doesn’t forget the God.

And Typan sees only “messes” everywhere. He lashes this or that way everything in the

world with a displeased protruding lip... but he has no concrete complaints to the Soviet

power. He keeps watch and does his service with his whole heart and stands on his feet

firmly. Such is he, Typan - he always finds a hole to get a leg where he needs. Ykan is

deprived of such gift; he behaves as if he’s on his deathbed: “Go to hell, all of you!”

Auh, we’ve said nothing about the age of Ykan and Typan! You won’t be very mistaken

if one day you suppose that Ykan is about fifty years old and the other day he’s sixty. His

live mimicry doesn’t give to view him closely. Typyn’s age can’t be defined, it varies

depending on the circle of contacts: in the forms he points out 45 years and among

women he’s 30-35 years.

It’s not really clear why Tolegen invited these two elderly citizens in the company of his

young pals. Perhaps he followed to some Kazakh traditions or maybe planned to use them

somehow in the future. They certainly were pleased: “He considers us”, came readily and

now sit and imagine as if they are somebody.

Typan is deprived of staidness, he speaks lively:

— How are you, Tolegen? How’s the service, strides?.. Well, have you returned the

grain according to those taxes?.. This is a real mess... — he started, speaking as a true

defender of the Kazakhs about the complaints of aul fellows for violence, oppression...

Listening to Typan’s passionate speech, Ykan stares amazed and says:

—Er, really?! Er, indeed?!

- 110 -
In the office Ykan is ingulfed with hundreds of orders, reports, forms, and requests. He

himself is like a hopeless request. He knows nothing about what’s going on beyond his

desk, that’s why he’s surprised. Although, to tell the truth, he’s never had an idea to take

interest what troubles are there in the steppe.

They talked mostly about salaries, less about flats, heating of the houses, about tobacco

and how to live and to gain. Such was their conversation when the young, yet green

Commissioners with bulgy bags under their arms, found them.

One of those who came — as friendly as a lamb, was Akbala; the second — with dark

both face and clothes — was Baltash; the third one —pockmarked Doga had protruding

lips, flat nose, one eye looks into the sky, another asks for bread. The fourth one—

Zhorgabek — sagged as a saddle before Doga and before Baltash he bent as an axe.

Zhorgabek pursued his activities as land manager, Doga was his chief, and Baltash was

the Head of the county. As soon as the foursome appeared smashing in the doorway,

Tolegen exclaimed:

Ah, come in, come in! — and rushed to meet them.

Our Bekbolat also jumped to his feet and drew himself at the doorstep.

—Er... — Typan paused on the sound and stood up welcomingly.

Ykan, not daring to stand up or sit as before, fidgeted on a chair, leaned on it; just think

on your own: either he raised himself a little or he drew in horns.

Typan shook hands with two comrades and said to the rest:

—We’ve seen today, haven’t we? — and smiles deliberately. Ykan nodded to Akbala

greeting him. Next to him Bekbolat pushes his spade to the hands of the guests who came

up.

Commissioners threw their bags around in a mess – none the less they’ve come to have

rest. Baltash passed to the bed and flopped down on it. Zhorgabek took an advantage of

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Typan’s courtesy and sat down on his chair... Akbala stood at the table and began to turn

over the leaves of the books from the shelf. Doga settled down alongside, sat down to the

mirror, smoked with a pursy eye.

After he looked everyone over, Bekbolat chose to sit down far from them because these

young men that piled in without a peep made the entire house dance in front of them.

Tolegen came in and again went to the kitchen, sharpened the knives, prepared meat for

the table.

Akbala, examining one of the books, said:

Hey, there’s Kautsky here too.

Tolegen replied from the living-room:

I’ve got Engels too; we keep to Marxism after all.

Wow, really! You rank below the Marxist, — Baltash said arrogantly reclining on the

bed.

Zhorgabek and Typan have found the topic acceptable for both. They were discussing it

in a low voice, exchanged smiles and made faces. The conversation came down to vodka.

—Why don’t we have a drink? — Zhorgabek concluded.

Ykan, who hasn’t found himself in this “bird talk”, kept silent aside in a solitary sitting

next to Bekbolat. With his head down he was absorbed in a difficult process of making

another his cigarette. After smoking, Ykan looked back at Akbala, slowly pacing along

the room, touched Typan’s shoulder and asked Akbala:

—Who’s that young man?

The member of Gubrevkom¹ Comrade Akbala, — replied Typan and compressed lips.

At that time the member of the revolutionary committee strolled past puffy bed over the

shag carpet with an air of detachment. His glance stood on the chairs, upholstered with

velvet, on the photos of Comrade Lenin and Comrade Trotsky and a snapshot of Tolegen,

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hanging over them. He looked over the cabinet, table, felt the wardrobe of Comrade

Tolegen, and made almost moaning sound:

Hm-hm...

Who serves in the county? Which way the people live? Who can be trusted, with whom

it’s possible to work? What are their concerns? What books do they read? What’s their

attitude to the Russians? Who’s poor, who’s rich, who’s decent man and who’s a rascal?..

Akbala is perplexed. How else but to hum: “hm, yeah...” and to make conclusions when

you walk around the flat and see all the things in it. Akbala stopped suddenly along

Baltash and said:

—All large fortunes are made by robbery. Aren’t they, comrades?

Here Tolegen responded immediately:

¹ - Province revolutionary committee

—It was received on the order of the Council. I have the right as the Chairman of Food

Committee. Baltash who was looking over the ceiling turned his head when he heard the

question. Baltash looked at Akbala and, rumpling and then smoothing his hair, said: —Er,

but in fact everything was requisitioned from the rich men! — The plain quote could be

read in his eyes: “As the Communist to the Communist”. Simplicity is worse than

robbery. They supposed that the comrade from province started the ordinary conversation

about the struggles of classes, but he didn’t. Seeing that he wasn’t understood, Akbala

expressed himself more clearly:

—All this furniture was withdrawn only from the Russians? Or was it requisitioned from

the Kazakh bourgeoisie too?

Everyone became anxious. Baltash looked at the comrades sitting on the velvet chairs and

replied, trying to get away from the heart of the matter:

—Er, it happens sometimes, our guys take something nationalized by the state, so they

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keep this as memory about capitalists!

Tolegen, who was that moment in the other room hurried, ran from one room to another

and asked looking at Baltash:

—What?

Baltash frowned as if he interrupted the conversation that didn’t concern him personally

and closed:

—No, nothing.

Tolegen was at a loss for a second then he felt it was high time to take up the running and

exclaimed:

—Come on, friends! Let me invite you to the table!

The guests moved to the sitting room with ostentatious laziness. Following them Bekbolat

fell in beside the edge of the table. The young men mistook him for a servant and even

didn’t ask his name. It’s hard to say whether such situation was humiliating for Bekbolat,

but that was for sure - he didn’t feel any liking for the Commissioners at all.

The table groaned with food.

At first there were served the whole pieces of boiled lamb with onion, peppered and

heavily salted broth sauce. Home-made noodles followed meat. Then roast meat came.

Watermelon was for dessert.

As soon as they began cutting meat, Tolegen brought out from the distant room some

glass piece of bottle hiding it defiantly

behind his back. Typan has made a puzzled face and asked affectedly:

—What’s in there in your hand? — and he stretched his sleeve.

—Nothing... A bit of this... — Tolegen got confused and hastened to arrange the bottle

that he had brought in under the table.

—What, is this raw spirit? — Typan didn’t come off.

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A little bit “for a run-up”. — Tolegen looked the guests over from under his eyelids and

smiled innocently.

Oh, this isn’t done, — rugged Baltash said and caught Akbala out of the corner of his eye.

I don’t know how about you, but we aren’t frightened by this, — Typan said and stroke

his stomach.

Besides, there isn’t much harm in it. Only for appetite — Tolegen assured and put the

glistening bottle on the table.

Everyone stared at this reservoir.

—Damn it, where do you find it? — Zhorgabek in surprise smacked his lips.

—Sometimes there’s a case... — Tolegen replied.

He knows fat offices— Doga noted and winked.

Is there the evening meeting today? — Baltash asked Typan.

It isn’t expected today... — Typan replied and patted the bottle playfully. — Let’s not

annoy it. I know how it gets really angry...

Ykan hasn’t tasted vodka for ages. And here’s such a luxury! Damn it all, will he get it or

no?! The company began to specify vodka’s degrees. They grimaced, discussed the

amusing subject this or that way... Ykan couldn’t stand it, lifted the glass that stood in

front of him:

Enough to torment the white thing, dear!

Everyone at the table laughed. Akbala, who had been sitting modestly until then, ordered:

—Aqsaqal ordered, pour!

Smiling Tolegen mixed spirits with the prepared water and poured it into the glasses:

—Right!

Baltash looked around and asked Tolegen:

Put down the curtains on the window.

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The guests raised the glasses:

Well, who’ll we drink to?

Typan, who considered himself as the head of the table, looked at Akbala and hastened to

suggest:

—I think we should drink in honor of the guest that came to us.

Akbala shuddered:

—No, it won’t do. Let it be anything else... We can do it to some socialist idea... — he

pronounced, refusing, with which he only highlighted that he embodied it.

Here Baltash jumped from the chair and cried lifting the glass:

—Long live the Soviet power! — and he started to clink glasses with everyone

personally.

—Long live! — everybody around caught up.

No matter how Ykan tried to cry expressively “Long live!”, he had none of that

admiration bordering on madness, as everyone did. Typan cried the toast better than the

others.

The second toast was to the Bolsheviks, the third one — to the autonomy of the Kazakhs,

followed by the one to the guests, in the end there was the toast to health of the host.

Vodka was poured and poured. Only Bekbolat couldn’t lift his glass, he hardly held the

fork.

Half a liter of spirit made up a bottle and a half of vodka. Vodka cheered up the company

visibly. They roared with laughter. The conversation became more fun. Akbala boasted

his activity in the province to his utmost, the rest listened. Less heated Doga and Baltash

preferred laughing at the jokes of Typan and Zhorgabek to chatting. They sometimes

joked with them. Ykan showed a great zeal in drinking particularly. Doga and Typan

attacked the meat with especial insatiability. Anyway, nobody cared respectable manners.

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The guests turned red already, they grabbed each other’s elbows, threw their arms on the

shoulder of the neighbor, the eyes went narrow, somebody poured vodka, smoldering

cigarettes were thrown over the table, the tablecloth was about to catch fire. They

smoked, harped on in Russian, laughed...how maddening! Their behavior grew more and

more unclear for Bekbolat. They showed themselves as the people from the other world.

He got stuck between them like between heaven and the earth. He thought it was

probably because of his illiteracy.

Bekbolat didn’t follow the company and remained in the sitting room. “They are the same

guys like I’m, auh! If we had studied in the town, we would have been the same!”— he

thought and became his own man for a while. And at once there appeared the sense of

shame: why was he so slighting about himself...They are also not without drawbacks. If

to cast away the clouds of tobacco smoke, hard drinking, scribbling and speaking

Russian, is their life more full and interesting than mine is? And how is it possible not to

die out f anguish in these rooms with narrow ceilings? Is it possible not to miss the willful

steppe, the peaks of Alatau, the greenery of woods, the hunting with hound dogs and

golden eagles in the narrow streets?! How is it possible to live bending under a ceiling

and leaning against a wall? Holy men! They sank irrevocably in this hellish being, auh!

Don’t they have a longing to see their parents, relatives, relations? They aren’t better in

anything. And they surely despise us, me, Akbilek...

The cook came in, began to move chairs and clear the table. Bekbolat didn’t want to get

in her way, went outside, washed his face and recovered his breath. Smoke has poisoned

him to headache.

After he caught his breath, Bekbolat settled on the porch steps as freely as he could.

Shiny’s story sounded in his mind as if he was in the hospital again. There appeared

desire to get away. Away from these smoked, drunk, business-like Kazakh

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Commissioners to people! The desire grew stronger. The people from his aul should have

visited him long ago. “Why is there no one? The father is also nice...He also likes to

present himself as the state man! Or doesn’t he need me any more?” — he thought so and

took an umbrage about the father.

When he returned to the house, Bekbolat heard the young gentlemen arguing furiously

about something in the distant room. His ears caught: “Matayin Aben...Mukash”. Mukash

— is the very Mukash. Aben — is the father’s enemy. He wished he saw them face to

face with a whip in his hand in the steppe! Bekbolat moved on carefully and sat on a chair

at the doors of the distant rom. He began to listen to the voices coming from there.

Baltash spoke. Standing at the table he swatted a pile of papers with his hand and changed

to Russian:

There’s truth in all these complaints... why rich man grows richer? The people are cattle

for him. He gets rich by their work. he sucks blood from the weak. In my view, Bai Aben

is a real rabble, the most harmful element. How many people he he cankered! I believe

we should end up with this. Particularly this rascal has collected the materials about

Mukash!.. To tell you the truth, I don’t consider Mukash totally spotless man. Perhaps

he’s also offended people but he’s despatched with the Bais too. He is the true

Communist, the committed Communist. The end justifies the means.

Comrades, allow me to tell some words too, — Doga said, lifting his hand and blinking.

Akbala raised his chin slightly, looked at him and permitted:

Speak up.

I want to tell... — Doga started significantly, hands on his hips. — Indeed, Aben Matayin

is Bai, and that he was the Head of volost is also truth. And what does it mean? It means

he had the authority with the people, has it now. But would it be correct to destroy all

Bais in one day basing only on the fact that they are rich? No, that wouldn’t be the right

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decision. It means, many facts in the complaints for Aben Matayin don’t correspond to

the facts. All this was struck off by citizen Takyrov, known to everybody as a barrator. It

should be said — brilliant barrator. Now a criminal case has been initiated against him,

he’s arrested, yeah, it’s done. It means we can’t fully trust these denunciations; we can’t...

As for Mukash, he uses the Party as a fur coat, only to cover his affairs, he does. He’s a

sly, very cunning... it means, his goal is to become the Head of volost. Until now thieves

and swindlers have managed to join the Party. It became known, for instance, that seven

horse thieves joined the Party cell of Zhaman-aul, it’s known for certain. It means that

such people as Mukash can’t be called true Communists. Whatever he did: pandered to

the Whites, set them against the auls, indulged in capturing girls, women, led them to do

this... — here he threw his eye on Tolegen.

Tolegen lowered his eyes. And Bekbolat fixed at the floor at his place.

—Yeah, so then, we have the materials at our hands, — Doga went on gesticulating. — It

means, we can’t proceed with the matter until we check them, we can’t...

As soon as Doga paused, both Baltash and Typan began to ask the permission to speak

stretching their hands: “Me...I...”

—Let him speak out— Akbala pointed at Typan. Bekbolat liked how Doga took digs at

Mukash but he couldn’t accept his appraisal of Aben. He thought listening closely: “What

will this character say?”

—Auh, guys, Comrades! Let’s have a look at this matter keeping cool, as the Kazakhs

do... Guys, Comrades, you’re certainly Communists but you’re the Kazakhs too. We all

work for the benefit of the Kazakh people...we’ve worked not a dozen of years... we’ve

worn out not one pair of shoes, more than you have...it won’t be boasting, if I say that we

are more acquainted with the Kazakh affairs, — the speaker said and looked over the

present wishing to know what effect has made the beginning of his speech.

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Baltash screwed his face and turned away making it clear: “We know how you’ve worked

for the benefit of the Kazakhs”. Zhorgabek frowned: “He’ll spoil everything!”— and he

took a look at either Akbala or Typan. Doga nodded: “Come on, speak!” Ykan, pecking

the table like a bird, rolled up a cigarette. Tolegen kept sitting with the air of detachment,

his head lowered as if this conversation had nothing to do with him.

A doomed butterfly is spinning and spinning around a spark.

Typan noticed Baltash’s displeasure, grew timid and spoke differently:

—I’m so... as a senior... It’s no concern of us, unless you want to know the opinion of

uncles...

Akbala encouraged Typan:

—No, no, speak. Your opinion is also useful. Indeed, you’ve worked for the benefit of the

people.

Typan understood all delusiveness of his words, he carried on following his way but now

avoided the statement: “we’re the Kazakhs”:

Let’s talk frankly. — he cleared his throat and went on: — This is a scandalous affair. In

Sartau people went mad on the parties... Two parts quarrel, write complaints and mix

everything with policy. Save God, whatever they lie, whatever accuse of... Don’t pay

attention to the word “God”, this is just a saying... — He cleared his throat again. — Still

leaving aside outside papers, I, for example, will speak about the last letters... — and he

spoke about robbery of the post, known to Bekbolat from the Shiny’s words.

The only thing is who can we trust to? Eyes don’t cover everything the Kazakhs have lied

here, all their complaints...

Typan got heated— a brave man he was, he literally shot down all Kazakh messes in the

planetary scale then he changed smoothly to the person of Aben Matayin but now he

spoke differently. Aben has appeared as an educated man who subscribed newspapers and

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magazines, built schools, taught children, founded funds to feed the poor, but what was

this! — he cared of their way of life too, advanced them to culture, to the leading edges of

the civilization, he paid grants to the students, destroyed the remains of the detachments

of the Whites, taught military service to young men, hid refugees, warmed up those who

suffered from war – and everything was done nobly. He first thought about fate of the

people, had an indisputable authorities with the entire county. If it weren’t him, there

would be chaos, anarchy, revolt! — he stated everything very promptly, neither to add

nor to diminish.

Typan’s eloquency made such strong impression on the company that it crushed down

every Baltash’s efforts to object at the grassroots. He only jerked his head as an unbroken

horse and took offend. Doga cheered up, shielded his squint eye with satisfaction and his

entire look said: “Ah, well done, you’ve scored the hit!” Although Baltash made efforts to

object, Akbala, as the person authorized by the center, didn’t want to break the order and

gave the word to another speaker — Zhorgabek.

Zhorgabek immediately ambled. He neither began to debate Baltash’s opinion nor

addressed Doga with any comments. He clarified only some moments in Typan’s speech.

He didn’t begin to develop the involved topic. He didn’t consider it necessary to return to

age-old intra-Kazakh quarrels. What was the point to discuss senseless things? He spoke

about tomorrow, mentioned that the people who wanted to become the nation should first

of all raise up education, maintain fair trial...and so on and so far... and all this the Kazakh

youth would accomplish and there should reign unity exactly between the young people,

everything should be done in concord, that every hope was laid on the youth... — and he

sang hymns to the youth of the country and again called for re-union. He spoke in

accordance with the line of the Party, there was nothing to find fault with any word.

Bekbolat sat as a real silly thing — understood nothing: who was right in this discussion,

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who was wrong. He definitely liked only charges to Mukash. Nothing else was worth

mentioning.

He understood why one part curses Aben deadly but he couldn’t understand those who

praised Mukash, asserting that it was certainly necessary to support him and to make

arrangements about a position for him! What was the reason? Well then, there was a

reason. You’d ask what it was. Here it is.

Baltash is the Head of the county. However, he isn’t from this county. He isn’t a relative

to local people in any generation. But Baltash is a son of a poor man and he’s proud that

he has nothing. He likes neither Doga nor Tolegen and believes that such people when

they make their way to the Soviet work, spoil everything. Doga and Typan used his

absence to push Aben’s man to the position of the Head of volost. When he returned,

Baltash was angry, he threw Bai’s henchman off and sat his Head of volost – shoemaker

Kurenbai. The shoemaker believed he had an obligation to the Commissioner and

collected ferret skins for winter coat for Baltash. Although Baltash paid for everything,

every tail of them, all the same he was pleased with his Head of volost. And Bais intrigue

against such personnel! That was all secret of his hostility to Aben.

And what about Doga? Doga is from evil knows where. It’s true, his relatives referred to

Aben’s clan. During elections in Sartau Aben called him his nephew, treated kindly, he

gave him full meal, not being stungy he squeezed into his pockets crunchy notes. Is that

all? Perhaps, no. Doga has found one beauty for himself. And not without reason he

believed that Aben would help him to win her hand.

What about Typan? Oh, we aren’t able to tell you everything that has happened in his

former life. We’ll only remind that in those illustrious imperial times he worked as an

interpreter for Aben. Later he was a translator at the Justice of Peace which impacted

greatly his standing. Typan came from the same clan as Aben did as well as his wife

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originated from the same volost. Aben is the very power for Typan, and all the rest is only

an incident. So, we won’t dig out further, that’s enough.

Now, we’ll discuss Zhorgabek. He’s just found a job at the state service. His father is the

one of the known Heads of volost. In the gymnasium he was reputed as a quick-witted,

smart, sharp-tongued pupil, he didn’t finish the studying though. He would go far but his

biography held one black spot— the service in Kolchak’s administration, after which

when the Reds came he hid himself in the auls of relatives for a long time. In some way

his character was similar to Tolegen’s nature. Along with this he was more crafty,

grasping, educated, enterprising which forced to treat him with more respect than to

Tolegen. With the first phrases he could arouse liking of those he met. The most

important in him was that he didn’t look for enemies. On the whole he was spoken about

as: “Zhorgabek is a dzhigit!”

Ykan, who could hardly wait for completion of Zhorgabek’s speech, asked the host’s

permission to go home and left. Such disputes were of no use for him. He’s lived among

the Russians for too long and he’s been so out of touch with the blood roots that he’s

grown completely cool to all nuances of the Kazakh intrigues. He prefered a meaningless

chatter over a glass of vodka to logomachy, exciting hints for clan, flocks and for news

about who and what brings from a market. Whether the vodka which he drank arouse the

memories about his really devil-may-care revelries or perhaps he feared painful

reprimands of his old woman for the prolonged bean-feast, whatever it was but Ykan

found it necessary for him to leave.

Tolegen was silent. Why will he speak? Doga and Typan told everything could and

should be said. In fact, he counted on them.

Akbala, who afforded grounds for all comrades to speak and listened carefully to every

speaker, finally decided to speak himself. He was of those rather young but ripe ones who

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made his mark as early as at the meetings in the first years of the revolutionary revolt. He

was known as an organizer, remembered and talked about: “Well, look at him!” He

published his articles in the newspapers, wrote solid reports. He’s had the reputation of

the authoritative figure of the last youth call-in. He’s joined the Communist Party not so

long ago but he’s already been calling the youth to become the Party members. He

wanted sincerely to become the true Communist. He’s a competent guy. The masses

mesmerized by his speech have caused his genuine delight. He studied every solution of

the Party Congress, every new published book. He liked to read himself into discussion of

Lenin, Trotsky and other prominent participants of the congresses. He learned by heart

separate strong phrases, the exact words and if he didn’t quote them word for word, then

in any case he did it as it was required. He sometimes told the aphorisms of the leaders in

such a way that there was an impression that he was the author of these maxims. All the

reads showed it. If to buck up, he’ll gain the character of an enlightener. However, when

he went away from a tribune, he was barely able to repeat what he had said there.

Yet, don’t hurry to call him a light-minded chatter. On the contrary, he’s made an

impression of a reserved, able to behave with dignity in any situation man, who speaks to

the question. And he believed himself that he was highly educated, cultural and eloquent.

If there’s any blunder, if he stumbled when stepped out of place then he wasn’t

embarassed at all, he didn’t torment himself with self-castigation, but built a new plan

and found a way out of the current circle of troubles to the better tomorrow.

Akbala imagined himself modestly as a messiah, whose ideas and goals can’t be rejected.

The reason why he didn’t hurry to say his word but preferred to listen to the others

deserves more detailed explanation. It wasn’t that he wanted to make sense of the

situation which was in Sartau. Neither was it that he wanted to reveal an enemy element

waiting for somebody to let out a secret and show his true colors. It was his desire to find

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among those debated the proper people to carry out his fundamental ideas.

Akbala’s strong point was in the fact that he could speak both Russian and Kazakh

equally well. When he spoke in Kazakh, he immediately bought Bekbolat up:

Yes, Comrades! Now I’ll tell my opinion. — he touched the lips with a handkerchief and

without raising his eyes, went on: — The case we’re considering now should be taken not

only in one volost or county scale, this case is typical for entire of Kazakhstan, — he

squared his shoulders, twisted and rubbed fingers, raising his head slightly, nodded with it

staring at Typan’s belly opposite him.

We weren’t ready for the revolution. The revolution fell on us like from the sky. We’ve

been harvesting the ripes grown by the Russian proletariat, the Russian Bolsheviks, —

Akbala declared meaningfully and paused.

This phrase has already been pronounced for hundreds of times, cried at the meetings and

it has flashed in the newspapaers. But all the same Akbala uttered this outworn statement

as the new revelation.

—Yes, today power belongs to farm laborers, poor people. The class of hired workers has

overcome the class of the rich long ago, has taken control of lands, factories, plants,

property of the rich men...however, let’s compare. The class struggle of Russians has

already been spread to the utmost, it’s been going on not a year long. Our class division

hasn’t even started. Why? Don’t we have Bais, poor people, extortioners and their

victims? Is it peace and quiet, Grace of God? No, Comrades! Our robbery of the working

people, injustice, violence, oppression also strikes the eye. But the rich men have the

power and they hide from us the tears of the oppressed masses. The masses suffer inside,

they’re humiliated, dispossessed...Yeah...Yeah...the rich men don’t grow richer of an

inheritance. They grow rich sucking the blood of the working people; get fat exploiting

the labor of people. And this is naked truth. The example is the wealth of this Aben. And

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this is indisputable. Yeah..Yeah...why our poor masses as a class aren’t able to withstand

the rich men? Don’t they have any rights? Don’t they understand their benefit? Don’t

they undertsnd that they stand at the death’s door? We know the reasons. Our farm

laborers and poor men didn’t have such uniting, mobilizing centers as factories and

plants. Poor people, crushed and robbed, suffer singly at the very bottom. If to tell more

precisely, we didn’t have proletariat. And if we had, it wasn’t numerous. Now it’s ready

to emerge because our industry is built. There were mine workers before

too...Yeah...yeah...our farm laborers and poor people aren’t able to divide white from

black, they were blind...Yeah, the children of the poor people have begun to study recent

years. Earlier only children of Bais, aristocrats, the Heads of volost studied... Yeah, then

we have such vice as inter-clan feud. Aqsaqals, horsemen heading the clans set one clan

against the other, they force the poor people fight each other... Yeah, now it’s time for the

power of the poor people. And this power orders us to love the poor people, arrange their

life, teach them, help them with a job. And should we love the poor? We should. Should

we arouse the class solidarity, class hatred in them? We should. And how? What are our

possibilities? That’s the point — Akbala concluded, pulled cigarettes out of his pocket,

lighted the cigarette, took a pull at it and continued: — There’re two solutions on the

matter in the province... If to think it big, we can even say there are three approaches. But

I wouldn’t call the third approach the solution on the matter. Because the supporters of

this approach affirm that we have no classes, and they associate class struggle only with

the Russians, — and he threw a sharp glance at Zhorgabek.

Zhorgabek closed his eyes with a view of understanding and approval.

—We, the Kazakh Communists, can’t approve such approach... We need to get on the

path of revolution...Yeah, and so there are the solutions of the set question. The first is the

revolutionary expropriation of all land property of Bais, their houses, cattle, right up to

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the wives, if there are several of them, and then the equal, accurate, I can say as if with a

sharp knife, division between the poor. To level property position of the rich and the

poor. Otherwise, the rich will continue to manage pastures and water sources, the poor

won’t see justice as far as it’s possible. Some Russian comrades carry out this policy. We

can add to them such comrades as the shoemaker Kurenbai sent to the volost from the

town as well as a number of comrades from mediocre youth...As for the second approach,

no revolutionary is possible here, the poor will never get rid of oppression... — and he

began to pour the arguments.

They were as follows: if to take away cattle from Bais, it will be captured by the absolute

robbers. They will destroy everything as a trophy, will eat at once and the government

won’t receive any profit. This will lead to pestilence, hunger and civil war.

—It’s dangerous, comrades, to try to make the rich from the poor at the expense of the

rich. The poor man at such free ride can get up to such level of envy that Socialism and

Communism will be mere words for him. He won’t get used to hard work and gain brain.

Without understanding such simple thing as “costs-revenues” the poor man will waste

everything... the poor man should be taught. We should open his eyes, help him find his

place. Justice and power should serve to the poor. We need to open cooperatives, guilds,

nomad poor should be led to settle way of life, taught crafts! — he exclaimed.

Having looked at dumbfound audience with satisfaction, Akbala added a bit later:

—We should consider the rich and the poor from this point of view. Aben isn’t alone,

there’re many Abens. We need to struggle with them. It’ll be a long struggle. They also

have possibilities; they have a lot of strength. They can find loopholes. They have agents

everywhere both in the county and in the province. How will we know who is tied with

whom by umbilical cord? First of all, we should clear out our ranks from those citizens

managed by patrimonial links. Here’s a hostile influence. Unless we are clean, we’ll cope

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with nothing, — and he stopped talking this time finally — blew off the lamp.

Whatever you may say, Akbala gave a powerful speech. Powerful it was but not all

comrades liked it. Zhorgabek and Typan didn’t like slogan “intensification of the class

struggle” especially. They were the supporters of that rejected third approach. They hid

the Kazakh affairs. And the words “not to take the pastures and cattle away from Bais”

were hateful for Baltash, the true son of a poor man. Although deep inside he was ready

to protest, he restrained his temper. The fact that Akbala refused him two-three times in

the opportunity to debate has got him. In addition to this the definition “mediocre youth”

put him on the unpleasant alert. “What if he suddenly will put me to their list” — Baltash

feared.

Only Zhorgabek didn’t calm down. He began to pour the questions about Marx and

capitalism, about construction of Communism in one country and what the Kazakhs will

have from it?

Akbala cut Zhorgabek with a glance, casted up eyebrows after he had listened to him, and

masking his hostility thoroughly, said:

Your questions require in-depth coverage. I can answer them now too. But this time I’ll

withhold because firstly we drank and got drunk to some extent; secondly I don’t think

it’s possible to quote Marx and Lenin at the moment. We’ll consider these questions in–

depth later. However, they can be answered this way. If to look into the root of the

question, we’ll find no other way than that one chosen by the Russian proletariat. We

should follow it, uniting with it but not arrange any other own Kazakh policy. There’s no

such policy! There’s no own individual history as well. We have to do practical work. We

should carry attention over to the class struggle but not divide enemies and friends basing

on relationship. You’ve been familiar with Marx works, why don’t you have the

revolutionary spirit? — and he laughed affectedly.

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How do you know that we don’t have the revolutionary spirit? — Zhorgabek answered

the question with the question and also laughed.

Both Zhorgabek’s questions and Akbala’s answers sounded as unclear as the Arab

phrases from the Koran for Bekbolat. Bekbolat doesn’t care capitalism and socialism. He

felt annoyed that they chatted, forgot about Aben and Mukash. Something should be done

to them! The young dzhigit couldn’t understand that the only thing they were busy with

was deciding the fate of Bai Aben and Mukash. What can you do — he hasn’t been a

thinker, he thinks differently. Bekbolat sat and couldn’t understand who was he and what

world he was in from such conversations. His head finally hardened into stone from

never-ending words and he went away.

***

The snow that fell at night is fabulously fluffy. It’s calm, a bit frosty. The air is like glass.

Two horsemen are going away from the town clattering along. Hoof tracks are like craters

from explosions — so the snow scatters! Feast for the eyes! Clip! Clop! Slab-sided

chestnut horse with crimson tint has a small graceful head. Sinewy legs are like those that

Asiatic wild ass has. A crupper is shortened, a saddle is well-formed, and stirrups are

lowered. A pale young rider in a felt raincoat presses horse’s sides with his kness, strikes

croup with a whip.

The red horse of the second rider is without a saddle. It’s broke, keeps even run adapting

to the chestnut horse. The rider has a simple look, the clothes are worn.

Who of you have flown in a saddle like a wind? Those who galloped the horse know: soul

flies to all holy men along the skies; you can even snatch with the teeth!

The lad on the chestnut horse folded a whip and looks closely at the appearing mountain.

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Wow, how maddening! Newly fallen snow is as if odered! Hey-ho! — and he beats with

a whip shaft on his top of the boot.

And no mistake, — agreed his travel companion.

Have you trained the golden eagle?

Recently, a week or two ago...

I wish I could go out today!

What will it be with the new fallen snow?

You don’t think about the birds...

Bekbolat cared for bird passion. His friend Akbergen, who was a bit late with the horses

to the town, made excuses: they had just learned about his hospital stay. They had tea and

immediately moved to the steppe, to the auls. And there of all things, the snow fell down

thickly before going on the road!

Bekbolat owned a golden eagle and a hawk. He hasn’t seen his hunting birds for ages! If

you ask him at the meeting, as is right and proper, about the sheep— he’ll certainly bring

the conversation to the birds of prey.

The other day Akbergen went hunting hares — the birds should be fed, and the golden

eagle left without attendance, threw cap off the eyes, rushed at tame fox and broke two

flight feathers. “Well, my goodness, ah!” However, if to smooth the wing, it seems

nothing is seen...But Bekbolat, as usual, will look over every feather — flight, tectrix and

rectrix feather of the tail. He had to confess. Bekbolat got angry.

Akbergen is Bekbolat’s emotional friend. They grew together. From the very first steps

they went closely each other.

On his shoulders Akbergen had the old mother, wife and not a soul more if not to count

two cows and a horse. In the holy month of Ramadan he begins to keep a fast at home

and finishes at a steppe fire. Since he’s a hunter with a golden eagle, a hunter, a singer,

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and on the whole a good fellow. Bekbolat trusted him more than anyone else, even more

than his own father.And how it can be the other way, in fact Akbergen was let into all his

secrets. From boy’s fights to the first love to the same person they went together through

hunting, fun, hunger, laughing, grieve and survival.

Akbergen traced and caught a fox-cub in a bare ravine for about a verst. He scrambled up

a cliff. If you set a foot just a bit not properly— you’ll fly straight to jaws of death.

However, he got the golden eagle’s nestling. For three days he kept watch with a fox-cub

tied to him at the nest of the golden eagle. For three nights he slept there in the cleft dying

in the ringing frost. Afraid to chill the nestling which he took out the nest, he wrapped it

in his leaky fur coat. Fearing that a sly fox-cub would get the nestling he ran to the

wintering. His leg slipped on a stone and he rolled down and broke his collarbone. He

tamed the bird of prey— his whole arm is cut with the claws. Both fox-cub and nestling

were for Bekbolat. Everything was for his sake: he was in charge for him in the reckless

years of youth, trampled out a path in lack of roads, bared his teeth like a wolf, crept as a

cat, crawled like a dog and held his horse an iron stake. Who else but him is able for such

sacrifice? Who will bear?

All Akbergen clothes are inherited from Bekbolat. He ate from his table too. Bekbolat

helped him to marry. Everything is according to Akbergen’s dreams: Bekbolat will marry

soon and begin to live his own aul, he’ll live next to him in a modest yurt, he’ll shake up

kumiss for him and in general will arrange aul’s affairs. What else does a man need?

If there exists true male bonding in the sublunary realm, it’s this one that ties together

Bekbolat and Akbergen. And it’s tightly fastened by one passion — hunting, without it

life is unthinkable like without air. Hunting took everything away: they had no time to

have a hand in household. It was a pity to spend a minute even for love games. Bekbolat’s

father called them— “a pair of brainsick”. Even with all these things considered they had

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absolutely different characters.

There were such circumstances in which Bekbolat all of a sudden began to show

inappropriate stubbornness or he was lost or ran into extreme irritability but Akbergen

never lost his mind. He always cleared the hot air with a proper word. Far and by he

could find the way out. Bekbolat often took Akbergen’s advice when he was in a jam. He

would live quietly and well but thanks to his friend all the time he got into different

troubles and Bekbolat felt guilty. Yet it has never come to Akbergen’s mind to back out

of problems falling on him due to Bekbolat. He believed if he could stand out, lift,

contrive in the name of his friend, then it should be this way. Bekbolat’s excitement

would have ruined him a hundred of times without Akbergen. But who would be

Akbergen without Bekbolat? No one and anything. They complemented each other,

formed an integral unit, if it can be said about a hoof and a horseshoe.

“Where there’s counting, there’s no friendship”, — you can hear this at the friendly feast

not once. Don’t believe it, everything has its counting. And we haven’t met any friends

that keep their count. Just a list of personal profit and losses is filled in deep under the

skin and it’s not accepted to speak about it. If friends assure that they neither know nor

want to know, who and why really owes, then perhaps both are very sly or hopeless

idiots. There’s no eternal, non-binding male bonding. As there’s no such man who would

be ready to forget his interests absolutely, unless we speak about the above mentioned

idiots.

In town Bekbolat and Akbergen had time only to exchange a couple of words about

health and daily life of the relatives. They didn’t manage to have a heart to heart talk at

Tolegen’s house in the evening. So only now, in the saddles in the steppe, they plunged

into a quality chat. What does Bekbolat speak about? Sure thing, about Akbilek. But first

of all he began to speak about the birds. He couldn’t understand how they hadn’t kept an

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eye for the golden eagle...Finally Akbergen closed:

We cared about the birds those days, didn’t we?

Bekbolat immediately agreed:

Yeah, the days were crazy. As if the stars turned away from us... It looks like the snow

lay flat, but look, hares’ traces are blobby there... Who could have thought that such

disaster would fall on me?

Eh, it’s all in God’s hands... She’s unfortunate too, — Akbergen replied guessing

thoughts.

What do you mean, what is “unfortunate”? Because she came into the hands of the

Russians, or how?.. — Bekbolat asked looking at his friend’s face closely.

And how to call her the other way? It’s all clear, people say... Dishonored.

Bekbolat became angry and noted with irritation:

But who managed to keep honor then? It so happened.

Eh, destiny. Who could have expected that she would never see the bride’s kerchief?..

Bekbolat grinned realizing what his friend drives at.

—What are you hinting at?

Nothing, — Akbergen smiled.

It’s clear: he didn’t dare to tell that marrying Akbilek is out of the question now.

—What do you have on your mind? I have nothing to be ashamed of! — Bekbolat cried

with displeasure.

Akbergen’s face got frozen - it was frosty after all... With an effort but firmly he

pronounced moving his lips barely:

—I wasn’t going to shame you. As you know, I don’t need it. I just don’t know what to

say... And what do you think? You’d rather explain to me, slow-witted before growing

angry... What shall we do now? My dark head couldn’t even imagine that this is possible

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in this wide world...

Bekbolat’s heart softened after such tirade. He hugged his friend, even wanted to kiss

which he had never done before in his life but changed up his mind.

—In the first place — the God, and then you, my friend, are closer to me than anyone

else. I haven’t kept any secrets from you. And I’m not going to. I have nobody to consult

except you. I think about her...I should have asked you about my father, mother and I’m

asking about Akbilek... I can’t but speak about her and I am not glad to speak. You can

see it yourself...Well, the things are this way...

And he began from almost the youthful dreams about the beautiful girl; how he was shot

dead when saw Akbilek... he composed the entire poem on the way. And he ended it so:

— What happened, happened. Is it written on my forehead that I’m an unlucky

person? Though...I don’t know. I have to marry all the same. To look for a new bride, to

send the father to woo...a real fiddling. It’s all in God’s hands, however, let people talk

what they want, and I am on my own... I want to marry her, — and he stopped talking

with a sigh.

While Bekbolat was talking, Akbergen was nodding with the air of understanding and

was saying yes: “Eh, eh”, like, you’re right in everything. And when stopped, he began to

beat breast and assure that from the moment he was at one with Bekbolat. But unlike

Bekbolat he spoke not so extensively and emotionally but without haste. He laid

emphasis:

—If you’ve conceived so, what can I say against? I have one friend, as they say, but

many enemies...We should be aware of them exactly. We have to think, to look round

where to keep silence, what to say to whom, to lead everything to be right...Your love is

your law.

Law is certainly a strong word but still Bekbolat felt that he had to justify even in the eyes

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of the most intimate friend:

—As the God will order... and I have to wait only. It’s not my fault that it happened so.

The grief has fallen from the sky. Who can cover himself from it? Frankly speaking, are

there many women in that district who weren’t pressed by the Russian soldiers? The

entire armies have passed: the Whites, the Reds, the Blacks... but I haven’t heard that one

of them declared himself as a tainted woman. You’ll find a cracked egg even in

undisturbed nest. The Earth also cracks...And today everything we cherished is slashed

with a blade — here it seemed he finally clocked his friend.

“Honor of disfigured”— Akbergen thought but didn’t argue any more.

—But still, what will people say? How will look at this our people at home?

— People have already said, they have nothing to add. I don’t have a spare ear to listen to

everything the people talk... those who also couldn’t save their daughters and sisters,

perhaps, are glad to hear about Akbilek. They’ll gloat for a while, let them. But those

relatives, who really sympathize us, won’t condemn me yet. They will be silent from

Akbilek’s side too. And after all, it’s better to marry Akbilek than any Barrel.

The friends laughed. There has been one old maid in their aul— stupid, shrill, bandy-

legged, with potbelly. Someone married her at last. She’d better be glad quietly and bear

children but no: there was no conversation where she claimed she married being vestal.

Bekbolat and Akbergen teased this as ugly as death woman with some meaningless

abandon, utterly ruthless.

The remainig distance to the aul the dzhigits spoke only about women. The theme for

young men is endless. It’s unable to tire up our two heroes, particularly when they speak

about frivolous persons. We’ve got bored with, we should admit. So, we won’t develop it

any more.

The dzhigits shoot off the mouth, roar with laugher to tears, pleased.

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Bekbolat’s heart lightened.

***

Baltash entered an office.

A table covered with a red cloth. Inkstand of grey spotty stone, a glass for pens,

candlestick, paper clips. An armchair upholstered with velvet. Polished furniture. The

table is so large that you can fix a tent on it. To the left there’s portrait of Lenin, to the left

— Stalin’s portrait. A telephone on the table. Stretch your arm — you’ll reach an electric

button. As soon as you press it, a secretary runs bowing his head on the ring.

Such was the office Baltash entered.

Both the arm-chair and the table are very well set up, as good as a harnessed carriage:

“Sit down and fire ahead!”

Baltash set his bag with a pat on the table, smoothed his cheeks and sat down into the

yielding arm-chair, tipped back. He moved up the jacket sleeve with buttons and looked

at the watch. It’s after nine. He drew up to him a pile of papers to that lay to the left of

him and began to cut in a pen like the sheep are clipped. On one piece of paper he put

resolution angle wise: “To consider”, on the other one: “To check”, on the third: “To put

at the meeting”, on the next one: “No funding”. He didn’t forget such solutions as “To

hear”, “To return to the issue”. Somebody knocked on the door.

—May I?

The man asking in was the Chief of Finance Department, the county financier Shtein. He

sat down and started to move, as a magician, with his hands in which the papers here

appeared and there disappeared. It’s not clear how it happened, but Baltash, who didn’t

agree with him in any issue, eventually signed: “No objection”, and sometimes he put his

signature barely having time to pronounce: “Huh?...” Baltash isn’t a whale on finances.

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He’s not very quick at catching the point of strange words: “budget”, “debit-credit”, and

“quarterly plan”. As an executive official he feared to make any office misstep but always

a piece of paper comes out wherein it could sneak, but how, which way — he couldn’t

imagine. However, he didn’t dare to dispute the arguments of such experts with a family

name ending with “...shtein”. They’re crafty. And it seems there are no hitches. The other

day he tried to analyze an account himself; he laid it this way and that. The false figures

struck his eyes at once but when Shtein began to go nineteen the dozen and recount, it

turned out just the opposite result, all rows of figures added up. “debit-credit” always

adds up in the hands of such accountant.

As soon as Shtein left the office, Baltash scratched his head and said:

—The deuce knows, they always find some reason, rascals, to get money.

The reception started. He allowed stretching reluctantly an arm to one petitioner, in front

of the other he stood up on his heels firmly and then sat down again with dignity, signed a

piece of paper for somebody, refused severely to another one.

At some point Typan dropped in the office and bowing his forehead like gazelle he shook

the Commissioner’s hand with his well-cared for, soft palm thoroughly and with devoted

love:

—How are you? — and he smiled cautiously.

After all since last night some uncertainty has been lasting and it began to disturb him in

the morning: maybe, influenced by alcohol he said something needless, behaved not

properly...That is why he fussed an effort to please. Just in case he didn’t fail to puzzle:

—You’re reading a report today— and he offered a few sheets of paper.

Everything crashed down in Baltash up to rectum. Do you think he got afraid? Or he

knew a poor appraisal of everything he’s worked? None. He’s given reports not once

without prejudice to his chair. Besides, the important persons stood behind him. Just any

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report caused a work-related awe in our prominent employee. His ass doesn’t know peace

until he speaks, shoots off, beats off. Oh, I’ll tell you, to make a report at the meeting isn’t

easier than walking on a thin ice from hell to paradise.

Baltash orders:

—Prepare all materials in good and due form.

Wilco, — he nodded and went out.

It seems the matter is at its rails but pre-report chaos bothers Baltash’s insides, raises up

to his throat, asks for a tribune. Baltash’s face gets severe. A snub—nosed, bug-eyed

fellow found him in such condition when entered the office. He said without a pause:

—How do you do, comrade? — and he stretched his hand above the table.

The Commissioner, struck with the official anxiety, didn’t like the physiognomy and

abandonment with which the hand of this steppe Kazakh was stretched.

Baltash, looking past him, pronounced:

—H-m-m...

The newcomer was Mukash.

Baltash knew the reason of Mukash’s appearance. No matter how remarkable the

petitioner is, but the fact that he’s a petitioner already doesn’t make greatly disposed

towards him. Besides, yesterday Akbala made it clear that they’ve got ahead to sort out

and review with such people as Mukash. That is why Baltash neither offered him a seat

nor drove him out at once. Mukash was bald enough to come up to the table and to sit

down on the chair on his own. Baltash scratched with a look at him. Mukash, barrel-

chested, ate the official with his eyes literally: here I’m, ready to struggle for the Soviet

power. This view was followed by an obligate demand:

Come on, comrade! What decision was made concerning me?

It was seen from the look in his eyes that he’s alredy known that the members of the

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bureau didn’t object to giving him a new position.

What is it? Where do you want to serve?

How is it, where to serve? We can only serve for the benefit of the people.

Do you want to work among the aul masses or in the town?

I have little education for the town. It would be right to serve among the aul people.

And who do you want to be among the people?

In these times everone wants to be the Head of volost. We also want to be at such

position.

Er-r, so then, you want to become the Head of volost?

Why can’t I be him, if it’s within my depth? All Bais were the Heads of volost

before...Now it’s our power and we have to be the Heads of volost, — and he smiled.

Baltash liked neither his words nor his assuredness. He asks:

—For what purpose have you joined the Party?

Mukash found the question a vivid attempt to get rid of him. There was the expression on

his face: “What mountain have you fallen from to check me?” but the tongue turned

softer:

—What purpose could it be? We joined to defend the poor and to promote them to the

service, to take the cattle away from the rich and to give it to the poor. We’re oppressed.

We also were farm laborers. We drew yoke on the neck, slaved for the rich. Hasn’t our

day come today? — and he bulged out his eyes.

Baltash thought: “Doga was right. This rascal cares only to grab no matter where and

from whom”. Such is his nature. Baltash sits in the party chair and weighs the situation:

here he adds a plummet of the Party principles, there he detracts it. It hasn’t balanced

somehow. He had to think aloud, what if he, rascal, suddenly babbles and determines his

fate with his on hands:

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—If the Party had known in advance about your purposes, it would have admitted you to

the sight of masses... You’ve offended many people... — will he take a back seat or no?

But Mukash is known to be uneasily frightened. He asks standing up boldly:

So, is there no position for me?

Baltash offered:

Will you be a policeman?

Mukash shook his head:

I won’t.

What a squirt!

If you don’t, then go out of here, — and he waved with his hand.

We’ll see! — Mukash slammed the door.

He went out, cursed Baltash, jumped up a saddle and turned his horse to the building of

the Party bureau. In the familiar building he went to comrade Ivanov, a thin old Party

member. Several peple drudged before the door of comrade Ivanov. Mukash pulled a

handle of the door immediately but here with a touch to his shoulder he was stopped by

the Russian with a childish face: “Get in line”. He had nothing to do, so folded up a whip

and began to wait patiently. In front of him there was a teacher dressed in Tatar-style.

How this teacher can know that there’s the future Head of volost before him! He sticks

with a question:

Comrade, what places are you from?

What do you want? — Mukash jerked up his chin.

I’ve just thought that if you’re from Torbagatay we could return together. I’m a teacher

there...

Mukash found it needless to answer; he only clicked with his tongue and shook his head.

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Still the miserable teacher went in front of him. At last his turn came. He entered the

office cheerfully.

Mukashka! — Ivanov cried and shook his hand.

Mukash, waving with the whip, began to tell the story how he hadn’t been given a post:

Isn’t the Soviet power, as it was told about, for the poor? If it is, then I’m the poorest of

the poor. Who more than me fought for the Soviet power? And what does this man make

of himself? Why does this Baltash cock his nose? So what, that he studied, he doesn’t

havet he right to send me so? He didn’t appoint me - there’ll be such who’ll appoint me!

And what about him?

He doesn’t want to hear at all. Looks like a sort of bourgeois.

—How’s it - bourgeois? — Ivanov cried, reached the handset and asked commutator to

switch to comrade Baltash.

Mukash stood and listened.

“What material?...Leave it, do...know...mere words... leave it, please, it won’t do...”

He listened and didn’t understand where it had to be left and what won’t do. And yet he

saw by a displeased expression of Ivanov’s face, by his gestures, that the secretary was

for him.

Ivanov hung the handset up on the telephone with a bang and said:

—Wait. We’ll consider at the meeting tomorrow. You’ll be the Head of volost in Sartau.

Mukash said out of place: “wilcame¹”, shook his hand firmly and fearing that he

overpressed Ivanov’s hand bones too heavily, went outside.

In the street he met his longtime acquaintance who had been an agent, a policeman and

instructor. He speaks Russian better than Mukash, a real genuine guy. They fell into a

talk:

Congratulations! You’ve become the Head of volost!

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Who said it?

The people of Sartau do.

Not yet.

—Oibai! If so, then know— there are the people who are solidly behind you, they ask

about you.

-Who are they?

The friend drew Mukash who immediately got limp, to Shiny into the hospital yard. The

sick prisoner, waiting for Mukash long ago, hugged him and began to flatter him

pattering and to lash all his enemies, Aben Matayin in the first place:

—Don’t you agree for the less than the post of the Head of volost! Whatever it be, we’ll

put you the Head of volost in Sartau all the same. Only give a bloody nose to Bai’s

leader, this Aben! If you need a smart advice — ask me without thinking! We’re with you

and we’re all for you!

Shiny, who because of his “illness” had no right to go outside the hospital, ordered to the

former instructor: “Host comrade Mukash as a guest at your house, do everything what he

asks”. The latter took Mukash to the house of his acquaintance at the town outskirts,

ordered to boil meat for the guest, gave him home-brew vodka to drink and didn’t forget

to feed a horse. Mukash was also given a “soft one” into his pocket and a

¹ - wilcame – here he means “you’re welcome”

woman of easy virtue was found for him. Mukash stretched out his lips to her. Mukash

was pleased - he is the Head of volost already! And he began to boast and build plans!

Comrade Ivanov is a helpless pawn at his service. He’d drive all Aben’s cattle to the town

meat markets – he’d put up sacks of money because he’s the power!

The next day he went to Ivanov again.

- 142 -
Ivanov wasn’t the same as yesterday. He neither called him welcomingly as yesterday:

“Mukashka!” nor he shook his hand but greeted coldly and asked:

—What do you want to work?

Mukash repeated his request in embarrassment. Ivanov shook his head:

—Will you be an agent?

Mukash didn’t want to be an agent. How it could be, since yesterday no one had called

him the other way than Sir-Comrade the Head of volost.

Either Ivanov coughed drily, or pronounced:

—If so, then return home. We’ll call you if we need.

Mukash even didn’t remember how he happened in the street.

And it happened the following: Baltash talked to Tolegen at once. The latter met with

Doga and Typan. They found their man in the Cheka and sent one of the shadows to

watch Mukash. He reflected everything in a report thoroughly: where Mukash went, who

he met, what he spoke about, who he visited as a guest, who he drank with and who slept

with. In the morning this Cheka report appeared at Ivanov’s table and he had what to be

struck dumb with. The matter of Mukash at the Party bureau was out of the question. He

had only to agree with a suggestion to check the previous service of Mukash. Comrade

Ivanov coughed and thought: “Damn it! I shouldn’t have got stuck into their Kazakh

affairs”.

Stunned Mukash hurried to Shiny and told him all his troubles. Having heard Ivanov’s

opinion, Shiny didn’t start to make a fuss around might-have-been Head of volost. He

only comforted:

—One clan gang acts here. For the present go on your business. Where you’ve left your

tracks, we’ll cover up.

Mukash hung around the town for a couple of days, tried to go to one office, to another

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— nothing well came out of this. He had to come back as wise as he was.

Part three

YEARNING

There, it took five days since Akbilek returned home. Everything she was busy with was:

under a black kerchief she met the women who came to her with sympathies, sobbing,

sorrowful sighs and sobs; with tears running like water from kumgan¹ that she bent over

the hands of these neighbors. She laid the tablecloth, treated them but herself squirmed

and ate only perhaps a piece of flat cake. She strayed about the steppe aimlessly and again

sat aside of everyone with her head lowered down for hours.

Everything was different that it had been before.

My mottled horse’s distant track,

My darling mother’s silk amulet,

Forever parted we, no way back,

Joy left me for centuries ahead

Before the door there’s a ditch

It gives shelter for the geese.

Lost my mummy and my peace,

Lost for words and full of grief.

The kind aunties taught her these laments. When people come she has to pluck up her

heart and to weep as dolefully and harshly as possible. As the aunties ordered so Alkibek

did. In fact, the lines “My mottled horse’s distant track...”, “Before the door there’s a

ditch...” seemed absurd to her, even empty and meaningless. But while crying she noticed

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that between the yearning that nested in her heart and these senseless words there began

to stretch a bridge but by bit.

At first she was surprised: “Holy men, auh! How the women cry these laments when the

heart is about to stick in the throat?”

Since the moment she saw uncle Amir and then her father, the aul women, she’s become

as if numb, unable to string two words together. She hid in the corners all the time. In a

couple of days she learned mourning chants from those aunties, scratched her face and

didn’t run away from everybody. Her previous behaviour seemed childishness, absurd

stupidity. To be honest, she calmed down herself mentally: “Didn’t the people understand

in the first day that I was burning with a shame? Did I hide from every sun beam and

keep silence as a dumb girl foolishly?”

As soon as she entered the aul, the women caught her, falling down, under arms and

dragged to the father. They clung to her and drew each to herself as if in kokpar², and she,

fluttering like a bird in the tenacious hands of those who she even didn’t see, nearly went

mad. They cried from all sides: “Dear, ah!”, “Darling, ah!”, “My tear!”, “Our star!”,

“Sweety, my nursling!”, choked her in embraces, stroked, shouted at her face the same

words; washed her face holding her thin neck tightly, almost turned out her arms and then

started to feed her: “Eat, have a meal, dear!” and hung over her, practically fainted

themselves, pitied her, took care. Aren’t there among them those, who grudgingly

allowed her to step on the clean land of her native spurs? Her, who has prayed her life so

discreditably? In vain she’s survived, all for nothing. Who’s she now but not licked by a

dog bowl? It was clear for her: fallen both by body and soul...

How will she dare to touch the holy face of her father with her lips, kissed in sin? How

will she enter the blessed like the Mosque, father’s home not fearing the God’s wrath?

Will she go on the floor carpeted with a prayer rug with her feet, caressed by the Kaffir?

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How will she stretch to the family dish at the table her arms which were slobbered with

the kisses and which hugged the Kaffir?

Why haven’t you thought about this earlier? You should have remembered! You’ve

betrayed your flitting soul, holy men, auh! What will they think of me now? It’s late. Is

there any no one thinks of it? Do they care of my soul? They’ll only think when see me:

“This is her...the girl that was under a crowd of the Russians!” Or maybe, they’ll throw

such words to my father’s face!..

Nevertheless, Akbilek trusted to all the kind that was going on around her. She felt

everybody as close people: I’m pitied, I’m

¹ - kumgan- a narrow-neck jug for water with a spout, lid and handle, used for washing

face, hands.

² - kokpar (buzkashi as a version), a team sport originating in Central Asia, where the

players, all on horseback, try to place an animal carcass into a goal

still loved. But then the last: “Dear!”, “Our darling!” were heard no more in the aul that

accepted her so heartily. The sea of anguish which was spilled in front of her seemed to

step back. The burdensome thoughts which tormented her and hammered in her temples

when she approached the aul: disgusting, dirty, the worst bitch... – they have covered with

kind of ash and were forgotten gradually. “I’ve driven so much of dark mist to my head

for nothing.Vainly I thought that the people would loath me, despise and reproach...I am

the same beloved daughter...” — and she quieted down.

Day by day passes.

Everything — rustling of leaves, splash of water, and snore of a camel— lulls Akbilek,

rocks her, as if cover with a blankets and rolls up yearning... somewhere near a funeral

prayer for a neighbor, a respectable man who died long ago, sounds: “...ollahu yagdu...in

the name of the Allah...we’re the slaves of Allah...” and brings her peace too. Female

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nature is sturdy. But all the same something heavy cuts the soul into layers, then puts a

layer, another layer..

Life goes on. The number of people who blessed the saved girl reduced. They began to

cook less food. If so, the neighborly women began to drop in more rarely. Only Auntie

Urkiya, who loved her, didn’t leave Akbilek. It was her who ran the house after mother’s

death. She keeps an eye on everything and is in time everywhere. And she looks after the

children too.

You can ask: what children? Well, well, we haven’t mentioned about them, ah! You

know, Akbilek has twelve-year old brother Kazheken and seven-year old sister Sarah. We

have to admit, Akbilek began to grieve more not about her trouble but about the fact that

they were left orphans. Kazheken likes to play and he always runs somewhere with the

boys. But dear Sarah, pretty to a miracle, kind of got stuck to Akbilek. She sits next to her

with wild hair and sits without a movement. Eh, poor thing, ah! When regular woman’s

groans are heard— Kazheken doesn’t go into the doors. But Sarah, when only Akbilek

begins to sob, she cries with her. Kazheken has remained the same greenhorn and fidget

but Sarah grew quiet and thin. When Akbilek’s heart lightens, she tries to wash all dresses

of the sister, to mend, to sew the torn buttons. She washes her hair, seats her on the knees

and brushes with a large-toothed comb looking for lice.

Father, who hasn’t been inclined to long talks before, now stopped talking at all. He can

only ask the worker: “Have the camels returned?” or gives a brief order: “Bring that sack

into the house.” he sometimes calls Kazheken up, seats him down on a horse and orders

to drive bull calfs. He has never spoken to Akbilek since she returned. At first he even

avoided to look at her side. Earlier, as soon as Akbilek went somewhere, he began to

worry at once: “Where’s Akbilek?” He used to call her up and ask something, and if he

had nothing to talk about he would request to help mother. Sometimes Akbilek used to

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allow herself not to hear what she was ordered but sat down by her father. He kissed her

on forehead: “Honey, wrap your waist, fasten the button, there are draughts around” — he

needed nothing else, sat pleased.

There’s nothing left – any sweet word or glance. Akbilek justified him silently: “He

misses mom...The strange people are in the house, so he’s silent...”— but what was it for

her, all the same father’s silence both offended and upset her. It began to seem to her that

he avoided her deliberately and her presence in one room with her weighed on him as if a

snake crept between them. There was no ford to him; she couldn’t squeeze into the hole

that hid him. She had to wait only: when father’s heart melts, when he smiles at her again,

when he says at least a word... She sits and without any hope catches with her black eyes

father’s glance... it seems to her: if he only looks at her then her yearning will disappear

and she’ll become happy again. But he doesn’t even turn his face to her.

Yearning.

There’s no salvation from the yearning at the steppe hillock too. She goes with Sarah

there, presses the girl to herself but tears are runnig like beads. The sister doesn’t

understand why Akbilek is weeping so bitterly, looks at her frightened: “Stop it...stop”.

Akbilek pulls together, wipes her tears, and strokes little sister on her head. Then she

stands this way for a while and again rain of tears begins.

Alikbek’s yearning is growing up. It’s swollen so much that Akbilek doesn’t house it.

Who can she address? Who can she share with? And who is there? Perhaps there’s only

Auntie Urkiya who has known her from the childhood.

Urkiya — is Amir’s wife, Mamyrbai’s nephew. Amir was known as a deeply religious

man, had the reputation of goody-goody. Urkiya has been married to him for over nine

years, and she’s twenty seven. She is an excellent woman except for the God hasn’t given

her children. Akbilek’s mother trusted her children to her only when she went as a guest

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to a distant aul. Who else but Auntie Urkiya, the most loved after mother, will remember

about Akbilek? She goes, looks for her. Once, when she found her beneath a bare hill, she

sat down by her: “Well, what happened?” And Alikbek told her about her offend. She

listened to her and said:

—Dear, I have seen nothing of this. How is it possible not to love you?... And he loves

you. In his own way.

She said so although she guessed that Aqsaqal became cool to daughter. She understood:

she had nothing to calm down Akbilek and with her head down she began to twist grass

growing nearby. She paused to think not knowing whether to tell Akbilek about her guess

or not. Akbilek advanced her:

—I do notice. He sees me and strays away. As if I am a stranger. Why don’t you see? Of

course, you see it. Yesterday we sat with Sarah quietly; he went in, saw us and left

immediately. And here you came in the next breath. You know but don’t tell me. You are

afraid to upset me... Do you think I understand nothing?.. You’re the only one who I still

can talk to. Will you then also stop being frank with me? — Akbilek said and cried.

Urkiya began to cry with her. She says weepingly:

—My sweet heart, auh! With which face would I hide anything from you... If I see

anything, then, indeed, I’m afraid to upset you... Oh, ah! What shall I do!.. What is this,

dear!.. Who knows, what do such people like him have on his mind?.. Honey, ah!

Understand him. Do you think he doesn’t understand what attracts people to your house?

Anyone who comes, gawks at you: “What is she like now, after the Russians? Has she

changed? Or hasn’t? It’s interesting, interesting...how do the Russians do this?”— she

swallowed tears. — When they stare at you, it burns everywhere in my chest... Can you

imagine what is happening in his chest?

She says, condemns, but the same questions are whirling in Urkiya’s head: “What did

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they do with you?” She is so tempted to ask but fears what if suddenly the girl’s mouth

convulses. But above the fear — she’s so sorry for poor thing, it’s impossible, she can’t

hurt her, poor, darling...

Akbilek was amazed. The tears dried in her widened eyes at once as if something

fantastic sounded. Again, as a mudflow in the Karashat ravine, all the days spent there,

flew in front her.

—No one believed that you would return alive... We lost every hope already... we

thought, the Russians— what else to expect from them — killed and threw you away.

After all I saw with my own eyes how they killed the aunt. But there’s any place, even the

most frightening and the darkest where the God won’t save if he decides to save. Live,

the soul lingers in the body, what else you need...

By Urkiya’s facial expression Akbilek guessed how she wanted to hear the entire story

from the beginning to the end, why, what merits for the Russians kept her alive. Although

Urkiya hasn’t asked her anything about it before, Akbilek was ready to let her into the

secrets. What happened happened. “But what to tell here? If something good had

happened...” — and she kept her memories inside. Now she decided it was time to tell

like it was and she began her story. Urkiya listened to her attentively. She cried

sometimes fearfully: “Oh, holy men, ah!” — sure thing, just imagine a muzzle of the

wolves aimed at you, clattering fangs... When Akbilek finished her narration, Urkiya

shook her head and said pitifully:

—Dear, ah! Dear! What have you gone through...

Akbilek demanded to swear not to tell any living being what she has heard. Urkiya

solemnly assured her: not a soul! Since this moment the relations between them have

become especially cordial. Secret — is a hearty matter. It’s very pleasant to speak about

and is always desireable. As soon as they’re alone, then Urkiya begins to ask Akbilek

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about her life in Karashamat ravine. Akbilek feels she’s older her mature auntie. It seems

she knows: everything about such an animal as a man, judges easily all deeds and

character of Black-moustached. Most recently the time, spent in the ravine, was full of

disgusting scenes only but with every narration they changed as if became lighter. And

some episodes even turned with their pleasant side as in a fairy-tale. Akbilek breathes

easier. She began to smile from time to time.

One thing kept tormenting her —father still avoided her. It seems it’s clear why but it’s

unpleasant all the same. She poked to the corners, stood behind the door, and got used

gradually to the current life. She began to farm, run the house as her mother had done

before. What else she had to do, to die of pain?...

So why was Aqsaqal Mamyrbai cool to the daughter? What’s there on his mind? Let’s

talk about this too.

Whatever you think, but reserved, stern-looking Aqsaqal Mamyrbai was notable for love

to children. As it was said centuries ago by the legendary judge Edite— Edite Dauntless

— to his newborn son:

Who has no love for kids?

You were born, my Nuraly -boy

Food, drinks, songs - I set up a rich toy

For the people to enjoy.

In the family cradle he was put

For my whitie to live in good

Happily in peace to full

So I’ll grow a great man

To eat and sleep as sweet as can

Lots gold and silver just to have.

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Who of the ancient and loving now fathers haven’t wanted to dress their children in the

most expensive fabric? Who hasn’t wanted his child to grow into a menacing as a lion,

energetic as a tiger, wise as Plato and eloquent as Zhiren-she? Who hasn’t wanted his

child to live to the snow of venerable age, gracious living and the herds and flocks in the

steppe?

Mamyrbai, as is right and proper for the important person, wished his children only the

best. In the meaning— everything as it should be. And his wishes were simple: he wanted

them to be dressed as good as their peers, that there wouldn’t be any reasons for envy,

that they would learn a trade – well, on the whole, as it should be in decent homes...He

brought twelve-year-old Tolegen to the town. Tolegen studied there for six-seven years

and was a prepared official. Father didn’t insist on his return to the aul. The hostess was

right: what’s the use to cling to him? He’s become the man of quite another sphere. It’s

no good for him to shove among the aul people, he’d better climb higher. Well then, it’s

given to him! And if it’s given, let him have more happy days! — these were the dreams

of the old mother. But the old man was already concerned about the daughter’s fate. He

kissed the clean forehead of Akbilek and hung at her various gold and silver pendants,

necklaces. He started to search a groom for her, after all she wasn’t a little child as the

mother assured, and it was time to marry her off. Of course, Bekbolat fell short for the

required person as he wasn’t so rich but the spoilt daughter liked him. What could he do

but yield — he received matchmakers. He didn’t think about the younger children— it

was early.

Although the eldest son has lived up to all his expectations Aqsaqal didn’t find it

necessary to admire him especially. If you’re interested, here are his assessments: what’s

the good of the fact that Tolegen is the town dweller and all that...well, he learned

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literacy, has had a post but he’s become Russified and got above himself. He’s unlikely

able to live a summer among his people. He doesn’t show up for ten months. It’s wrong.

The stored and increased belongings do not make any impression on him. Isn’t it a big

disappointment for father? He may go to marry to some tribeless town girl without

father’s blessing. He heard some rumors that his son gives time to a Nogai from Russia...

The Nogais for Aqsaqal Mamyrbai are like a knife into his heart. He couldn’t forget how

a mercer Nogai Nasyr played him a trick with a red horse.

Feeling that there appeared in Tolegen some allofness from the aul, fatherly love turned

to sweet daughter Akbilek. She was his consolation, she was his only concern. Everything

in her: both face and character touched him. She wasn’t a shallow thing but grew up

tactful, clever. High dignity exhibited in her. If it weren’t for the laws of God he would

never bestow her to marriage. That’s why he delayed as he could and didn’t accept

Dower from the groom hoping to keep the daughter by side for another four, and maybe

five, years, which was absolutely unreal. He’s delayed...Here’s how the destiny crumpled

his Akbilek...

Earlier Aqsaqal hadn’t to take offence at his son but this time he insulted him! Just think,

neither mother’s death nor returning of hardly survived Akbilek forced him to give up his

town affairs and hurry to father to share his solitude with him, to dispel the darkness

fallen on him. What a striking man he grew up! Who could even imagine that he wouldn’t

come? They’ve been waiting for him — he hasn’t turned up. Even if he was able to help

nothing, he should be by all means near the inconsolable parent. Then he can go to the

four winds. Oh, what a nasty brat!

All those days Aqsaqal preferred to think his daughter dead. He understood in his mind

— there was no life for her, but the heart didn’t agree with her death. It was only

yesterday when she simply delighted his eyes, made him glad with her shrill laughter,

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amusing pranks, his sweet nightingale! Yes, the place of his gone wife was empty but the

space occupied by Akbilek earlier was literally a gaping hole. The house collapsed and

fell into a grave hillock. And it seems without Akbilek exactly the younger children

became thinner lousy, as abandoned puppies. Nobody washed their faces or did the

washing for them. If she were there, she wouldn’t allow them to go to waste when he gets

married again and restores the full family, feels like the master to the utmost, as before.

Can you trust all household to the relatives? Each of them takes care of himself only,

pulls everything under his roof, you won’t see ...

But Akbilek was lost forever. It’s true, irretrievability covered all ambiguity of his

position. However you slice it, the daughter didn’t just disappear, but...At least any one

didn’t have the heart to say that the Russians passed her round. And when he heard that

the Russians were captured he forgot everything in the world, about inevitable

humiliating questions, about any honor. He couldn’t remember how he cried: “And

where’s Akbilek?” and as if in fever sent riders to all sides to search for her.

She was found. She appeared before his eyes shaggy, bedraggled, with worn-out and

beaten look. The thoughts fussed around in Aqsaqal’s head: it’s not her, not her! They

debauched her! Depraved! She went about! She’s become wrong...There’s no former

innocent child. The clean handkerchief is crumpled, blown into, burnt. She’s not a girl but

half-woman.

The misery old man was a big owner. Even virginity of his daughter he considered his

property. In his thinking his daughter should remain chaste even in the marriage. Now

Akbilek isn’t his child. Whose she’s — not clear. Is that her at all? No, it’s not Akbilek

before his eyes. She’s even not the Kazakh woman now...He was robbed, plundered, a

girl was clapped on him... He would answer so immediately to those who began to wink

at each other, like – have you seen Mamyrbai’s daughter, corrupt by the Russians? — this

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is not my daughter!

Such way Akbilek has become a burden to her father. She’s nullipara but all the same

there’s such an impression that she’ll pull out unseen monkey and begin to spin with it in

her arms, lulling it in her hands in front of the entire world of honor. And she stands on

her feet, don’t move...Ugh-h!...She keeps herself so confidently...this confidence is like a

slap in the old man’s face.

That’s the point that makes the old man turn his eyes out of Akbilek and in general avoid

her. Fatherly love and jealousy, compassion and spite, loathing to both him and daughter

— all tangled up and made him angry. She remained alive, of course, but has sat up here

like a sore in the eye. Anyway, how can you cut off your hand? Maybe, because of this

unbearable shame he has only to put a knife on his veins and to move to the skies? So

Aqsaqal wanders back and forth tapping his stick as if by bones and listening to the pain

in the guts as a wolf fed with poison.

Sometimes Aqsaqal sat aside and thought over for long, from time to time pitying the

daughter: “What’s her fault, unhappy thing?”. He understands that he’s no right to blame

her but when he remembers everything what happened, some force pushes him out of

Akbilek and doesn’t allow to come near. Suddenly there appears the thought: “What if to

get rid of her somehow as soon as possible?” But how? That groom doesn’t seem to

hasten to take her. He would thrust her to his paws and that’s the end. However, there’s

no need to hurry here. His little children will stay without care again. First he has to

marry some good woman and then to bother finally with Akbilek’s fate. This would be

right. That was the last fruit of deep and long thoughts of Aqsaqal.

You can make up your mind but to find a wife isn’t easy for him. We should say, the age

is advanced, look: he’s over fifty-four. In such age it’s not wise to divide the cattle into a

Dower for somebody’s young daughter and then to bring her up on his own. And will

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such woman be able to raise his younger ones? Will she take care for the old husband?

And what if she is a pale randy and begins to laugh and exchange smiles with unmarried

guys. There’ll be no end to shame, it’s better to get to a grave at once. Supposing that it’ll

be then: she’ll run from a cradle to the door — into the night. His heart isn’t in the

divorced women either. They are unashamed and depraved by their nature. If to take a

widow, they have children. They also have obligations to the relatives of the dead, and

then she’ll begin to steal his belongings to them. Yeah, how to find here a good-looking

and prude, and strong in work woman? Oh, my God, ah! You’ll wish no one to lose his

wife in the old age! Can you imagine greater misfortune? How to be with it? Disaster,

that’s it! This problem has struck in Aqsaqal’s head so tightly that no matter how he

thought it over and stroke but it has tied his hand and foot.

Mamyrbai hasn’t been the Bai who walk in golden slippers but he lacked nothing as well.

He’s always lived comfortably. He kindly treated the guests with kumiss and lamb in

summer and with the entire plates of fat meat in winter and accompanied to certainly with

a conversation for fun. He’s been a force and much regarded among the county officials

as well as his word has meant something for the Head of volost. There was the time when

he was elected the People’s Judge, later he left litigious affairs and considered himself

satisfied with being a figure among his kinsmen. His word has weighed more than the

opinions of the other Aqsaqals. Along with this he’s never twaddled but he’s kept an eye

at the people, workers. Every head is counted by him. He watched over both the stocks

and the prices.

Winter came. The snow fell on the slopes of Karashash. The well-wishers with their

pestering sympathy began to drop in rarely. Akbilek seemed to cope as the homemaker

and Mamyrbai started to get involved slowly in household concerns. There are lots of

domestic chores: here to take, there to give, to prepare meat stocks for winter, town cares

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and steppe ones.

In one of such days-circles one Aldekey, who used to stay at his place, came to him.

Aldekey is a trifling person but a big zinger who has never been tired to bring water in a

sieve and to catch a mosquito at seven verst distance and in addition to this to go around

everyone in the world. Just this time two respectable men have lost mares. One is with a

shortened left nostril. It let sit upon it from the left side that had a branding “torse”. The

other one was a white-mane red riding horse with a white spot on its spine. These were

Aldekey’s concern. He went around the auls, asked, looked over and on the way he

dropped to his old acquaintance to speak about the past times and at the same time to

express his regret and to bless the found daughter. But perhaps, it was late to look for

another roof for the night. In any case, he did as he did.

Hearing that Aldekey came in to the yard, Mamybai threw: “What evil wind brought this

tramp here?” However, he couldn’t neglect a conversation with Aldekey. Hadn’t certain

events happened to him, he would find what to talk about with a guest all the same. He

missed talks. There should certainly be such man to share the thoughts and cares.

Otherwise why to keep silence with your own people? When only you talk to a neighbor

or a relative about something important for you, immediately you’ll find them on your

head, they’ll deprive you of peace and won’t let your cattle go freely, clutch at you like

dogs at a wolf dog. They seem to be men but the heads are as a rule women’s. There’s no

proportion, they long to move you from your place.

First of all Aldekey read three times “alip-lyam”and “kukual”presenting as surah from the

Koran, greeted and then told a story how one eloquent judge chased away anguish of one

Khan who dropped his brow because of sorrows. Only after that he expressed his regret to

Aqsaqal appealing to take courage. He also quoted Abai’s words: “Meet the anguish

resisting it!” In general this Aldekey was a whale on poetic wisdom, remembered all sorts

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of stories of the past by heart: “The Arabian nights”, “Forty viziers”, “Eighty delusions of

the parrot”, “Six fingers”, and “Revengeful singers-dancers”. In his youth he went for a

daring fellow, well-groomed gallant, wrestler, singer, musician, humorist but he fell from

Bayshuak cliff and crashed heavily. All literature and arts flew out of his head except for

his ability to put tobacco behind his lip skillfully, to joke, to tell tales and to give advice:

“Do this way, act that way...” He is a gluttonous old man without front teeth who sits

down with effort and when he sits down, he can’t stand up.

Aldekey sat comfortably and began to look over the pieces which he still remembered

from the narration “Aron Rashid”. Then he changed to “Az Zhanibek”, “Orator

Zhirenshe” and “Ruler of Lukman”. He extracted useful guidance from the heritage of

these wise men with a strain, as his memory allowed him, and we should say his efforts

weren’t in vain. Aqsaqal Mamyrbai, heartsick with his not a gaudy lot, lifted in his spirits,

pried himself away from his odious being and brightened up so much that he ordered the

servants decisively:

—Uh-ah, call that shepherd to me! Let him choose and slaughter a delicate lamb for such

guest. The elderly people have their health and the meat should be up for their teeth.

Aldekey pulled a snuff box made of a horn for naswar out from a shabby boot-top. He

shook the remnants from it on his palm and began to knead herb with his thumbnail. He

put tobacco behind the lip — enough for one tooth only. No matter how you shake

tobacco off the horn now you’ll get nothing. However, you may beat this thing out —

beat at your pleasure.

—You’d better prepare naswar, why to throw ash outside for waste, — Aldekey gave the

order to his old friend.

Of course, not only ash from the hearth makes up intoxicating blend for a mixture to put

behind the lip. A perfect tobacco is needed here plus an ash from the burnt saksaul as well

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as two-three other things. Bring everything to Aldekey right here and now. But can he

refuse to the man for whom he’s ready to slaughter even a lamb?

There aren’t so many people now for whom the hosts put such cattle under a knife if

certainly not to count the policemen, the Cheka agents or the Heads of volost. Still we

speak not about nuances of butchering but about Aldekey’s knack for something more

important rather than meat and naswar. So Aldekey had all grounds to put on airs.

Yesterday, truth be told, he was given stale dried meat in one home. His entire stomach

was twisted. Luckily, he didn’t lose the gift of dirty swearing — he hardly managed to

have cursed the death that clung to his guts.

Aldekey threw Mamyrbai’s grey fur coat trimmed with a dark solid fabric at the sleeves

on his shoulders, pulled Mamyrbai’s fur hat on the head and tied ribbons under the chin

and began to have tea at full pleasure. When Akbilek saw that the guest was treated with

such respect she made tea of the best blend and put expensive sweets on the table. That

was enough for vicious reflections of decrepit Aldekey: “Aqsaqal’s daughter turned out a

sweet woman. It’s a pity the Russians used her!”

After drinking tea and warming old-age ache in the bones, Aldekey started to amuse the

widower with all sorts of tales – he had to work somehow the lamb sent to the slaughter.

And while the meat was being boiled his mouth didn’t shut. He spoke particularly about

the following:

—Aqsaqal, you’d better find a half for you for the sake of your kids so that they wouldn’t

pine without maternal care.

Aqsaqal looked at Akbilek and said:

—Oh, Aldeke! What’s the use to take a woman late in life?

The afterword could be guessed in his reply: if I marry, then I’ll do it not in my own will

but merely obeying the good advice of compassionate people, well, make a match for me

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and then I yield. To find a woman for myself is so embarrassing in the children eyes!

—Er, what are you talking about? You still stand firmly on your feet. Although I’m

toothless, I sleep with my Salima only with our arms around each other. I’ll tell you,

without a woman you live anyhow — and he started to talk the same incentive tales. —

Who would you like most of all, ah? To take a girl is no good for you. A girl is like a

bird, she enjoys fluttering. Some hardworking widow would be a perfect fit for you, — he

began to sort over the names of the widowed women.

As if he guessed Aqsaqal’s secret thoughts.

After morning tea Aqasaqal cloistered with Aldekey in the corner of the shed and they

talked about something for a long time. About what who knows? Aldekey’s horse saddled

stood in front of the gates. Finally Aqsaqal ordered the servants:

— Hey, help Aldekey to sit down in a saddle.

Aldekey came and left but a miracle has occurred: Aqsaqal started treating his daughter

as if nothing had happened. There appeared warm notes in his tone when he talked to her

on domestic or other matters: “Dear, do this and that should be done such way!” Akbilek

has come to life and father as if has risen from the dead for her. She eats as if for the

future use now and her face has brightened.

***

Brittle twigs of rime are melting on a window pane and trickling in tear-droplets. Icy flies

are floating in a puddle on a window sill. Winter sun has stretched with white rays to a

prayer rug spread at the back of the room. Two young persons with their heads down are

sitting at the window. They’re sewing and whispering secrets. One of them— Urkiya bit a

blue shred and is pulling threads out of it. Akbilek laid out a small camisole on her laps

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and sews silver buttons to it. Behind them in the corner little shaggy Sarah is cutting out

jerkily with scissors a dress for her doll. Akbilek turned to her and called: “Come up to

me, dear!” Little sister came up and stood straight before her. Akbilek put the

embroidered camisole on her, spread stretching a hem and flattened its chest. The kidling

is glad to have the new camisole. And the elder sister is pleased with her sewing. They’re

smiling to each other. Joy overfills the girl and she throws herself on the neck of the

beautiful sister and hugs her very tightly. Akbilek kissed her on the cheek and ordered:

“Dear, wear it neatly, don’t dirty it!” How the embroidered camisole matches her!

Only Urkiya’s face is impassive. She coughed. She looks at Sarah’s face, tender as a

flower, and pain rises slowly in her chest and stirs. “Oh, this life! I need a little only; I

need such shaggy little creature, what happiness it is! What else in the world can be

sweeter and more precious than a baby? Damn life — I stick up here as a tree without any

leaf. A piece of wood. No flower, no fruit. Why isn’t she given to sew such camisoles?

She would ornament them with sparkling buttons and closings. She would cuddle, press

to her chest, and love so much that she would just eat such birdie! When will her damn

womb come to life, when will her wish be fulfilled? Oh, this delight of maternity, ah!

Why do I have such fever, have I caught a cold?”

When the people speak about children in Urkiya’s presence she immediately gets sick,

she can’t stand listening, a piece goes by her mouth. When she sees a pregnant woman

her empty inside overswells to a break-off. “What else can a woman dream about?”— she

thinks. Wealth and poverty, hunger and diseases, peace and joy matter nothing if you’re

deprived of children. What on earth is dearer than a child? Nothing. When any mother

hits her child in Urkiya’s presence, she gets cold: “What an animal! How could she shout,

threaten with her hand, swear at the child, make him weep?”— she cant’ understand.

Urkiya looks at the little fashionmonger and drowns in her pain deeper. Perhaps, no one

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has ever desired to live for the sake of children life. All her three hundred and sixty veins

have dried out, blood overboiled out of passionate desire to give birth. Such maternal

thirst has tortured her that her heart has cracked as a burnt jug. Even travelers lost in the

desert haven’t such thirst. The whole world is a desert for him. She begs the God about a

baby day and night. Whatever she undertook trying to get pregnant: she went to baksy¹-

shamans, prayed together with pilgrims and Mullahs, spent nights near holy graves, wore

an amulet on her neck, so many times she did donations... and everything in vain. Urkiya

doesn’t fear that her husband will alienate her and decide to take the second wife. She is

faithful to him and not once in especially agonizing minutes she suggested him to bring

tokal² into childless home. At least she will sit with her children...

¹ - Baksy – shaman, healer

² - a second, junior wife when the first wife is alive

—Tomboy, my darling, come up nearer, please — Urkiya calls the girls. — Will you be

my daughter? — and she laps her very tightly.

There’s the question in Sarah’s eyes addressed to Akbilek: “Does she speak seriously?”

Oh, the Creator! Will a day come when we hug our own child too? — Urkiya sighs again.

You’re still young. The God is kind. You’ll certainly hug.

Who knows! If only your wish fulfilled, auh! I want to believe you so much. I had a

dream today. I dreamt that our aul rose to re-migrate. And I saw that two of us fell behind

from the kosh and got lost. We went by a pass and in front of us there’s a rock in a

vacuum between two mountains like on the God’s hand. And a black golden eagle sits on

the top of that rock. Suddenly it darted off and flies straight at us. It flew up and took your

away. “Oh-ah-ah! It’ll tear her to pieces!” — I stand and shout not knowing what to do.

Your dress is fluttering under the golden eagle’s chest and it carries you just to the east. It

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flies carrying you away and soon I see you as a tiny bird. There, far away it began to fall

down and down. “Now it’ll surely tear to pieces, eat, auh!” — and I run jumping from

stone to stone... I run up and see that you’ve turned into a disheveled white nestling.

There’s no golden eagle. You’re sitting on a cliff and gauk. I don’t know where he came

from but I see: that very Duana Iskander, who you told me about, appeared behind you.

he takes the nestling on his arms and goes further. I tell him: “Duana, halloo! Give me the

nestling!” and he gives it to me. I cuddled the nestling with my arm and go...

—Oh, holy men, ah! The dream is very special! How to read it? My God, ah! Will

someone draw me away again? — Akbilek’s eyes rounded with fear.

They interprete the dream this way, explain it the other way. both they mixed up never

guessing the dream. Finally they began to comfort each other: “The dream means no

more than fox droppings”.

Sarah ran to show her camisole to the neighbors and to collect sweets celebrating her new

outfit. Urkiya and Akbilek took a jug with warm water went to sit aside the aul.

It’s windy. The mountains in snow-white garments hung over the aul. In the whiteness

the sheep swarm like black flies. Higher shepherds stand like the birds of prey that raised

their feathers. A thin snow layer of the southern slope clung to the soles. The cold burns

through. A traveler goes putting both his legs apart and a staff widely from the deep and

open to eyes ravine where the silhouettes of horses were seen.

Urkiya and Akbilek, wrapped in chapans, go hurriedly along a sunny mountain shelf.

—...there in that dream we left alone when got lost?

It seems so, — Urkiya replied looking around.

Oh, my God, it darted off at me from above like a bullet?

— Let’s remind: holy men, protect us!

Several days passed from the conversation about the mysterious terrible dream. Since her

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father stopped frowning Akbilek has began to remind her groom. Not long ago Urkiya

told her that Bekbolat was wounded and stayed in the town hospital this time. Then

Akbilek wasn’t inclined to ask about details. She watched father’s mood all the time.

Now she’s in another mood. Besides, everyone who wanted to comfort her had already

amused themselves and left her alone. Smuggles with Urkiya became longer. Although

there were no more secrets... How couldn’t she talk about Bekbolat now? Urkiya

understands her interest to him, lets her speak about him, she doesn’t mind: “Does he still

love, Auntie, or no? Has he changed, you think?” they couldn’t solve this riddle too, had

only guesses and hopes. They asked one guy who used to go to the town, to find out what

and how Bekbolat is. Then they began to wait and look out in the steppe that lover to

hang about the town. A man is seen from afar.

All recent days Akbilek thought about her groom constantly. She’s thought to burning in

her chest. Earlier she has never noticed such abnormal vehemence in herself. All men

older her were only uncles or elder brothers for her, and the guys of her age were nobody

at all. Now, when she sees a handsome man she feels an inexplicable attraction to him.

He could stop and talk to her, touch her tenderly and she imagined how she would put her

arms around him and caressed. Vague naked male figures were drawn in her imagination

just in flesh. These pictures made her desperate. She tried to evoke aversion to them

inside her but it was far from it. “Oh, holy me! What is it with me? What a shame, auh!

Am I really a corrupt?! Is that because I’m woman now?! — she was astonished with

herself. — Do all women have this in their thoughts? I guess I’m one of such kind...” She

wanted to talk about it with Urkiya but a fear that someone else will know about her

shameful fantasies stopped her. Let her better think of me as of girl who grew before her

eyes.

With each passing day, every night a desire to be in the arms of the groom grew more

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intolerable. When she recalls him — jumps up from a place, jigs up and down —

whispers his name, but the name of this name is fornication. When she is home alone, she

curls up here, stretch herself there, stretch and stretch so that her breasts erect... she closes

her eyes and sees him in her dreams... She embraces, kisses... And the heat seemed to

chill down a bit. When she sees Urkiya, asks at once:

Is there any news from the town? My God, why is he so long? — as if she swore to

Bekbolat to wait for him so desperately.

Nothing is heard... Who knows what they are doing there— Urkiya responds with

suspicion.

But Akbilek doesn’t understand hints.

—Why doesn’t he let to hear from him?.. Why does he force to worry about him?.. After

all we, girls, do care about something!

The night is falling. It’s still early to light a lamp but the house is already immersed in the

twilight. Akbilek, all alone, lies on a small rug at the back of the room with her face

nestled in the bent elbow.

—My beauty, halloo! — Urkiya, entering the house, called her. — Why did you lie down

at inappropriate time? Why don’t you light the lamp?

Akbilek replied in a languishing and capricious voice:

It’ll be li-i-it ...

Where’s the lamp? I’ll light it...

Auntie, why are you in such hurry? It’s early, — Akbilek said and rose turning her hip.

Well, we’ll see how you cope without light now! — Urkiya said and, sitting down near

her, stretched her compressed hand. — Well, what do I have in my hand? Guess.

In your hand? Curd.

No.

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Sugar.

No.

—A coin.

No.

Then what? And how does it look?

White.

White, white... Is it soft? Solid?

— I won’t tell this. On the whole it’s a sweet thing.

White, sweet— it’s sugar after all

It’s not sugar but a very welcome thing.

What is it, Auntie?

It’s such a precious thing, the most interesting in it.

Oh, holy men, ah! So what’s it?! Don’t spin it out, speak, Auntie!

Here’s something you’ve been waiting for.

Oh, nice, ah! It’s a letter!

You’ve guessed, you’ve guessed... And I thought not to give it to you, — she teased her

more for a while and gave Akbilek a small piece of paper folded in a sachet.

Akbilek who was indifferent to the light till this moment, jumped to her feet and it

seemed with one touch of her hand she lit the lamp, then placed it on the floor before her

and nearly swallowed the piece of paper full of notes. But she kissed it all for sure. How

could she do the other way if this letter had such desired phrases with fashionable Tatar

words:

“We sent innumerable greetings to dear Akbilekzhan with our full respect. If you’re

interested how we’re doing, then please know that we’re alive and healthy. The wound

was cured thanks to assistance of your elder brother Tolegen. And now we’re at falconry.

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We heard about your safe rescue from the hands of the Kaffirs and we’re very glad...

The time of death of every person is at the skies. I’m sure that your late mother sends you

mercy. Let us be grateful to death, let us be patient whatever troubles occur.

Eagerly we sent our friend Akbergen to know about your health and to express our every

regret. Let it be clear: there’s nothing that can be called estrangement in our feelings. And

we hope that there’s no estrangement in your feelings either. We wish you patience to

survive short-lived days of sorrow. Whatever happens, be strong. Let all of us, you there,

we here, be healthy.

Bekbolat, familiar to you, wrote in pen”.

Such a letter would make any woman dance with joy. Akbilek spluttered with laughter.

—Auntie! How good! — she cried turning the letter in her hands, spreading it and even

without a thought to hide it into a pocket.

— Well, what did I say?

— And where’s Akbergen?

— He’s sitting at our house.

— Won’t he come to me? — she asked and suddenly realized: — No, it’s impossible.

Akbilek developed a deep liking to Akbergen, sure thing! This is because he brought the

letter from her betrothed. He wanted to see him very much but it would look at least

frivolous in her situation.

So what to do now?

What to do? Write a letter too.

And what to write?

You know yourself, write what you feel. Are you ashamed?

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Oh, holy men, ah! What will I write?

He’s leaving early in the morning. Write now. I’ll come to you again, — Urkiya said and

went away.

Akbilek sat down at a handcrafted coffret with unpretentious red pencil “Aton” and

several sheets of paper. She put the book “Kyz-Zhybek” under them, then lay down on

her back and bites the pencil. It has written on its own:

“Dear..” and “if you want to know how we’re doing..” and of course, “.....”, and then—

there are no words. If to be more precise, an anthill of words was whirling at the end of

her tongue but she couldn’t choose the proper words. First she wanted to write about

many things, then she decided to be reserved and laconic. Anyway, no matter how many

sheets of paper she would fill with writing, all the same she couldn’t tell everything that

had happened to her, everything she had felt and thought over. She licks pencil’s rod,

pokes with it into paper and gets embarrassed again. After all she did write:

“We don’t have any feeling of estrangement either. When we received so long-expected

letter we wish only for your soonest arrival. It’s written in a hurry, I beg your pardon.

Akbilek”

Urkiya came soon and took away her letter with her.

The whole world has fallen asleep but only Akbilek is entirely in her dreams— she

drowses of a beautiful bride’s appearing. The face is covered with veil and she’s wearing

an airy wedding dress. Urkiya and Sarah are by her side. And now in complete silence

she’s going out of a blooming garden and near the aul she is met like a wind by the girs

and daughters-in-law dressed in red and green. Their laughter, bracelets and earrings are

clinking tenderly. The women shower her with small coins and the aul children are

straight in the way making noise...

A breeze is swaying the veil on her face but doesn’t dare to whip it off at all. Oh, it’s her,

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Akbilek with sparkling eyes who’s going among the girls and daughters-in-law. The

world is waiting for beginning impatiently...humming...voices...

She is taken to the yurt of the newlyweds full of her dowry: carpets, trunk boxes, utensils

and piles of blankets. Akbilek, still covered with the veil, sits down surrounded by

friends. The elderly women come in: “We want to have a look at the bride. Somebody’s

powerful voice is heard: “Open the face!”— and one of the girls raises the veil before

standing Akbilek. Akbilek is as the face of the Moon, as the light of the Sun. the women

are lost in admiration. “Good luck to you, dear! Take a seat, darling!”— Akbilek sits

down again rustling ith the silk hem.

The wedding is over. People go away. Akbilek is in the yurt for the newlyweds...She is

the daughter-in-law. She has the headdress of the young wife on her head, she’s wearing

light clothes. She’s sitting at a wooden bed and shaping a shirt for the husband. Bekbolat

is lying by her side and playing through the strings of dombra. A fine tune of kyui¹ is

heard. It excites her and Akbilek smiling with hot glance is peering at the spouse’s face,

exclaiming in spirit: “My soul, auh!” Bekbolat returns her a smile and stretches his arm to

her. Lost and embarrassed Akbilek comes up to him. The husband embraces her

shoulders and kisses onto her open lips, kisses her swan neck very tenderly. Their eyes

meet. They can’t see enough of each other...

¹ - kyui – kind of music played on the national Kazakh instruments

The morning samovar is already boiling in the house of the parents but the sun hasn’t

peeped in the yurt of the newly weds. Akbilek tries to let the sun beams jump down the

silk screen but the spouse is in a hurry to cuddle her again, to caress. He makes her laugh

and doesn’t let go. “Enough, my sun!”— Akbilek says and gets up. She dresses, takes a

jug for washing and goes to the hills.

The colts are frisking keeping apace with each other. The children are holding foals while

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their mane mothers are milked The girls-maidens are picking kizyak in the aul outskirts...

Akbilek looks at this picture and returns to her yurt without any hurry. She has already

made her ablution and now she’s pouring water on the husband’s hands. She takes off an

embroidered towel from the screen and stretches it to the spouse...

By the evening the husband returns on a pacer with ducks-geese strapped to a saddle and

a falcon on his arm. She’s standing at the white yurt and looking at him waiting...

And now is the time of migration. Akbilek rolled up her sleeves, belted and is taking the

yurt apart. The camping ground is going its own order. The girls and daughters-in-law

have fallen behind a bit. They involve Akbilek riding on a grey horse into their risible

circle. Here the jokes begin and competitions who’s better at singing. So they are riding

in a singing and laughing flock. Their husbands are riding up to them; each of them has a

falcon on his arm...

Akbilek has become the mother. She gave birth to a wonderful boy for her beloved. The

husband is with his friend Akbergen at the falconry of course, and she kisses baby’s

fingers spread apart before her at the cradle. She puts her hand on his delicate spine, lifts

him up to her breast and breastfeeds. Daddy fixed guarding feathers of an eagle-owl at the

head of son’s cradle before going hunting. Now she’s going with the son toward him.

She exclaims: “Daddy, look at your nestling!”— and the baby is already asleep snoring

sweetly. Daddy raises little son high up and breathes up a baby’s smell of heir’s

manhood...

In the morning when Urkiya dropped in Akbilek hurried to ask:

Has he left?

He has, — she replied.

Her haste was explained by the feeling of shame for the fact that she called her groom in

the letter. She hoped she could get the letter back.

- 170 -
 * * *

It seems another four-five days passed. The old man isn’t at home. Akbilek Akbilek is

standing at the window holding Sarah’s hand. The shepherds are driving the cattle into

the sheds, the milkmaids have begun milking. There’s a white spot over the shed’s roof.

This is Urkiya’s kerchief.

Akbilek sent Sarah to call the brother.

Give me your ear, — she started to whisper something to Kazheken.

Really?

What else?

And what should we do?

He’ll stay at our place...

Won’t be it inconvenient in father’s eyes?

No, it won’t, oh-ah! We won’t be together, so what’s bad about this?

We’d better slaughter a lamb.

Honey, ah! What are you talking about? Surely, we’ve always received him totally great.

Akbilek’s heart flies somewhere away and soars. She went into the rooms. She lit the

lamp, then she began to make tea. She spread bunched edges of mats. Next she hung a

prayer rug carefully. All the time she can’t find place for her: is everything arranged,

tidied and if it’s clean in the corners. It looks like her happiness depends on the dust on

the trunk boxes. It seems to her that the samovar is trite, Kazheken’s sleeves are muddy,

milkmaids’ kerchieves are dirty and a tablecloth has fatty spots.

—Dear, auh! How you’ve dirtied the sleeves! If you can, don’t wipe your nose with a

sleeve, don’t be like these ones!

She tried bawyrsaks fried by a cook and says to her:

— You’d better clean your face a bit, auh! —it seemed to her that a slut had a scruffy

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kerchief so she immediately gave her the kimeshek which covered mother’s head, it was

worn not long time though.

She stuck to the shepherds too:

—Is it boring to pasture the sheep in the steppe all day long? The shepherds were struck

dumb: “What is she about?”

— How is it boring? — they answered only.

Akbilek wants to help everybody, to warm everybody like unwise nestlings under her

wings. She wants everyone to be happy as she is. She neither thinks bad of anybody, now

wants to offend anyone. The shepherds’ answers “How is it boring?” she is ready to

explain with the ignorance natural to them and thinks: “What else they, poor things, have

to do if not to pasture and pasture these boring sheep without break in the clouds, without

waiting to meet their love? They get tired and that’s all.”

Evening tea-drinking lasts and lasts and seems to be longer than the whole day. And little

Sarah doesn’t feel sleepy. She stares into the darkness behind the window, hurries the

clock on the wall. She cleared up the dishes, laid the beds for kids and went outside. Then

she went into the kitchen and ordered the cook: “How is the meat? Has it boiled? We’ll

go to bed early, feel sleepy.” When she returned, she bathed with a perfumed soap,

washed the face, underarms and stomach thoroughly. It was a real ritual of purification.

Hiding from Sarah’s black eyes which were following her, she fetched the newlywed’s

dress, folded it into mother’s kerchief and put under her blanket.

While the meat was boiled Sarah fell asleep. Kazheken made himself by the shepherds

and made them tell a fairy-tale about the witch with copper nails. The meat was served.

Akbilek doesn’t want to eat. Still she never gets tired to ask the shepherds to have more

food. By the end of supper Urkiya came.

Auntie, have some meat!

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Urkiya:

I’ll only try it, — she tasted a piece as big as a petal.

After supper Akbilek put Kazheken to sleep and went with Urkiya into the yard and they

began to consult — how she should meet the guest, where to meet him. Urkiya believed

she should have taken Akbilek to her home and to meet the guest there as well as to treat

the newlyweds there. Akbilek, ashamed to come across with Uncle Amir, made an excuse

that she couldn’t leave the children alone at home and refused. However, Urkiya was

right. It would have been so wonderful to sit in the light of the lamp with the promised at

one dastarkhan¹ and to peer and stare into his face! They haggled for quite along time and

eventually Akbilek, after she had made sure that

¹ - dastarkhan – a festibe table, feast

siblings were asleep, agreed to come to Uncle’s house. After all she couldn’t have the

night meeting at her house!

The children saw dreams while Akbilek dressed up the put on the dress and camisole of

the bride, dropped perfume on her body, threw silk chapan over her shoulders and,

moving quietly, opened the door cautiously, stepped over the threshold with her knees

trembling.

Bright moon. The snow glitters like silver. The stars are blazing. The beaten path is seen

vividly between two houses. This path is like the way leading to paradise. It seems — just

make a step on it and you are at the door behind which there’s the most beautiful, the

sweetest and the happiest life. With every step the gates of happiness are nearer. The

heart is pounding deafeningly. Urkiya came half way to her.

Where’s Uncle Amir?

In the mudroom. I’ll arrange you in the distant room.

Oh, Allah, ah! Will Akbilek be bound to sit today by his side? Urkiya opened the door

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wide. When you come up with a lamp to a man sleeping in the darkness, he will, surely,

after awakening cover himself from barely glimmering wick. And here’s the light

flushing straight out of the paradise gates! Akbilek was as if thrown back. She grew

timid, confused — her eyes down.

—Come in, dear, come in!

He isn’t seen. But the entire room is filled with his presence. Akbilek, holding to Auntie,

entered in small steps accompanied by rustling of her dress. She looks – everything

around Bekbolat shines with the dawn’s rays! Akbilek sat down aside. She doesn’t dare to

watch at him, looks down the floor.

—How do you live, sister? — Akbergen first greeted her.

—My thanks to God... — Akbilek could stir her lips faintly.

It got quiet.

—We wish you to learn every good in life that has passed by your mother! Everything is

in the God’s hands, we only have to obey His will. Let everything come right as is

proper! — Akbergen expressed his regret and wishes and threw a glance at Bekbolat.

Bekbolat kept silence.

Akbilek wiped her eyes with a limp silk handkerchief. Bekbolat looks aside silently.

By this time Urkiya came in with a meat dish and put it onto the spread tablecloth in front

of dear guests. They washed hands with water from her kumgan. There’s half of a lamb

on the dish—about a dozen of hefty pieces, there’s a brisket among them— treating

which is served only to a groom.

Akbilek can’t sit down closer and higher to the groom. It seems to her somebody has

already reclined widely between them. So she froze at the door. Akbergen took out his

knife and looked at Bekbolat inquiring: “Shall I cut it?” He nodded.

It’s for matchmaker, take! — Akbergen said wishing to pass first the lamb’s head, burnt

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and boiled to the state of jelly, to Uncle, who sat in the other room.

Oibai, eat, dear! The groom is the first— it should be so, and then we’ll see! — Urkiya

protested.

However, when she saw Bekbolat saying off vaguely, she brought the head to the

husband, pinched off for him a piece for a tooth and returned the dish. They sat in four at

the tablecloth and began eating. Urkiya repeated all the time looking at Akbilek:

—Dear! Sit closer! Why you are so embarrassed in Bekbolat’s presence. There’s no man

closer than he is to you. The soul’s singing, isn’t it, dear? It’s singing so joyfully, isn’t it?

Akbilek swayed timidly and humbly. She made a look she moved a bit while she came

closer neither to mouth-watering mutton nor to longed-for Bekbolat.

—That’s how you should sit nearby, side by side! There are no older people, who you

should be ashamed of your feelings before.

Akbilek understood that the two wouldn’t get off back and moved a bit more. She did it

so desperately that the edge of hem of her embroidered chapan touched Bekbolat’s knee.

“Help yourself, eat”— what else can be said at the dastarkhan? Silence is understandable:

while eating meat, even such chatterers as Aldeke grow dumb. Can anything be

demanded from hiding Bekbolat who arrived in secret? Everything is done in dignified

way, decently. Everybody is courteous, attentive, full of respect to table companion, to

the max! Perhaps you’ve decided that they are eating meat? You’re mistaken, they are

eating something known as “contentment”. This is a strange dish: neither satisfied nor

beaten, you hide shame but pleased.

Bekbolat looked at the bride with the corner of his eye. He sees — Akbilek became more

beautiful. The girlish angularity has disappeared, her shoulders have rounded, entire her is

glowing. The heart pounded boastfully, a smile hides under moustache, such is his

promised bride! Akbilek is shy a bit, her cheeks got rosy. She is embarrassed by the fact

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that his fingers remember the hands of Black-moustached. That puts the tin hat on it —

it’s nothing but shame. Cracked reminiscences about those days in the ravine disturbed

her like annoying autumn flies. It’s clear, Bekbolat fails to guess about them. “And what

if he feels?” — anxious Akbilek sat back a bit smoothing the curl. She looked at

Bekbolat, their eyes met. His eyes told: “I love only you”. Even in the twilight the

undiminishing tenderness overturning into faint was seen in the inquisitive eyes. And

Akbilek’s eyes replied: “I’m ready to give you all myself”. How the flash of love won’t

blaze up in her black eyes as spark appears from a strike of flint against stone. And the

light of undiminishing love filled them over...

After the feast Urkiya took the groom and bride to the doors and with humorous saying

saw them off. The only thing they had to do was to go to Akbilek’s house immersed in

the darkness. But the beloved didn’t even pass the sheds as their legs began to get

tangled. They couldn’t make a step and stood up. The hand of loving man lay down the

waist of loving woman. Akbilek threw back her head defiantly. The full moon shines with

all its might. “If you want to kiss — kiss!” — the stars from the skies said smiling. And

when blade-like moustache touched her honeysweet lips... no, we aren’t able to depict the

entire picture better than the poet Abai did:

Hot breath,

Touch of shoulders,

Fade of fingers,

Vague desire,

Faces in fire,

Silent kiss,

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 Drunkenness...

What about two lovers consumed with desire speak on the narrow bed? What do they

conceive each other? It’s not us who write but they do— up till the very dawn they

whisper: “hush-hush”. This whispering is the pen dashing off a novel, the sea of feelings

is the ink, and the sky of caresses is the paper...

But we won’t listen to this whispering in the dark room like the old toadeaters. You’ll ask

them what they whispered about later, if they tell you. Whatever happened there but

Bekbolat was in the saddle in the morning twilight. Akbilek is by his stirrup. She’s

wrapping herself in chapan and wishes him to have a good and safe journey.

After short meeting with Bekbolat the yearning began to finally lose its malicious

sharpness. It’s understandable: everything that worries now is the most important of the

important. She could only think about what she had in life and what there would be. She

dreamt about the soonest as possible return of Bekbolat. The life has been losing its

colors and everything was black and white... Saying good bye she couldn’t tell him this in

her embarrassment.

One day nausea came up... and in the heart anxiety has nested, that’s it. She felt like

trying the bird eggs. She was astonished with herself. Is it the same like the pregnant

women have? Urkiya heard from big-bellied women and then told about their ridiculous

taste. Everything — long stay in bed and search for eggs, and her changed behaviour—

showed that Akbilek was bearing a child inside. Only five days passed from the night

with Bekbolat. Akbilek complained Urkiya for her indisposition. She has only confirmed

her guess:

I’m afraid, dear, you’ve become heavy.

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Leave it, Auntie. How could I?

Who knows.

But we’ve only just been...

How do I...

Is it seen at once?

When it’s not a month period.

So then, it happened earlier...

If so then there won't be an end to shame...

With each passing day Akbilek has been growing more and more conceived in her

pregnancy. Both the tops of her boots became tight for her and the belly has rounded up...

New worries, new anguishes. She’s not married, you know. She could say to no one that

she had been with her groom. Besides, it depended on which way to look: was it from

him... and what she had to do... Exchanges with confidences have increased. They started

to find a way to get rid of an offspring. Urkiya began to ask half-dead old women how to

cause a miscarriage. This turned out to be possible at a big frightening, at falling or abrupt

motion. Urkiya tried to frighten Akbilek by lumping out of the dark corner: “Hop!” She

made her jump, ride, and pushed her in the belly. It was all for nothing. Akbilek has only

lost her appetite completely. She had weakness in legs, nausea has strengthened. So it was

going on until Urkiya said:

You know, my darling, auh! It seems to me I’m pregnant too. The taste of boiled onion

has become disgusting to me, I feel nauseous, I’m everted... And smells...

What’s for you! You want to have a child... You want to laugh at me, do you think it’s

not enough for me... — Akbilek replied.

What are you about, sweetie, auh! Will I do this!

Urkiya has invented nothing indeed. She sits among the women busy with needlework

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and sews too. Suddenly she jumps to her feet, dashes into the mudroom where she harfed.

The women rush after her and there they told her happy news: it looks like you’ve been

heavy finally. The God is merciful.

Is it seen? — she only asked.

The God will show his mercy, it’s not difficult, is it? — the friends assured sweetly the

woman worn by expectation.

They wished her to be delivered successfully and immediately brought the news over the

aul, no — around the entire county that Urkiya has got pregnant. The well-wishing

women said: “Let her, poor thing, have it” while the people envious to Mamyrbai’s house

said: “Our dead dog would rather have puppies than Urkiya would give the birth”. No

matter how they talked but they kept a close watch on her. Watch or don’t do it — but her

belly began to stick out in a month or two.

***

With time Aqsaqal stopped getting off the saddle. Concerns, matters, trips around the

auls, meetings. And it’s no good for Aqsaqal to hide from people with a look of

disconsolate widower, particularly when litigation and quarrelling among the kinsmen

don’t only disappear but... it seems shaitan has put its hand to this when such things

began to happen around! Besides, it’s impossible to keep your authority if you’re not

constantly worried with your importance, if you don’t express your opinion here and

won’t claim there: not yours truth is but the Most High God’s. Otherwise who would call

you “Aqsaqal”? So, Mameken has to ride out.

What mission he performs— who knows; but this time he went to Aben’s aul

accompanied by a man with a nickname Slipsole. The people don’t visit this aul without a

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weighty reason. And the current Aqsaqal’s trip to the aul was obviously no fluke. Before

leaving he called up the aul barber to put the beard to a fair condition, and then he

demanded a clean shirt from Akbilek. He folded a fragrant handkerchief eight times and

put it into his pocket on the jacket’s chest. He also made a servant to polish the boots

without sparing saliva. Akbilek hadn’t seen such preparations for quite a long time. It

looked like the father was going to visit a very important place.

Aben Matayin’s aul is in thirty versts. The steppe-dwellers usually cover such distance

without hurry making a stop at the relatives or acquaintances. On the whole they get to a

place in about six days. But Aqsaqal Mamyrbai was none of the kind. It doesn’t fit him to

drag like gelt ram. He rode the entire way to Aben’s winter aul, which he perhaps hadn’t

visited for about two years, in one day march.

The houses of Aben’s wintering are built wall to wall in a hollow with a boiling spring.

The bushes are around the spring. A forest surrounds the bushes. The approach to the

hollow is hilly and behind it and the forest there are high white mountains. A reed lake is

between the hills. Aben’s long house is just behind the spring. And there—a solitary

dwelling with a flat roof of his relative the Hodge Satay stuck to the mountain range.

Mamyrbai passed the spring and approached Bai’s horse standing fenced off from the

leeward side. The buildings are in quietness. Just behind the wide approach there’s a

cattle-pen able to house not less than five hundred horses within its bounds. The buildings

stretched along in a solid wall which contained a number of gates on the shadow side. All

of them lead to the cowsheds set apart for sheep and cow calfs. Under a transverse roof

there are horses. And the sunny wing is the dwelling of owners. There are the rooms of

Bai, separate rooms for his two wives. His married children live in detached rooms. There

are also rooms for guests, corners for workers and servants, a kitchen and a summer

kitchen, a cold pantry for storing meat...

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Approaches to the sheds are swept clean. Two horses with roped legs are roaming in a

corral.

Aqsaqal tied his horse to a pole, slapped the top-boot with a whip and moved hawking to

a narrow door that led to Bai’s mansion. Large-bodied Aqsaqal, deep in his difficult

feelings and in addition to them burdened with inexhaustible slime in the throat, entered

incredibly spacious corridor with smooth walls and stood motionless in amazement as a

boy. The eyes of Slipsole who kept pace with him, rolled out like balls and mouth

dropped open since he had never entered such building. They would have stood in

amazement with the mouths open not knowing which of the numerous doors to poke in,

but a young man from servants went out one of them, greeted them and invited them to

follow him. Aqsaqal creaked with the threshold of the door opening before him and

entered the living-room. As soon as he sat down, a servant ran up to him, bowed and

pulled off his boots quickly. Slipsole remained aside motionless as a steppe balbal¹. My

eyes —almost a room-size shoe closet for boots was found there! The floors in the house

were intentionally made a level higher than in the corridor. The wooden ceiling was

smooth roughcast and whitewashed. The bare planking at the door is planed and fitted

perfectly, at the back of the room it’s already covered with felt mats, carpets and blankets.

A fan hangs between two windows at the rear wall. Slipsole thought: is it a mill? In a

niche at the Dutch oven there’s a forged poker, a basin shines with copper under the oven

door. A red prayer rug and two towels for ablution hang from a crossbeam above the

place of honor — tore².

Mamyrbai was placed in the central of three rooms for guests. The room to the left was

already occupied too. Muffled voices were heard.

Night was falling. A young servant lit seven lamps, brought in three long-legged chairs

made of polished birch with carving and put it in the centre of the room. He left but

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returned a bit later with words:

— Bai is coming.

¹ - balbal – a stone woman

² - tore – from the Kazakh – the best

Aqsaqal drew himself together, cleared the throat, straightened a vest, stroke a pose

worthy of noble appearance and froze. Bai came in. Aqsaqal jumped on quickly and

rushed to greet with his arms stretched. Bai said some benevolent words in a deafly heard

voice.

His Excellency Bai Aben was still the first-rate man. The real eagle! He was well-

groomed; the reddish beard is combed on the cheeks, he had saber-like moustache, big

nose, protruded lip, frowned eyebrows. The outlook on the white face was implacable.

His carriage was like the one of batyr¹ of the glorious long-since-vanished times.

Alongside of him Aqsaqal Mamyrbai seems as if he isn’t Aqsaqal at all but just a sloven.

Bai, standing, stretched one after another leg to a servant. That one pulled the boots off

them cautiously and straightened creasy corduroy pants with his hands. Bai poked his

hand between Mamyrbai’s hands stretched to him, passed by him and sat down onto

delicately fabricated skin of black goat.

—How are you? — he asked the only thing.

Aqsaqal in his turn asked Bai about his health, family, relatives and close people, about

his laborious concerns about laymen. He answered all the questions briefly:

—Glory be to Allah.

They paused. Anyway Bai deigned added:

—I wish you reach His grace too!

—So be it! — Aqsaqal rejoiced.

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Bai ordered to a servant:

—Call the people from that room.

He ordered and in a flash a few people appeared. Having heard Bai’s phrase addressed to

him: “Make yourself closer”, Aqsaqal understood that he was the most honored guest

here and put on airs.

Judge Imambai, Aldekey, Musiraly were among the invited guests. The rest two were

their friends. They sat down exactly in this order beneath Aqsaqal.

While the guests were greeting each other, a tablecloth was spread before them.

Bawyrsaks were piled on it. White plates with golden bars of butter were put in two

places. The huge yellow samovar was brought in. Two servants sat down by two sides of

the samovar and began to pour tea into red porcelain cups set evenly on a black tray.

There’s its own order in pouring

³ - batyr – , an athlete , a hero

tea: every fuss is excluded completely. The drink in each drinking bowl corresponds to

the set level and quality. Each one has its address and comes across another one neither

on the tray under the samovar’s nose nor floating in the air above dastarkhan. The hands

of people who pour out tea are in sight, see: clean, diligent and open, have a look because

it should be so. The people sitting at the head of the table were served with thick, dark-

gold tea; the creams are put there from a separate source. Those sitting near Musiraly had

bluish tea reminding city tea-drinking in Semipalatinsk. There are no shoppy people here,

anyone will trick. Bawyrsaks are scattered only in parts in front of such people as

Musiraly and it’s rather difficult to reach butter too. Bai noticed how our Slipsole chased

bawyrsaks like a hungry wolf and ordered:

—Send to that edge.

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Mamyrbai threw a heavy reproachful glance at his man: “Is that you who’s hunting

bawyrsaks there, insatiable belly?” This had an effect: bawyrsaks as sheep in the presence

of the shepherd took a breath a bit.

While drinking tea they had conversation on various topics. That moment when Aqsaqal

only wiped the first sweat from his forehead with a folded handkerchief, Bai turned over

his empty cup showing that he has finished. The rest had nothing to do but to follow his

example.

The dishes were cleared away, the tablecloth was empty. Looking at Bai sitting tightly in

the Kazakh style no one of the guests dared to stretch legs freely. Don’t take liberties.

Only Aldekey was unable to refuse his weakness— drew out of a pocket a black horn

with naswar. Bai made a sign and immediately a servant put a spittoon with dry sand at

the bootom before Aldekey. The same piece of plate was set before Bai too. Meanwhile

such people as Slipsole, if they wanted to put naswar behind the lip, had to run out down

wind to split the coming saliva.

Aldekey began to pour naswar pattering slightly with the edge of the horn against his

hand. Musiraly immediately swayed impatiently as an owl that saw a mouse and stretched

his arm to the horn. Aldekey looked at him indifferently, shook his head and covered a

snuffbox with the entire width of his hand. Musiraly grew confused but he carried on:

—A little bit, a bit only...

—Put your own, — Aldekey closed.

Give me, I say! Musiraly began to cinch and pulled the owner of the desired poison for

his knee.

Here Bai broke on smiling:

—Why does this Musiraly stick to you? — he asked Aldekey.

—I have no idea why this dog has driveled — Aldekey said as strict as possible but he

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couldn’t keep from smiling.

Although Musiraly has lived to see grey hair, he was silly and usually Aldekey doesn’t

tease his peer. Bai knew it but he obviously lacked one comic scene, so he began to egg

on Musiraly himself. And that one understands nothing. So he had to fulfill Bai’s caprice

and Aldekey stretched his neck and started:

—Once our Musiraly traded some small things among the Nogais...

The respectable society smile ready to laugh from their heart.

And that time he was already Boket’s matchmaker. Boket is not talkative person: once

said - once cut. And then Musiraly found another interlocutor for him — Isabai who

worked as an interpreter for the Kalmyks. Well, the people have seen this and say to

Boket jokingly: “Your matchmaker seems not to notice you!” Boket put a good portion of

naswar behind his lip and replied to this: “You can see batyr with another batyr at the

battle field; orator with another orator— at the debates; mullah with another mullah — at

the prayings; and dog with another dog— near the leavings. What else has poor Musiraly

to do if not to be friends with the interpreter? Although he barks in Kalmyk but he barks

and understands barking of the other person, unlike us. That’s all solution.”

The respectable society burst with laughter.

—He’s the one he’s the one, auh! What does he say... And who are you? — Musiraly got

red and began to justify himself but Aldekey interrupted him and started a new tale:

In ancient times a good Khan came with a visit to a bad one. The bad Khan without

thinking asks the guest: “Er, Khan, do your women get pregnant? Do your cattle dung the

ground abundantly?” Khan’s wife who sat in the neighboring room immediately began to

pull a rope tied to Khan’s leg. The bad Khan had nothing to do but to go to his wife. The

bad Khan had a wise vizier. Surprised with the bad Khan’s behavior the good Khan asks

that vizier: “Why did Khan leave? And what do his

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words mean?” Vizier answered: “When Khan asked about women’s pregnancy he wanted

to find out about quantity of your population and when he took interest in abundancy of

the droppings of your cattle he wanted to know the prosperity of your people. And he left

us because he had decided that you were unable to understand his language”. And when

the good Khan went away the bad Khan asked his vizier: “What did the good Khan tell

about me?” The vizier replied: “He praised you”. The bad Khan said then: “Uh-ah, what a

pity! The rope was pulled too early. I could have said something wiser!” Understand and

take a pity on our Musiraly. It’s not his fault that he says silly things. His woman is at

fault— she’s lazy.

—What does my woman have to do here? She’s not cleverer than me...

—I don’t know if she’s cleverer or not. But she was lazy to go with so no one can pull the

rope in time.

The respectable society burst out laughing again. Was it true or wasn’t, but Musiraly

became red in face and cried:

—What an egg-head you’re!

However Aldekey didn’t let the friend develop his so bold attack:

I happened to hear how one known to you Slambek decided to get to one man of God—

the Hodge Zhanabil. All of you know him too. Slambek said the following: “Imam...They

say at the Supreme Majlis one question was discussed and one of the learned Mullahs, the

Hodge Bakhauddin pronounced during his speech a word from the Preserved Tablet like

this: “Zulzhalal!” Another scholar, Taptazani, decided to correct him: “It’s not right to

say “zulzhalal”, it’s better to say— zalzhalal”. Bakhauddin began to argue with him:

“zulzhalal” is correct!” he was offended and suggested: “Let’s see how this word is

written in the very al-Lawh Ahl-Mahfuz!” They looked, it was: “zulzhalal”. Then

Taptazani grumbled against: “Oh, God! It’s “zalzhalal” indeed”! Do we have to correct it

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here now?” And the God replies to this: “You’re right, it certainly is: “zalzhalal”. But this

Bakhauddin— is one of my most faithful slaves. I didn’t want to offput him, so then I

changed zalzhalal to zulzhalal in the Tablet”. So, the Hodge, answer me: is the God able

for a deception? The Hodge Zhanabil answered to Slambek in this way: “When

Grandiloquent Kazybek Kaz dausty¹ died, holy Bek Mysyk came up and touched with his

staff the body three times. He was going to to do this the fourth time but somebody

gripped his arm: “Have you gone mad?” Then holy Bek Mysyk says: “You’ve stopped

my arm in vain, auh! Now Kazybek-by’s wisdom will be passed only to three his

generations. Unfortunately, our Slambek, although he was the descendant of Kazybek

Kaz dausty, but he was born much later than those generations noted with the staff. He

isn’t a wise guy as well as I’m but he isn’t known as a fool either. Our old man Musirali

was also touched by the staff but mostly on his head and with all might so that his son and

grandson were born with no brains at all...

The respectable society split their sides with laughter.

Cheeky, unscrupulous, worthless in the Party affairs in the first place because of his

constant corruptibility, Musiraly is an ideal object for mockery. He came to Bai to ask

him to make his matchmaker to return the runaway daughter-in-law to his son, the same

fool like him.

Having played lark over Musirali, Bai cheered and ordered with a gesture to one of

swarthy guys to take dombra. This doltish musician depicted a scene where the Kazakh

and the Uzbek rehashed each other which brightened audience even more. Then, at Bai’s

sign the meathead clutched corners of his chapan and swaying with hems, blowing cheeks

and bulging his lips he began to portray a bird. He flew up to those people who sat below

everyone, circled above them, made dabs and suddenly he put out above Musiraly that

thing which hangs between legs of males. Here everyone caught breath with laughter. The

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meathead disappeared and returned dressed into big-bellied Russian woman. This

“woman” began flirting with everyone talking nonsense, then set forth her back, pressed

the hidden under the hem water bag and let water shower the guests. And again, those

who sat close to the threshold caught this shower but certainly Musiraly got most

abundancy of “women’s juice”. Aqsaqals who sat at the head of the table just waved from

“the womanish christening” from afar helpless to say a word from laughter.

While they were having fun with jokes and tales, the tastiest pieces of fat yearling carcass

that had been put into five-bucket cauldron got ready. The servants whispered something

into Bai’s ear and he went to his rooms. The guests blew the

¹ - dausty – strong-voiced in Kazakh

cobwebs from mind: “Yeah, ah, it’s so funny, ah!”— they relieved themselves, stood for

a while, discussed the weather and returned into the house. then catlicked their hands and

rinsed mouths.

Meat was served in heaps, half of it will really lack eaters. But they weren’t going to send

something form Bai’s table to neighbors who were all Bai’s workers — such was Bai’s

routine. Stretching his hand to the dish with steaming meat, Aldekey said nearly

rumbling: “As Ishan Toktar said: I have everything — what to eat-aha, what to honor-aha

and where to sit with a girl-aha!” Although he was busy chatting but coped with putting

the juicy pieces to his mouth not worse than the others who were tirelessly and

appetizingly sinking their fingers into fat and grabbing meat. Maybe he couldn’t suck his

fingers so often but that’s that — what a glutton is allowed the feast babbler isn’t. The

most important was that with one tricky phrase he, with his mouth full, even managed to

express general enthusiasm: “What to say: if there’s Bai then he’s Bai”.Table companions

supported him chewing and puffing: “It’s impossible to compare! Yes, the Lord gave

him!”

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Yes... The Lord gave him!

* * *

A gelding has a thin-hair tail, if you divide it equally— you’ll get two twigs. It looks like

scorched. Whether it’s the reason or not but it always stands with downcast head. And the

nature hasn’t endowed the animal with smooth chine either. When only you gape and

slack bridle draw, the gelding immediately sits down and pulls its lips to any straw

sticking even from a dunghill. The gelding is raw-boned meanwhile the belly hangs down

massively between thin as sticks legs. Whether you feed it or not — it’s in vain: it’s the

skin and bones. It seems cold blood runs in its veins. It hides its muzzle in something and

dozes. Looking at its heartsick appearance people thought that poor thing was born with

package on its back. But the gelding doesn’t care how dismally it looks. The main thing is

to move hoofs. And what it has to do with a master on it and the master has a flock which

wants to scamper about by all means? Unhurried step changes leisurely step — you won’t

slip. Whatever it be ice or mud. And the shepherd in the gelding’s back as if stuck to it.

The gelding didn’t remember how many years he hasn’t got off it. It also forgot that once,

long long ago, it was a foal and grazed freely in a herd.

Give the gelding a whip— it seems it is licked; such is the impact of the habit to certainly

catch a portion of strikes to its back from a regular rider while pokes to its muzzle are

received from the aul women and boys. Don’t you wander anywhere! But it likes to roam

behind the sheds and fences, to find a petiole in the weeds and to chew it. And it happens

it goes the God knows where. When it’s allowed to stagger restless either its point or

dogtrot, it strikes noone’s eye and you can pay no tax for it. When you sometimes force it

move faster — the belly gurgles – guggles, it looks you’re about to fall in two too. It

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seems to go at a steady pace but the man sitting on it doesn’t like it that much. He’d

rather jumble in a humpbacked araba cart that to gurgle with his gut together with the

gelding. Once you saddle up a cow— you go after cows’ tails all the rest of your life.

The worst wish is known: I wish you a lazy wife, a gelding under your saddle and a blunt

knife. However, the gelding has lived ever after. Perhaps, the shepherds like it exactly for

its striking vitality, we won’t make guesses, but the gelding has gone under a saddle so

far.

It’s not use to rack your brains why we have described a gelding for so long time. There’s

a reason for this, an important one. As we know, the guests of Bai Aben are sitting at the

dastarkhan and drinking tea. Just at this time a greenhorn Koyteke got onto the gelding

and went to snowy steppe in search of camels.

We’re talking about the gelding all the time, however there’s something in people from

hinnies. Judge yourself. The aul of livestock breeders by birth all of a sudden trusts to

flock-masters to pasture camels. Those ones decided that camels won’t get lost and

dragged their feet to sheep that had scattered to all sides, and now: where are camels and

where are flockmasters? By the evening time they began to hold a council how to find

camels. They should have sent some artful guy on a fast horse to skirt in the

neighborhood, while they sat Koyteke on the gelding instead.

Who is he, you can ask me, Koyteke? He’s an orphan, father herded these flocks from

adolescence to the very death, and mother milked Bai’s cows. Koyteke herded goats from

nine to twelve years and when he was thirteen— he fostered cows. The shepherds kept

this simple-minded boy as a pimp: get, set and run. Of course, Koyteke gets it pretty fair

but he is a diligent person, besides he knows: if he disobeys, he’ll get beans from elder

shepherds, so he rushes back and forth as is right and proper.

There’s a piece of felt under skinny Koyteke back and under the felt there’s bony chine of

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the gelding. In his hand there’s a rope whip with a ring on a whip handle. He has a short,

bulging at the seams sheepskin on him and holed shoes made from rawhide on his feet.

He wants to find out camels quicker so he jerks his feet and whips the gelding’s croup

with all his might. But the gelding is hardnosed. The whips for it are like the walk of lice.

Such is out gelding, auh!

“Oh, animal! It serves you right!..To your ear!.. Dog’s spawn!”— Koyteke cries and

beats the animal both at its head and neck trying to fasten its moving at least a little bit.

While the gelding with its castdown muzzle kept moving as if on its own: two steps — it

gurgles with its milt, two steps — with liver, it’s a pacer and nothing else! It doesn’t care

the boy turning on it, oh now he beats, there he’s angry, swears and curses and he pinches

already in complete strengthlessness... The gelding doesn’t turn a hair. Having moved

around and about Koyteke grew wet entirely, his arms and legs hang out for the count.

But even now he doesn’t stop his chucks. Finally he rode up some hillock and saw about

five black shaggy spots in the distance. He sent the gelding there by beating it at the back

of its head and at eyes again. Still the gelding didn’t fasten its pace. Koyteke only broke

the whip at its bones and had a fragment of whip handle in his hand. He got off the

gelding and began looking for the whip’s rope that had flown away. He skirted there,

looked in here but can you find the frayed rope among dried up grass?

A new era started for Koyteke and the gelding with the loss of the whip. The triumph of

dock-tailed animal reigned finally in it. Importunate attempts at its sinewy sides have

become ancient history. For a long time its skin won’t be touched by this things

flickereing like a fly thing. Difficult times thundered for Koyteke. You can’t give a smash

with a fragment of the whip handle at the horse body, a blow will be trifling. Meanwhile

the gelding kept on slowing down its movement at the uneven steppe. With such pace it’s

impossible to get to those seen dark silhouettes. The greenhorn jerked on the gelding’s

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chine and twisted his legs, he yelled and swore and beat and got angry – all was in vain:

the gelding paid no attention. He had to go on foot. He was in such hurry that even didn’t

notice that the black night started inevitably absorbing all space around.

Koyteke climbed up the hill here, rolled down the slope there to the hazy mountains. He

went with difficulty but tried with all his might to make long steps. The roughly sewn

shoes were loosely on his feet, soles slipped like in icy stones. Anyway, he went on

without stop, climbed up and dragged himself along and further. He seemed to sweat. He

took off tatter hat and carried it in his hand, untied the belt on his gaunt coat. The walk

was quite the thing. It has warmed him up properly. The whole body was itching; prickly

perspiration was dripping on his forehead. When he felt that his head was entirely wet he

put on back an old malakhay on it. So he dragged himself along, moving his feet. You

have nothing to do if your body and soul keep together. The snowstorm began. It was

good of him not to take it into his head that the feet would have to go oodles, so he didn’t

stray or get lost. A long way, oh, what a long way it was but none the less he came across

a muzzle stretching to him on a long neck. He shrieked in surprise: “Get away, snoot,

what a shock!”

“Where has this one come from?!”— camels felt alarm but then they saw it was only foot

little man and splattered mockingly and in amazement: “Yzh— yzh!”— and after they

turned away their necks they began to scatter around by leaps and bounds disturbed by a

crunch of Koyteke’s trashy sheepskin. He had to bring them down in a pile. It was bad —

there was no leader among the camels! Oh, what long-necked dogs! When you catch one

humpbacked and begin to turn it— the other one has already run aside. They have run the

little man so heavily that his soul has nearly kept together with his body. He brought a

flock together and drove it: “Get you lost, the dog’s spawns!” We have to admit— he had

the grounds to treat camels so unkindly.

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When Koyteke turned, only then he realized that way he had already made. His feet were

beaten up and bleeding, every step hurt him. It’s dark and stormy. But there was no other

way out as to limp on trying not to lose the shoes going up. A halt wasn’t going to happen

while the legs grew icy and pattered as wooden ones. The ice from legs rose up to the

entire body...

Shivering and clattering with his teeth Koyteke is driving camels to the aul.

Just at this time the respectable society was eating fat meat to their full at Bai’s warm

house, they were scoffing at Musiraly and the dolt was running like a big-bellied woman

with his vulgar scenes and the guests, relieving themselves under the awnings, praised

Bai: “Yes, the Lord gave him!”

Koyteke brought camels home and entered, freeze solid, a stinking store room. A flock-

master instead of sympathizing: “You’re frozen, poor thing!” ganged up on him with a

shout:

—Where’s the gelding?

Koyteke wiped his white, whiter than white, face with unbending fingers could only reply

through coughing:

—There... remained.

—Damn ragamuffin! Why did you leave it? What if the wolves eat it, what will you do?

— the shepherd began to lash him with words roaring.

Koyteke only gasped in reply. Hopelessly he tried to warm up at least a bit and flaked out.

Grind the hard thing with a grindstone, and roll the soft thing with a palm— this would

seem to be the simple true. But only his poor mother approaching the son followed it:

—Koyteke? Have you eaten? Why are you lying?

When she heard only a quiet whining and tap of teeth, mother hurried to lie down near

her son and cuddled him as tender as she could.

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The son nestled his face against her breast and began to sob brokenly. “Poor, poor you

are, my poor son, my poor son!”— mother began to wail shuddering.

Koyteke didn’t get up any more.

In a week four workers dug out a grave in one of the four corners of an old entombment

and buried the body of poor little man at dawn.

When Aqsaqal Mamyrbai went outside in the morning, he found Bai Aben standing in

astrakhan coat with silver buttons and hurried to shake his hand. Bai was watching how

three his guys were taking care of a crow stallion. A horseshoe went off so they were re-

horseshoeing. Having shaken hands, Mamyrbai stood next to Bai and wondered:

— Did a horseshoe go off?

Bai, without taking his eyes off the stallion hooves, made only a sound:

—Er!.. — like, what don’t you see it yourself?

One of dzhigits was holding the stallion at its ear and bridle, another one was holding its

bent leg, the third one — a master was removing fragments of nails from the hoof. He

wanted to hammer one nail out but Bai didn’t allow:

—This won’t do. Draw with pliers.

The nail sat deeply but it was easily removed with pliers.

—There are nails for hoofs in the white box in the bottom drawer of the cabinet of the

large room. Go and take six nails from the hostess! — Bai ordered to one of the guys.

In next to no time the dzhigit returned. As soon as they started to hammer nails the

stallion began jerking and spinning on site. Bai got tired of bush-leaguers and had to

finally take the matter in his hands. He bent to the hoof and pointed:

—Don’t hurt the joint! Don’t hammer in straight, fix the nail aslant!

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So the cack-handed blacksmith acted not thinking to contradict to Bai. The rest two

people held the stallion stroking it on its neck, croup: “Stay put, my animal, stay put!” —

they tried to calm it down. The shod horse began kicking with hoofs, gave a start.

“Careful! Watch with your eyes!”— Bai huffed and puffed. While they were making a

fuss around it, the stallion freed itself from hopples.

—Why did you untie it, you fool! — Bai yelled at the boy who was holding the stallion’s

legs.

The dzhigit smacked his tongue in annoyance and rushed under the horse’s legs:

The rope broke.

What rope is it? Come on, show it!

Bai looked over a patch stretched to him and yelled:

—Whose rope is it? Rubbish! It’s not our leash!

The worker holding the head of the excited stallion explained that the proper rope was

used for loop of uquruq¹ pole — quryq, and this one was the rope of the shepherds:

¹ - uquruq – (here, quruq) a light pole with a rope or lasso and a loop, used to catch

pasturing horses or other animals

—And where has lasso from quryq gone? Why wasn’t it taken off from quryq? Why is

everything in the wrong place?

He was replied that horse herd wranglers had taken it to catch horses. Bai didn’t calm

down, he kept asking:

—Who tied the leash to quryq!

He was told a name.

Son of a bitch!

The guys understood that there wouldn’t be life for this son of a bitch and went quiet.

Everyone knew well that Bai said such words in the minutes of special anger which led to

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the most terrible consequences.

As soon as Bai deigned to be angry, Mamyrbai hurried into the house out of harm’s way.

He hid there and thought that it was too shallow for such Bai of whose hands a heap of

people ate, to fly into a rage because of some rope. “What a captious man!”— he thought

in surprise that Bai looked out for every nail.

However, we don’t need to hunt for drawbacks in Bai Aben Matayin’s character. He has

always known what he does and all his whims are a part of his advantages, and they are

far from being shallow.

Bai Aben is known to everyone, it may be said— famous, along with this if he needs to

understand something, to master it, then he can be a pupil to the man who knows more

than he does. He’s equal to equal and for those who are below him — he’s the

indisputable head. He can give artfully, take secretly and punish severly as well. There

are any intrigues he’s unaware of because he’s a shrewd man. There are any important

people among neither the Russians nor the Kazakhs able to trick him or get to windward

of him. If he begins to wheedle just the important person then he does it with such

delight, generosity and clinginess that he certainly will drive this person to real

midsummer madness. The person will sign everything and agree with everything.

Meanwhile he never asks anything openly but brings the talk in such a way that the

wheedled man will offer him everything he needs. As for the small requests, then Bai

assigns his confidants to express them. For this reason they are raised and learned his

sayings: “for the people sake...For the sake of the Kazakhs...For the sake of orphans,

infirm elderly people...”They were trained to irresistible courtesy and ability to butter up

finely. Since Bai has lack of time to engage in penny antes. He gives an order briefly: “To

do this way and to say that way to this man” — and that’s all. Everyone whether he be

By¹ with his judge cases or the volost official with his vexatious papers, aspires to bring

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as soon as

¹ - By (or Biy) – the judge sorting out dispute under customary law of the Kazakh

possible his well-turned, measured, warmed up information, to put “ready dish” before

him. And there Bai decides whether to use it or to fry it more.

After breakfast especially close people went for a walk and to talk separately, some with

Mamyrbai and the others with the Judge Imanbai. In two-three hours they came to

common decision the essence of which was as follows:

Mamyrbai terminates the marriage contract. The Dower given for Akbilek is returned to

the matchmaker because he’s our enemy now. Akbilek is no more Bekbolat’s bride; she

should be found another place.

Imanbai has to separate the widow Orik, who is under his auspices, with her two children,

take her out of his aul and sell to Mamyrbai for six cows or horses. One animal is to be

passed to Bai Aben for winter slaughter as a sign of gratitude.

The Dower cattle for the widow is to be divided. The half of cattle and two children to

give to the realatives if such are found. The second half of the cattle let be shared by her

well-doers.

Aqsaqal Mamyrbai’s offender — Mukash — will be punished by Bai (what punishment

it’ll be, will be decided later).

Thus the time spent since last night hasn’t been wasted, everything has found its solution.

The Lord gives it to Bai! As people say: “When the God gives — catch what you can”.

In vain wish the Kazakhs the oaths of matchmakers to be everlasting over sacrificial

lamb. What eternity it is, if it’s possible just to refuse from the matchmaker? But all the

same, they will carry on swearing and wishing because the oaths and wishes sound

beautiful and hearful.

And next. Separation of mother and children. Those who dare - even rebel: “The tears of

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orphans, the widow’s tears...We need justice...It’s a sin... There’s the God...” Tell for the

sake of Allah what is widow Orik’s fault? Why her two children have to suffer far away

from the mother? Why did Koyteke die insultingly absurdly? Why should Akbilek and

Bekbolat

separate— when they nearly touched with their lips to creams of true love?

Where’s truth? Where’s justice? Where’s humaneness? Where’s the God? Where’s the

judgement? Choose, innocent souls. The wolf doesn’t think.

Father of Slipsole who accompanied Aqsaqal Mamyrbai in his trip to Bai, was famous for

herding sheep and he had a corresponding, doggish name — Itayak. And his father was

called Bakyrash. And nobody remembered the name of Bakyrash’s parent. That is why

Slipsole was considered to be a slave without kith or kin.

Slipsole is a swarthy man with little hair on his chin, his arms and legs are like sticks, he

is a milk-toast by his nature. He herds horses, mows grass and doesn’t intrude a

conversation of decent people waiting for meat served. He’s about forty or so but he’s

still unmarried. The reason is simple. He hangs out between women in the kitchen so the

fame has spread of him as of woman in the aul.

On the returning from Aben’s aul Urkiya and women began to ask Slipsole:

—What did the master do there? What did tey talk about? Slipsole started to tell

thoroughly how fat meat was served, kazy¹ had four fingers, and it was so much of it that

it was impossible to eat. Then in all details he told about funny “big-bellied woman”. At

last women couldn’t stand it and began scolding him:

What a milk-toast! An eagle! Do we ask you about big-bellied woman?

What do you want from me? I tell what I saw... — Slipsole confused covering his head

just to be safe.

It wasn’t on with Slipsole. They began staring at the master. Judging by his cheerful

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satisfied voice, there is an impression that he certainly huddled a big job through. And the

next day it emerged that Aqsaqal intended to marry again about what he announced to the

invited respectable men of the aul. The relatives expressed their joy and wished all the

best. They hinted that they had wanted to tell him this wish long ago but somehow there

hadn’t been an occasion.

¹ - kazy – abdominal or rib horse fat; it also is a gourmet dish like sausages from

abdominal and rib parts of a horse carcass

Is it possible to hide from the women what the men heard? This conversation flew up to

ears of Akbilek who hadn’t been in public at all. She was immediately hurt that the father

didn’t even wait for the yearly commemoration of the mother’s death. But how can you

object to the father? She began to calm herself down with the thoughts that it was

conditioned by the care about orphans, that the house was without the hostess... if only

new wife were a decent person. Though... anyway: mom won’t come back, why to suffer

it particularly? Besides, when she has her own sorrow on her heart, does she care— when

and who the father is going to marry?

In less than a week five distant relatives of widow Orik turned up for the Dower. The

same old By Imanbai headed them. The sheep was slaughtered. They ate the proper for

this ceremony black-and-white dish “kuyruk-baur¹” which symbolises a lot, we should

say. The next day they went away taking three cows, a horse, one yearling and a camel.

Mamyrbai sent Amir with three friends and his son Kazheken for the woman. In two days

in the evening of the third the new mother was brought for Akbilek.

The aul women cleaned in the house, swept all corners, tidied the carpets, cooked shasha

— tasty trifles. They went to meet her, saw off to the house, brought to the upper room

and with wishes: “Let great happiness accompany you” showered her with coins and dry

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sweets.

The stepmother was seated next to Akbilek. She sat firmly as if she never got up from this

place. Sarah settled on Akbilek’s laps, the father was sitting with men at the place of

honor. The women pulling the kids behind them crowded the house.

Akbilek squinted eyes at her new mother. She was a swarthy woman with direct gaze

from behind thin eyelids and curved eyebrows, nose is short. She’s sitting swelling, with

flaunting air as if night and day she thinks of something out of reach for the rest.

Akbilek’s heart grew cold. Sarah hid herself behind Akbilek and froze in an awkward

pose as a little goat with bulged eyes. Kazheken returned with faraway look. He didn’t

open his mouth, went up to the father and settled in front of him. Aqsaqal looked over

children. What idea shot across his mind— isn’t known, he only ordered them:

—Don’t hover here, get out!

How can the women be silent here? It’s not right to contradict the master, so they

addressed little Sarah:

—This auntie... dear, has come to be your mother! Come up to her!

¹ - kuyruk-baur or Bauyr kuyryk – one of the most fabourite Kazakh dishes served on

special occasions and certainly it’s necessarily served at weddings.

Having heard the said, the adopted mother stretched her hand to the girl and uttered:

— Come up here.

Sarah shrank to herself, jumped away and hid behind Akbilek’s back. The women began

to clamor with sympathy:

—And how not to understand the little girl? She was made an orphan! — and glanced at

Mamyrbai.

Mamyrbai kept silent. Then the women began to test the newly neighbor and talked to

her:

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—She feels shy... just a kid... She will annoy with caresses then — you can’t tear her of

you.

One of the old women either from pitiness to Sarah or because she forgot that came here

not to mourn the deceased, wept holding a handkerchief at her eyes:

—E-e-h, for all’s the God’s will, ah!

Time is required for a strange person, who nobody had known and heard before, to get

accustomed at the well-handled house. It’s impossible to foretell whether he will settle or

not. And he also can get the former family members under him. The aul women don’t

take this philosophy into account: they decided at once that it would be even easy for

them to tame the newly arrived. Sarah obviously didn’t want to approach the new mother

and that one also seemed not to hurry to show tender feelings. Even if she comes up to

her then it’s seen at Sarah’s offended face that she will certainly take a firm stand, won’t

yield and slack her lips.

Resentment filled the widow Orik’s eyes when she threw her glance at Aqsaqal. They as

if told: “Why did you, the old goat, deprive me of my children, of everything gained, of

my native place where everything was sweet and dear to me? And what do I have in

return— this curled beard?” The local women didn’t strike her fancy either: “Of all

things, what greedy and cruel eyes everyone has! They just stuck to me and are ready to

hound me to death.” Then she thought: “I’d rather be amiable to then. What will they start

with, what piece, what arm will they snatch at?”

After they took out their emotions proper for the first day, the aul women began to break

up slowly. Several men and a couple of close-by neighbors left. And those who went

home were discussing the arrival of the used daughter-in-law.

One said:

—Her eyes are bad as those of heathen, no, it won’t end well.

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Another one echoed:

She didn’t unclench her lips, sure thing, she’s fishwife.

The next one added:

—Listen, she frowned her eyebrows, it’s clear at once what a thing she’s. Well then, not a

big bird, although she’s spiteful, it’s obvious.

Then they began to compare her to the deceased:

It’s even impossible to compare... Cherished memory of her...

And when they estimated how the children would ive now, then said:

Ah, this one is no good for the mother, she’s heartless female.

The women also noted that none of her clan took pains to accompany Orik with due

respect to her new home.

—What does she make of her?

Urkiya poured tea and when she brought the drinking bowl to Orik, she closely followed

her every movement. That one with dead-pan, moved knees together, began to drink tea,

turning away from the present company. Urkiya didn’t like it. She wanted to say:

“You’ve only stepped over the threshold. You could, dear, sit with your face to people

but not with your side and play heaven knows who”. It didn’t come to her mind that she

saw the woman who had recently lived through the husband’s death, who had been

separated with her tow children. How the woman in the mourning should sit — only

sidewise, let her get accustomed! Urkiya imagined that fresh-out-of-the-can daughter-in-

law should certainly strive to please everyone, or in embarrassment offer herself in the

role of the woman drinking tea, or at least sit and keep watch whose drinking bowl is

empty, to whom it’s necessary to move a plate with butter, where to wipe with a cloth...

you never know how many worries the new mistress has!

When all the guests left, the neighbors began to make bed for the newlyweds. The elderly

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matron started to fluff up downy feather bed of Akbilek’s mother, stroke it and pamper.

Akbilek couldn’t stand this: the blood immediately boiled up with indignation. “Is it true

that some disgusting woman will lie down to the pillows of her darling mother?! The

mother would loath to wipe the floor with her. What is it with you? You’re burying my

mother again!” There was pain and yearning next to her heart from everything she had

seen. After defilement of the mother’s couch it began to seem to Akbilek that this strange

woman would encroach on her things by all means, would rob her— no ther way. And

she understood that the enemy had penetrated into their home, the mother’s enemy, her

enemy. Till this insolent night Akbilek went to bed with two children in habitual distant

spacious room. Now there’s non-relative person here and she will go to sleep with the

siblings to walk-through room. The thought that this outside woman has pushed everyone

off their usual, slept-in beds became unbearable to her. And it led her to the vivid line:

now she has lost her father forever.

Akbilek couldn’t close her eyes for long time. Soft steps of father in that room were heard

like horse clatter on the ice. Here he lies down, coughs... Everything is heard — how

necklaces of this woman clink, how water runs out of jug... She covered her head with a

blanket but all the sounds reached her ears all the same. Earlier, when mom slept in that

room, nothing disturbed her ears. Now every rustling, every whisper coming from there

drew her attention reluctantly. What does this woman do with her father? What for do

you want to know? Why are you interested in it? Well, because I’m not a girl alredy and

know for sure what they are busy with. Are the old men able for this too?

Father has always been father for her and nobody else. She couldn’t imagine that he like

any other men... Some weird poses, worthy perhaps dirty animals, emerged in her mind,

some movements of bodies... Father, it’s terrible, ah! Seemed as a lustful male not

ashamed at anything, anybody... She began to drive these pictures away but the other

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ones replaced them. Those, where... in them she was in the arms of Black-moustached...

then in Bekbolat’s arms and she herself wanted men’s caress. Passionately and right now.

Strange to say but she was overtaken by the real womanly jealousy to her father that lay

down with that woman. Loathsome and sticky desires buttered to her lips, to her breasts...

She understood all their unnaturalness, felt deep aversion to herself, tossed about the bed

and couldn’t imagine how she would live such woman. She suffocated not understanding

completely the reasons of awakening of her feminity; her heart pounded... she was

exhausted into oblivion, until she finally fell in either dream or faint.

In the morning the new sprung mother got up earlier than others apparently deliberately

and began to drag about back and forth: she made the bed with loud claps, went out for

the basin for the known needs of her and husband. She did everything smash, with

rumble, showing off. At tea-drinking she sat down not next to Akbilek but settled at the

mother’s place, near father. She put under her a blanket folded four times. Akbilek with

her sister and brother were at the other side of the table. Father was as usual in the centre.

However, it wasn’t clear from his face: whether he approved these replacements or not.

Akbilek didn’t like everything — how she sits and how she gets up, and the fact that she

began to play the hostess of the house, settling certainly at the father’s arm. Not having

desire to address her: “mom”, Akbilek hasn’t decided how to name this woman yet. On

the other hand, how she can’t call her but mother if she’s become the spouse of the father

of her family. Evidently she’ll have to do it just to please... not her... of course but father.

Anyway you slice it, the world considers this marriage quite an ordinary thing so well

then she should consider it so too. It can’t be otherwise, now it isn’t her — Akbilek —

who can onbject to anything or anybody. That was how the things were. And that was the

consolation for Akbilek.

Orik turned out to be hard-working woman: without a pause she tied her belt and rolled

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up sleeves, got into cooking of horse sausages. She didn’t let any woman to lay hands on

inner fat that poor workers got yesterday. The same happened to the most worthless

scraps, with tendons and veins. She ordered to put everything to the master’s trough,

even, milt and larynx:

— Bring everything here! — she made arrangements blowing off her nostrils.

The women looked at one another and, following her with scornful glances, protruded the

lips:

— What a lunatic womb, who’s she!

Whatever the workers did— Orik is there keeping close eye how the carcasses are

butchered, where each piece goes to, how guts are rinsed and how they are stuffed with

any meat. However, no matter how fixedly and severely Orik watched the women’s work,

they began stealing for her spite even the things which they hadn’t encroached before out

of contrition.

Everything has changed. Cattlemen and servants — she pressed everyone, humiliated

everybody by measuring, checking, re-checking, peeping into every pouch, shaking each

hem. She found it necessary. Every shank, any crumb was counted. Orik has brought

innovations into receiving guests too. Earlier in the days of winter slaughter the late

hostess invited the entire aul to her house and treated them with tasty things generously to

the full, nothing of the kind happened this year. At this point Orik and the aul started to

drop away to different sides. And soon the emersed Orik’s unfriends began to mix up

with Akbilek. Albilek trid to bother about two-three deprived neighbors:

Mother, what are you doing? They used to take these things from us earlier.

Stay out of the master’s business! Go and do your things!— she closed and turned away.

And the aul has made its acrid opinion: “The home wouldn’t be rich without her, beggar,

auh! Let Mamyrbai be rich!”

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All this caused even greater hostility to stepmother in Akbilek. Difficult offences have

stored up in her soul. Once Sarah asked the stepmother to give her a candy but she

refused. What made her do this unthinkable act— it wasn’t clear. The girl kept asking and

Orik yelled at her:

—How long are you going to whimper here? Look what a girl are you! — and she

slapped the girl on the back of her head.

Sarah burst into tears and ran to her elder sister. Akbilek kept silent. Soon stepmother

pushed Sarah heavily for no reason saying that Sarah had dirtied a floor covering with her

feet. Sarah burst out crying again. And again Akbilek kept silent. In a day Kazheken get

to a lamp accidentally and it fell down scattering in glass. Orik hit him on the shoulder

but she went an extra along with this:

—Featherhead! Oh, damn you! Have your eyes fallen out, you wooden-headed? Plague!

— and she carried on cursing and swearing the youth with the most terrible words.

Here Akbilek, who has never ever before heard such nightmarish curses, boiled up and

couldn’t stand it:

—What thing has he done? What has he done? How can you curse the child this way ...

Aren’t you ashamed of neighbors?

At once Orik interrupted her with her yell:

— Shut up, witch! What do you care? Why have you got in here! You think, if he isn’t

my son... I can curse, not only curse, I have the right to throw him into the fire and there’s

no man who could stop me! Don’t ever dare to plead! Pfuff! Look, her brother! — and

she carried on, went on.

—Oh-ah, auh! What a shame! The people will say the wife of such man... — Akbilek

tried to say something else.

Orik chirped even harder:

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—So what that I’m the wife? Do I disgrace him, do I start merrymaking? Do I lie to him?

Thanks God, my right hand is clean and my mouth is as big as thimble! And if I’m here

then not on my own will, by the will of the Lord. And what do you fancy of yourself, you

are outworn-played out one. The God showed mercy on me and didn’t let become the

Russian bedding like you, God forbid! — and so she dirtied with mud that if a white dog

had got to her mouth — it would have come out the balck one.

Akbilek grew numb, sobbed and hurried to go far away from her. Shedding floods of

tears she went to Urkiya dragging Sarah by her hand. Auntie Urkiya cuddled sisters and

began to stroke and pity them.

—Stop it, sweetie! Well, stop at last. Why have you got through with this disaster? She

saw nothing except for mud and crud — she tried to comfort her nieces.

But Akbilek heard nothing, remembered the late mother and cursed her orphan destiny,

her shame, and her defencelessness. She repeated that such was her fate: to be insulted by

everyone, outcast both by people and the groom...

— Unhappy, unfortunate thing! Is there anyone unhappier than me? I wish I had died

than to live this way! — she was agonizing in Antie’s arms.

Enchanted by running floods of tears, Urkiya began sobbing too. And they began to weep

together to exhaustion and cried themselves out.

In the evening with the words: “Father will find out— it’ll be awkward” Urkiya brought

Sarah and Akbilek with red eyes and swollen cheeks back home to the parent.

Didn’t father see how his children suffer being offended by destiny already? If he saw,

then you’ll certainly think he became indifferent to them. Yes, in some way you’re right.

Do you often find a man at home? Mostly he’s at pastures, cattle and shepherds need

thorough watch or care. Especially such masters as Mamyrbai are used to stamp with

their feet more at the hayloft, in the corners of the sheds, at the dunghills than at floor

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boards of the house. And how’s wife, how are children — it’s not so importnat, they live

somehow. There’s hostess at home and that’s enough. And the master should be with the

workers. Since everything should be performed properly and timely. And he doesn’t have

any time for any gossips and quarrels, even if they’re under his roof. And when a man

notices something by chance, he pretends he understood and guessed nothing. Why?

Because he thinks the words of wives and children are mere words and their pretensions

are trifles. He’s sure that “woman will bark to her full and shut up, and children are

children to sob”, such is a column of a fireside! The grown sons look at the fathers and

imitate them. Clear thing, Kazheken also preferred not to deal with the stepmother. So

Akbilek remained lonely.

Oh, sisters, ah! Don’t believe the men’s promises in the sublunary world. You’ll drive

yourself to bonds! Oh, kids, ah! Let your mothers live long while you grow up and until

you are firm on your feet! Sorrow will pour with your immature blood into the child’s

heart. Oh, green shoots, youth, ah! Who gave you proud hot heart? Who breastfed you,

nursed you, lulled, kissed, guarded and stood for? Mom... Mommy... Kind mother. If

we’re able to live, if we have conscience and shame, then we, children, when recall father

once, should remember mother ten times. Let’s bow low to our mothers that raised us!

We wish many light years to mothers! Take care of yourselves, children .

When he heard one day how Orik shouts at the children, Aqsaqal noted:

— Woman, enough! What’s the necessity to scold children all the time?

But Orik didn’t stop in the side room as if she heard any menacing question of the master.

“What will he say now?”— Akbilek thought with a timid hope and sent offended by

stepmother sister weeping tears to father. But he said only:

—Hey, woman, ah! Damn you!.. — and he turned away carrying on his calculations and

re-calculations.

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Frankly speaking, Aqsaqal felt awkward to teach the wife properly. He was elderly man,

she is about eighteen years younger than him — even more than a mushel¹. Death will be,

if she suddenly awards him with horns or just will give a usual dusting. What’s nice if

late in life he’ll beaten by his own woman? But the most important, she is so artful with

the entire household, so thrifty that it’s a pleasure to look. So why would he row with her

over trifles? If there hadn’t been this woman, would his home have stayed home? To

marry — means to live and to gain. And to bicker with the woman every hour — it’s a

shame in people’s eyes again. And Aqsaqal had nothing to do but to turn his pretensions

onto Akbilek: “What, she doesn’t understand my situation, does she? Doesn’t she feel

sorry for me? She couldn’t have sent children to me, what would have happened? Why to

push me to women’s needles?”

After that argument Orik decided to get rid of Akbilek and began to fulfill it without

putting her venture away for later. As soon as the lamps were turned out, Orik started to

whisper something to Aqsaqal and he seemed to agree with her: “Eh... er... eh...” This

talebearing concerned Akbilek mostly. “Your daughter doesn’t take me for human. If

something happens — she won’t bring water. She pits children against me as if I’m their

enemy”— she told stories against Akbilek, reminding everything and of course, fibbing.

At first Aqsaqal took hold of himself: “Leave it! Is she an unreasonable child? She can’t

behave this way” — but gradually, listening to tales about Akbilek’s intrigues, he began

to doubt and think: “Why does the woman repeat the same things? Perhaps, there’s some

truth in it”.

The bare steppe froze under the white shroud. You can neither walk, nor stand or sing.

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Here snowstorm passes along it whistling, there cutting to the bones frost creaks, there

white mist roams swaying fringe. Hurry to wrap yourself tighter and

¹ - mushel – (ethnic) – ancient enumeration of age in twelve-year cycle

quicker run to the warmth, home. Even animals hid in the holes. The doors open

unwillingly, with shrill moaning. When only the door fold opens wide, immediately drive

in two Araba carts of severe cold. Cow calfs go out of the cowhshed complainingly. The

black muzzles don’t like the ice needles. When dark-haired man steps out and in one

breath he turns into an old man with grey beard. The women and children don’t poke their

noses outside, they rarely see each other except they go to bring water. The men are busy

around the cattle, they don’t open mouths either. Snowy winter is a gloomy sorcerer. It

pressed everything alive and wailed in wolf howling. The human settlement only barks

cowardly in reply. It seems winter takes revenge on a man, what for? God knows! Shiver

like in front of the most terrible enemy. Snow…snow…snow’s everywhere.

In close, cramped space of winter days the only thing the women do is tracing and luring

each other with mysterious signs and start gossiping or quarreling with all their hearts.

Orik succeeded quickly in this occupation. How did she manage to gather around her the

most disgusting scandalmongers in a month or two?! She didn’t get on well with Urkiya

at once, they seized at the topic of courtship. And how she felt, how she realized that it

was Urkiya who pushed Akbilek to a meeting with her falcon? The only coming of

Urkiya made Orik’s mouth bubble with saliva. She hissed like a hedgehog. Is it difficult

for the women to find a reason for a good quarrel?

One fine day Orik just flang herself like grinning dog at Urkiya: “Crafty you, bitch, get

away and don’t dare to come up to my home!” — and she began to push her away out the

threshold. She did. Urkiya gave her back as good as one gets. She went along the aul and

told everything she thought about widowing sister-in-law in a loud voice. There were the

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people who were sympathetic to Urkiya’s complaints; there were those who ran

immediately to Orik. Thus, Mamyrbai’s aul split into two strong female parties. Orik

headed the first one knocking it up of almost begging women; the second one consisted of

firm majority of hostesses that stood under Urkiya’s and Akbilek’s flags. What else the

poor have to do but to toady Aqsaqal housekeeper. They crept and if they managed then

ate from Mamyrbai’s table.

When it comes to the parties, then the principle of ruthlessness works. The most

unthinkable, nightmarish fantasies and slander were brought into play. They sort out the

bones of every single person—every chip, each spot was made bare and lit up. The

women digging so hard couldn’t but know about Akbilek’s pregnancy. Having heard this

news Orik was so glad as if her former husband revived and returned her own children. I

should admit, most of all in this world I wouldn’t like to see in my own eyes how two

women are at war. If enmity between two women arises in full height, then keep away:

there’s neither place for shame nor for conscience or the human face under flying fluff

and feathers. The mouths are sores, the souls are stink, they will heap so much incredible

mud that you only be terrified. If the woman got to sting, then scorpion has only to clasp

its tail. The woman, until she’s alive, doesn’t forgive anything.

When Orik knew that Akbilek had a child under her heart, she exclaimed:

—Ah! I see, she’s sighs, puffs, strives to fall aside all the time. I thought she took after

her mother... she didn’t fasten buttons of the camisole... that’s why chapan is always on

her...

Now she had to get closer to stepdaughter. Orik began to behave as if she doesn’t

remember evil things at all. She talked to Akbilek warmly, tried to please her as she

could. Akbilek understood nothing and only was surprised with the changes in

stepmother.

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Once Orik told compassionately to Akbilek who was going to go out:

—You’ll get cold to belly, fasten the buttons!

Akbilek wondered: what was it— a catch or a real concern. She retreated into herself

more, slammed with her eyelids gloomily and sadly and went out silently.

There’s another case. Digging in the trunk box, Orik came across a square of linen and

she cut a camisole with pleats being careful to take a sort of Alikbek’s advice at this. She

sewed it but didn’t begin wearing looking at Akbilek all the time:

—Dear, your camisole looks like sewn just for me. Let’s see how it fits me in the waist,

fasten the buttons, please.

Here Akbilek finally understood that stepmother dodged and taking the camisole off her

she threw it to her with the words:

—Why do we have to look at it on me? If you want to try it — try it yourself.

Not completely sure in her suspicion Orik got up at dawn, sneaked to Akbilek’s bed and

lifted the blanket a bit. Akbilek felt somebody’s cold fingers touch her belly. she woke up

frightened and cried:

Ah... ah... What... who’s that? — and she jumped up.

Orik hastened to comfort her:

You’ve opened up, so I just tucked in.

It’s clear! Here’s the girl! No doubt, the women told that right!

Why does a humiliated, cornered woman persecute another one, upwards of unhappy than

she’s, with an incredible abandon? What did Akbilek take away from Orik, what did she

deprive her of? Everything seems to remain in her hands, the Dower was paid off. What?

Just the fact that she was sold and the person who bought her and separated with two

children, was no other than Akbilek’s father. Everything inside her broke when she saw

two junior kids of Aqsaqal thought about her children: “What is it going to them now?”

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A bandog works off its malice scratching everything it’s able to reach and Akbilek to her

dismay happened to be at Orik’s hand.

But we won’t depict Orik as an irretrievably rabid damn wretch. Little by little expensive

Bai’s belongings she owned shielded from Orik silhouettes of her far-away children. To

keep an eye for wealth, to multiply it has become a new, exciting sense of life for her. the

original reason for retribution lost its significance day by day and soon revenge in Orik

came off from Aqsaqal and as a self-sufficient feeling has become an art— occupation for

the soul when she has a spare hour. What a pleasure it is to push a falling person! Nothing

can be compared to this sensation, a real beauty!

A man is a beast among the animals. What a delight two-legged animal feels having

found an entangled victim! He doesn’t tear it pieces at once but swaggers. He likes to

torment by a band for everone to see and to gloat and to praise, like – that’s how you

made him! And then, with a heel against the top of the head to tread him in the ground

leaving no traces. It’s particularly pleasant to spifficate with a person who excites general

exclusive admiration with his pure, noble life. Such are organically hard to bear, aren’t

they? Agree with this, why have you become confused? Why on earth any person makes

himself as a perfect man? We should stain him to a state of our kind so that he wouldn’t

stand out.

At the end of winter Orik considered that Aqsaqal had completely come done to her side.

She decided to finally do away with Akbilek and she informed him about daughter’s

pregnancy. Aqsaqal was scared so much as if he saw a grinning bear that reared at its

back legs in front of him:

—Ah! Oh!.. Leave... Leave! Oh!.. Oh!.. — he kept only saying.

But there’s no way for him to wave side! The woman made him believe in all her words

and at the end as if it wasn’t enough for him, finished off him saying that the time was

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ripe to deliver. Aqsaqal was at a loss, he broke into a cold sweat and shrank into himself.

Besides the fact that he hadn’t got rid of feeling of disgust to his own daughter yet which

had appeared in him since the very first day of her return, and no such news falls down on

his head!

The other day he visited Bai Aben and once again confirmed that he wouldn’t give

Akbilek as the wife for Bekbolat and then he visited the right aul and there agreed quite

right with a new matchmaker. However, there was no counter move from this another

place. “I can neither edge her out there nor leave her here. She’s just a burden”— he

thought and preferred even not to call the daughter by name. “If she managed to become

pregnant, she could have aborted a bastard in time. He’s from the Russian. It doesn’t

matter that from the Russian, even if it were the Kazakh, it’s such a great shame all the

same— to deliver a bastard! — Whoever heard of such a thing? What else can be more

shameful?”— he said and spit. Holy men, ah! How to get rid of this one? Where to shove

away so that his eyes would’t see her? Do the people choke such ones? To beat her to

death with stones— let her know what he feels! To bind her hand and foot — and to

throw into water, what will she say then?

Acrimonious desperation has corroded Aqsaqal’s soul. He can’t eat food. He sits in the

shed like a bump in a log. His will has sanded and here his woman turns up and says:

—Your daughter has labor pains!

Mamyrbai’s eyes have become bloodshot and he began to husk: —Drive, Drive her

away... shit! Let her begone, sinner! I don’t want to see her, don’t want to see! — he was

only able to say.

His yell was really short, but what a yell it was! It was able to tear an owl off a branch.

Urkiya turned to be this owl that rushed to Akbilek:

—He drives you away! He wants you to get out of home! Father! Get up quicker! Go

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away! Go away to your man. There are eyewitnesses, they saw him arriving and leaving.

What will we do with you? You don’t kill yourself, do you?.. Noone will clean your

afterbirth here.

It’s impossible to describe how these words echoed in the heart of Akbilek who had

already burnt out and suffered. Nevertheless, she plucked up her courage and, tramping

heavily and holding her belly up with her arms, she toddled away from her own home.

The spring has loosened snowdrifts with a gold shovel. The ground beneath them floated

in puddles with snowy medley. Where are you? Hold on! It’s ordinary evening. Goatlings

and baa lambs bleat in a fuss and rush to the teats of their mothers which don’t keep

silence either. A mess!

Akbilek is laboring among this rumpus and melting like spring snow. She has reached the

fence where Urkiya was bustling among her sheep.

Oibai, ah! Where are you? You can’t! There are outside people at our home!

If so, Auntie, take me aside and choke here, kill! I’m dead all the same! — Akbilek burst

out sobbing.

Leave it, don’t say it so bad, — Urkiya began to calm her down but what could she do?

She took her by arm and brought to a rickety, flattened dugout of Barnet. So the young

women called the old woman living in it. She gave birth to a lot of children during her life

but only one of them has lived to mature years. Now he pastures Mamyrbai’s herd. She is

known as a decent old woman of soul. She sits in her tiny and dark as grave room and

embroiders and sews ornaments at felt mats as well she weaves threads for the whole aul.

There are no presentable blankets in her dwelling. On the floor there’s wickerwork of

cheegrass and every sort of lumber. Urkiya took Akbilek into this hovel and began to

explain the occurred events into the old woman’s ear.

—Oibai-ih! And what will you tell me to do now?!— Barnet exclaimed and started to

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settle a bed of an old mat, shabby floor coverings and torn blankets at the stove Then she

went out and returned with cuts of different fabric, started to sew it into one patch.

Meanwhile Akbilek’s pains lull here and grow there. She isn’t able to sit and it’s

intolerable to lay. She moans and whines with distorted face.

—eh-hey, dear, ah! Be patient, be! Only a bottom of patience you need — pure gold, trust

Fatima, holy Fatima— the old woman whispered her spells, she powdered birthing

mother with ash, sprinkled water at her and stroke her belly relentlessly. When her labor

pains are getting unbearable Akbilek under her breath through gritted teeth begs:

—Fatima, Holy Fatima! Don’t torture my soul!

When Akbilek tries to slide to bare floor, Urkiya puts arms around her from behind and

drags back. But the old woman sends her away:

—Oibai, you should keep away from this! If you hang about here, you’ll be accused too.

What if someone is looking for you and will come in here? — and she saw her off home.

Weak Akbilek, who has never bothered herself with unskilled labor, has agonizing and

long delivery. It seems someone tears with a blunt saw her back and underbelly either

pulls to rupture or twists and presses. Her body burns beyond all bearing and falls into

flaming pieces. In the minutes of pains her every bone aches and crumbles, all muscles

and veins split. It seems all torments of the world are only a sneeze in comparison to her

pain.

No. We men can’t know what a birthing mother experiences. We can only guess that not

for nothing the heavy-with-child-women say that they have stepped one foot into a grave.

Hanging between life and death and seeing soul, almost flying away from her, a woman

can only think: “I’d rather be dead than suffer so much”. So, dying Akbilek falls in a

grave clinging with her glance only at a flickering light of bare bulb in dappled shade.

She asks and pleads Holy Fatima for protection. In a minute a choking loop on her neck

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pulls her up and she cries out the name of the Prophet’s daughter, auh, Fatima!.. There’s

only the old woman near. At midnight, when both sweaty Akbilek and the old midwife

have become completely exhausted, when time has flown into eternity, a triumphant

baby’s cry sounds. Akbilek has fainted...

...and when she opens her eyes the old woman has already managed to cut the umbilical

cord, and to do up the baby into clean cloths, and to sprinkle his face; and now she is

guarding his short life. Holding her eyelids tensely Akbilek asked in hoarse voice:

—Where’s the baby?

—Here he’s, dear! He’s quite a strong boy! — the old woman replied and raised tattered

fur-coat where she put the boy.

—Get rid of him, mother!

—I will, honey, I will! Here, drink some! — the old woman replies and holding the baby

on the bent of one arm, with the other one offers Akbilek an old yellow chippy cup.

Akbilek drinks sour milk and says a few words indistinctly.

The old woman goes out pressing to herself a ragged bundle with the baby. When she

returns to the hut the old woman assures Akbilek that her child has gone forever. Then

she makes new mother drink a cup with melted butter. Akbilek drinks it, goes quiet and

her eyes close.

The same night Urkiya, who has been waiting for a child for so long time, has emptied

too. She has given birth to a boy — beloved one.

Akbilek, wrapped up to the waist, not seeing the light of the day, lay in the junk of

Korkembai’s old woman more than a week. Urkiya has brought her food, Sarah seldom

ran to her, she cuddled her and weeped. Akbilek’s breasts, which hadn’t been touched by

the baby, were swollen up and ready to blow up from an overabundance of breast milk.

Then they grew stony, the nipples got swollen wet, cracked which brought her new

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intolerable, never-ending for a moment pains. She came down to a fever and had it

several days. The old woman has seen a good deal in her long life and tried to ease her

sufferings as she could. She washed her breasts with icy water, put over them oily cloths,

tighted as strong as possible. All these efforts were not wasted, milk disappeared.

While breast milk was tearing Akbilek off, Urkiya was going with empty ones and nearly

starved the baby to death until they found one neighbor, who had delivered recent days,

and agreed to breast-feed her little son too. They say such things happen. The milk

doesn’t appear at the women who don’t give birth for a long time...

One afternoon Urkiya dropped in to visit Akbilek. She hadn’t appeared for a week before.

Akbilek hadn’t fully recovered from the breast rebel yet but still she found strength to

wish happiness to Auntie kindly.

—Now I’m also a kind of feeling better, I can walk, — Urkiya replied, took out of her

sleeve a folded sheet of paper and stretched it to Akbilek.

Akbilek unfolded the paper, it turned out— it was a letter from Bekbolat. She read the

message and began to sob. Urkiya got scared:

— Oibai, auh! What has happened? I knew nothing...

—Nothing, a trifle, — Akbilek answered continuing to shed tears.

And the crux of the matter was the following. After Mamyrbai announced that he

wouldn’t give his daughter to Bekbolat, his parents refused from the agreement too.

However, Bekbolat didn’t agree with his father’s decision and wrote a couple of letters to

Akbilek intending to marry her by all means. Akbilek also let him know that she still

thought of him but she hesitated consumed by heartfelt yearning. Who knows how fate

will order? By that time rumors of Akbilek’s pregnancy had reached Bekbolat.

A conversation behind a felt mat in one aul is heard by all the Kazakhs from Altai to

Karkaraly. Not daring to believe and to disbelieve, Bekbolat wrote this last letter to

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Akbilek where he asked: “Is it true? If so, than I disavow at once, otherwise...”

How wouldn’t Akbilek cry now? Although after the secret delivery it seems she hadn’t

ever delivered but all the same she couldn’t tell him a lie and assure: “No, I have never

been pregnant”. Everything will reveal anyway. You can’t think it seriously that nobody

has known about her long stay in the house of Korkembai’s old woman. The tongue of

the other person isn’t necessary here. Mother Orik has informed everything to everyone.

She can’t prove it, to her chagrin: there’s no baby.

One yearning comes in on another one.Again the black mist has covered over Akbilek

who nearly began to console herself. Again she started thinking that she’d better die. No

one needs her in the whole world. She is out of place, an exile pursued by dogs that has

only to drag along a stony way for the rest of her life, beating her feet to blood. Her heart

pressed to her throat chokingly and her eyes as overflowing lakes shed and shed tears...

Part four

LOVE

Five years passed.

The Irtysh is the great river. The source has hung over mointaneous China as the light.

Two of the Irtysh banks are thick sown with free towns and villages. There are plenty of

various people. In the heart of the Irtysh world there’s — Seven chambers— Semey,

Semipalatinsk, the city of knowledge and arts, really!

Like the century-old shanyrak¹ rose up the city. The steamboats, coughing with smoke,

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moor to it with the goods. The locomotives with cars roll to it. Revenues!

Semey is the brain of the province. You can find a solution for all of your problems in

Semey. Shelter and food is found for everyone here.

Semey is the heart of the province. When only Semey stirs — all the province people

move. Semey smiles — the entire steppe laughs.

Semey is on the right bank, on the left bank there’s Alash-town. There’s West in the east

and in the west there’s East. Between them the Irtysh-river tosses and turns like a camel

on its side. And a lonely island uprose from its waves like a hump. The left part of the

island is overgrown with thick forest.

In summer the forest spreads a meadow carpet in front of it and above it exposes the

heavenly bluish marquee. It’s so alluring that old and young drop everything and aspire to

it on boats. The men and women are dressed in festive and bright clothes, what faces they

have! Red and green shades reign over the crowd. A road runs through the island. Trees

and wild grasses are at its sides. Webbing of gossamers makes the heads of bushes. Along

the road figures wander enchanted by Arabic ligature of flowers. There, there we go from

wild thickets and calm corners. There, in the shade under the trees companies nestled. A

real pandemonium! Among them there are the Tatar women with baskets full of meat pies

— param ish and with proud-hearted samovars with certain halvah and Kishmish. The

Kazakhs hack mutton carcasses at the boiling over fire cauldrons and allay thirst with

kumiss. The Russian fellows stroll with the young girls by arm. Flowers are in jackets’

buttonholes, peak caps are aslant, forelocks are wavy, look — what sort of man! The

Russified Tatars drink vodka and then drunken sing and tootle sarnays². Yah-yah!

Everything is represented there: songs and tunes, funny prizes, beautiful women and

wrestlers, love, beer and vodka, cards, brawls to blood from noses, games and laughter,

clatter and chatter.

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¹ - shanyrak – the circular top of the dome of the Turkic yurts.

² - sarnay – one of the oldest types of the Chuvash bagpipes.

Friday. Have you got money? Lets’ go to the island! Row the oars! Come on! Take

dombra to your hands! Where’s Amir? Call him here! Let him sing his “Ardak”! Let him

make the whole island ring! Ah, get it, blankety-blank! Let the song fly to reach the very

top of Semey! Ah-hay, my green island! Yeah, those were the days of fun. I wonder is

everything the same there? It’s been a long time we were there, many years passed. We

miss the island, auh. We miss Semey, Almaty!..

At the edge of the island backwater beneath a high mossy oak a young white-faced

woman is sitting with a light capote thrown over her shoulders. With her face to Altash-

town she looks at slightly boiling water flow. Holy men, auh, the island public roam

drinking vodka and kumiss in search of entertainment. Why is she alone, who’s she and

what made her seek retiracy? It’s no accident obviously.

She’s sitting and talking to herself like:

— ...and what grasses are in the summer pastures of our aul! You can’t see calfs through

then! And what fragrant smell, especially when we have just fixed up yurts, head is

swimming! And what a lake is near the mountains! A smooth one. You watch at it as if in

the mirror! The little people from the entire aul gather and run to the lake. We splash and

pick up stones – “snake heads” and “buttons”. My dear, ah! My native land ah! How I

miss you...can’t do anything about it...

At that moment a woman in the urban trendy dress came up to water. She stopped not far

and listened to the monologue that sounded. When she heard a familiar voice she

approached the oak and looking in the face of the yearnful young woman paused:

Holy men, auh! If I’m not mistaken... I know you. You’re Kamilya, aren’t you? — and

she sympathetically took a step towards her.

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Yes, — Kamilya replied and quickly drew her legs up, looking at a townswoman in

surprise.

And that one not taking her eyes from the young woman, hugged her passionately and

exclaimed heartily:

—Little sister... my dear! I couldn’t think I would ever see you again!

The tears came up to Kamilya’s eyes and slided down cheeks. The young women cuddled

and staring at each other tenderly sat down with crossed legs:

How do you happen to be here?

Where are you from here? — they exclaimed with one voice.

No, tell me first!

No, you first! — the townswoman pulled Kamilya’s arm and snuggled up to her.

Well then, if so, — the sad person started her story. — Lord! Nothing can be done! — she

listened to herself and went on: — I couldn’t even imagine that I would meet you... it’s

been so many years since you came to visit us with your mother at zhaylau¹... we were the

kids with you then ... Holy men, auh! We haven’t seen since then, have we?

—Noone knows who you are to part with and who you are to meet— whether it be at the

home nest, or at crossroads...

—Yeah, you can say that again! It all went bad! Nothing remained from those days. We

would have lived peacefully, quietly but this Rakymzhan appeared...

—I don’t remember him.

—But he remembered everybody. He stirred everone up. He gathered soldiers from the

Kazakhs and led to fight the Reds... Has the world gone mad, or what?! What terrible

things would happen, if there were no one to fight? Then he came and declared: “The

Bolsheviks have won! They’ll take the cattle away and make women common. Until it’s

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late, migrate to China”. The elder people went to the town, returned: “We are migrating!”

What did we have to do but to collect things and migrate abroad? All yurts rose. We

could only take the light things and clothes. So many trunk boxes with kerchiefs and

trunks with silk were left! And I pity chintz. We moved all days and nights through,

drove the cattle and could hardly shake off the pursuit. I don’t remember how many days

we were going but we reached the Chinese Kazakhs in China at last.

—Yes, we heard that you managed to escape.

¹ - zhaylau – to spend summer at summer pastures, to settle there for summer, summer

place of living

We did, but we happened among nasty and uncurbed people. They had their own laws,

incomprehensible to us. Everyone interpreted laws to his interests. They took all our

cattle away. One local official bore particular malice: he took all cattle away from our

father, we were left with nothing. No cattle, no home, no relatives, no close people. We

lived in a hut. I wouldn’t wish such life to the last dog. They wanted to steal me but the

Lord has spared. We had nothing to do. We scraped somehow through winter, were on

the verge of dying from hunger. In summer we limped on foot back to our people. We

returned to our aul but all our buildings and land were appropriated by a skint bum from

neighbors. He didn’t let us to our own house. The father went to the elder people and to

the Head of volost — all was for nothing. How could it be the other way! After all it was

the Head of volost who gave our house away. Father tried to find way out and wrote a

complaint for the Head of volost. He thought everything would be as before. But the

times had changed. How could he know? One day two policemen with guns came to our

aul, caught father and took him away. He asked them: “Where’s my fault?”— and they

told him: “You’ are runaway, bourgeous”. They took father to the town and locked up in

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a jail. There he sat and they didn’t let him go. We had Uncle Akan, you saw him. He

rushed with his requests everywhere. He couldn’t help to release father. My father wasn’t

the only one to whom such trouble happened. I was left alone. My mom is dead long ago,

what to do here...

—What’s going on in the world! My uncle was very fond of you.

—Er, how can’t he love his only daughter? He didn’t let the Chinese Kazakh marry me

and brought me back. I was still a child, I was only fifteen. I grieved greatly when he was

in prison. Almost a month passed. Uncle Akan managed to finall draw him out of there.

We were glad. With father’s release they returned us all our buildings and pastures.

—How wonderfully it ended!

Yes, damn this end! Nothing wonderful. In a week or maybe less than in a week three

people from the town, so important people, visited us in the evening... They were taken to

the guest room and seated onto atlas blankets. The lamb was slaughtered. Father just ran

his feet off. I sat and guessed: who were they? The women began to gather from all sides.

They asked each other: “Have you seen a groom?” My heart grew cold. I asked: “What

groom?” “Oibai, auh! Don’t you know that your groom has come?” I didn’t know what to

say. Only tears started dropping from the eyes. Stepmother saw me crying and said:

“Why are you crying? You aren’t a kid. Aren’t you going to get married at all? There’s

nothing to think about. He’s your equal — a young gentleman, he studied. Enough, don’t

cry!” but I couldn’t calm down. I turned away, curled up and shedded floods of tears. I

was still young and had no desire in my mind to get married... I was told nothing, any

word and when I was announced all of a sudden: “your groom has arrived”...

Oh, remember Allah, ah!

I didn’t eat, lay almost unconscious. Uncle Akan came up. He raised me, stroked on the

head and began to teach sense to me: “We didn’t want to marry you. We agreed with

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someone to save your father. Now this agreement has stuck up in the throat. The times are

bad: if we don’t become relatives with such person in power, we’ll be guilty forever.

You’re considered fugitives. You are like thorn in the flesh”. Something of Uncle’s words

reached me. Anyway I couldn’t agree without complaint, didn’t want to. What a horror,

just at once, without rhyme or reason to marry someone! I had walked happy that my

father had been freed. My daring head, it turned out I had been sold for his freedom.

Well, and then?

—Then? After supper, aunts, paying no attention to my reluctance, dragged me to join

hands with this groom. They took me to the room. The light hardly flickered there. And

something huge, black as a bear, hulked up under the window. Awfully huge. He puffs

clouds of smoke from the jaws.

—Oh, holy men, ah!

—Here I got scared indeed. I thought this huge humpbacked animal would swallow me.

Aunts put me in front of him and said: “Why are you afraid? Haven’t you seen a man?

Don’t be a kid. You’ll get accustomed little by little —they seated me down next to him,

and left taking the lamp away. I shrank into myself trembling, afraid to raise eyes. This

bear stopped smoking and moved to me, took my hand. I had my heart in the heels. His

hand was like iron one. He pulled me to him and said: “Why are you sitting? Sit closer!”

The heart was pounding. He pressed me to his side and stuck with fleshy lips to my face,

scratched with moustache. He sweated so nasty. He gritted my waist and pulled under

him. I weeped and begged to spare, and whined as I could. He seemed not to hear

anything. He broke my whole body with iron fingers. What’s this... I went through the

pains of hell, my sister, suffered, he tortured me all, I cursed everything in the world.

It’s not your fault here... So, what was next?

He left in the morning. In about ten days Uncle Akan with stepmother brought me

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together with the dowry on the Araba cart to the town. Several courteous men and a

woman met us and took into the house. The entrance-room was small, the other two were

larger. Wooden floor was bare, covered with nothing. In one corner there was an iron bed.

Stepmother and I sat on that bed. The men sat on the chairs around a Russian-style table

that stood in the middle. They spoke of something incomprehensible and smoked

cigarettes. I didn’t know where to put myself and what to do.

Yes, it’s true. They, townsmen, do so at the first meeting. Then?

Then the guests were invited to come in the evening. The bed for me was curtained.

Stepmother had a headache so she lay down in the entrance-room. The guests began to

gather. They greeted so politely. They sat at the dish with meat and started knocking

glasses against each other, drinking vodka and shouting: “To bride’s health!” Uncle Akan

didn’t drink but they sticked to him and kept up until he drank. And I was sitting,

stretched out, alone behind the curtain. I was sitting and pitying Uncle... They became too

drunk. One fellow seemed to drink less so they ganged up on him too. My husband

buzzed particularly heavily, he insisted: “Drink, why don’t you drink?” They were being

calmed down— didn’t hear, and this one, my husband talked down thickly, shouted: “I’ll

shoot!”— and rushed to a gun.

Lord, ah! Save!

I nearly wetted myself from fright. Everyone jumped up, all dishes, floor, the table were

broken, everything rattled and was turned over. I jumped to my feet horrified and peeped

out from the curtain, look — two fellows held my husband. His eyes popped out, grew

squint. Only then I noticed that he was squint-eyed, he wasn’t humpbacked though. He

had a gun in his hand and he tried to raise the barrel. I was so upset, fear of him clang

straight into my bones. His character, my sister, turned out to be very nasty. The guests

managed to quieten both somehow and began to leave. Everywhere there was destruction:

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there were broken glasses and bottles, vodka puddles, the furniture was turned over.

Frightened with the fight I got up and rushed screaming to the entrance-room. I felt

terribly sick. But who could help? The husband saw the guests off and, swaying on his

feet, came up to me, hugged and began to kiss again. Vodka smelled unbearable. He

cursed the fellow he had had the fight with, reached the bed, fell down onto it dressed and

began to snore.

Oh, holy men, ah! What a husband you have! Bad one...

Bad? I’m only about to speak about bad...

And what did you do?

I cried for some time. With my last effort I spread a blanket on the floor at the bed, lay

down and only at the dawn I closed eyes. Since that day there hasn’t been any quiet day.

He comes from the service and drinks vodka. Then, drunk, he swears words at everyone,

nothing to add or take. He doesn’t exchange a word with me as if I’m a heartless thing.

He only knows to climb up on me, do his business and that’s all. I have only to curl up

and freeze then. In a week the husband was dismissed from the work. The Party or

somebody else has decided so. He was caught on a bribe, fought to all comrades, on the

whole showed himself up to the hilt. After that he decided to return with me to home

grounds. One Kazakh woman popped in to us. A chatty one with glib tongue. Once she

came and said: “Don’t stick to your stupid husband, he’ll go to prison. Besides, he has

nothing. He won’t pay off. And don’t go with him either. Stay here! We’ll find you a

good husband...” She tempted with sorts of things, I didn’t understand everything clearly.

Of course, I told everything to the husband when he retuned. How could I divorce him

when I only had got married him not so long ago? And the husband said: “These are my

enemies. They all lie. Don’t worry”. And he brought me here.

So then, he’s from Semey?

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Yes, he had a poorish house here. But he didn’t take me there. He settled me at his

friend’s place which he rented. His wife is the Tatar woman. They have two children, so

white and shaggy...We put on tea. Then we drank tea with the host’s family. Suddenly a

freckled Russian woman appeared. She was entirely pale and out of breath, lips were

trembling. Everyone stopped talking and lowered eyes. But silence didn’t last long, the

freckled one stared at me with hatred and said:

Are you his new wife? I’m his wife too. He left me with a little son. And I have no money

to feed him. Take him to you! — and she cried without taking her eyes off me. I kept

silence astonished. Later the host explained to me everything. It turned out my husband

had been married to the Russian woman. And he concealed it from me.

Oibai, what a shame!

A terrible shame indeed! I sat and understood nothing. Whether it was in reality or I

dreamt all— I couldn’t get. I sat crying, the husband came. That woman had already left.

The husband was sitting, drinking tea and told:

—I won’t take the kid.

His friends answered:

—As you know, — they said so, although said nothing but there was felt some kind of

their disgust towards him.

Here I blushed and said:

—Why won’t you? He’ll beome Russian with the Russian mother. Take him to you!

What I had to do... so I said. I was hurt heavily by his lie and cruelty again. How could he

refuse from the child, after all he was his son, and the son of my husband is my son. And

I can’t understand her, that woman. How is it possible to leave your child? The husband

didn’t listen to me. That his first wife left his small house and went away somewhere. We

moved in there. The poorish house, like the one for the junior wife. And the child left by

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the husband from time to time came to us. Nice boy of five-six years. I’ve never felt sorry

that my husband is his father. He spoke the Kazakh. I pitied poor him. I asked:

Will you be my son?

I will, — replied.

And when the husband appeared he started at once:

—Go away to your place, don’t ever come! — and he sent him away. But where could he

go? So he begged in the streets. Once he met my husband— his own father. He stretched

his hand to him but that one gave nothing. What a callous man, I don’t know... — the

young woman said and paused.

—And where’s your husband now?

—He went on business to the other town, he says — service. Two months passed but no

news from him.

—Did you give birth?

—There was one miscarriage. We’ve lost another child.

And how is your husband’s name?

I’ve told so much about him...

—You’ve told nothing bad, sister. We’ve just talked. What are you afraid of, just tell his

name and that’s all.

What is there on horse’s neck?

Horse collar.

No, higher

Duga¹?

That’s his name.

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What a strange name. Aren’t you sick? Why are so thin?

How not to grow thin here? Even a goose grows stunted in solitude... I’m sick a bit...

indeed. I’m coughing.

Hey, dear Kamilya, ah! Poor you, what have you gone through, what have you suffered...

—Well, why are we about me ... you’d rather tell about you!

When she heard a request to share her reminescenes, the townswoman thought over and a

succession of recent years spread itself before her eyes again.

Readers of the novel perhaps, have already guessed that we’re talking about Akbilek. And

the young woman Kamilya is her cousin, the daughter of her mother’s brother. In his time

he was the Head of volost. Well, then we’d rather return to Akbilek’s story.

In summer of that tragic for her year her elder brother Tolegen came to the aul to carry

out surplus appropriation system. He found Akbilek hiding in Urkiya’s house. Having

lived for about a month and a half in the aul, Tolegen reconciled the father with

everything that had happened to his daughter and brought Akbilek home. How she

dragged herself along the aul with burning face, auh, it’s better not to remember.

Tolegen said he was ready to take the sister with him to the town. The father kept silence.

He was surely glad to get rid of her.

It happened so that Tolegen was about to marry to one girl, Marisha, who came with her

elder brother, a teacher, from Ural. Such people — the Esek live there. They differed

from the Kazakh except only in the language. They were open people

¹- Duga – Engl.- Arc

with a generous nature. And the sister-in-law was fine, tall with blacky-black eyes.

Evidently they had their reasons to move to Kazakhstan. Perhaps, they were connected

with the fact that there in their Motherland they belonged to nobility.

The wedding of brother and Marisha amazed Akbilek. There was neither match-making

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nor anything set by the century-old traditions. Noone joined arms of the newlyweds.

There were no aunts who had to bring the bride to the bed and make it. Noone brushed

her hair. The dowry wasn’t hung over. The match-makers weren’t presented with

chapans. Marisha just entered the house without a wedding dress but with open face. She

came in, bowing and expressing her respect to nobody. And nobody met her with the

song “Zhar-zhar”. Everything was done in one block— that’s all toy. The guests were,

it’s true. The sister-in-law made preparations for meals, sat next to brother and spoke

freely to the guests.

Akbilek immediately loved sister-in-law. Marisha began to mean for her perhaps, even

more than her elder brother. She was so sweet-voiced, with mild nature. She believed

everything she was told. She neither knew about Tolegen’s affairs nor did she try to

interfere in them. She could speak clearly and pleasantly to each person. It was because

she was educated, Akbilek decided. She opened Akbilek’s eyes to many things,

otherwise...

Soon Tolegen was transferred to Semipalatinsk on service. They received a spacious flat

and lived in abundance. Brother signed Akbilek up to the courses.

Another five girls except Akbilek studied at school. Most of them were adult girls. Even

if they could write and read before in Kazakh, it was really nothing comparing to what

they had to know. You can accept it like — they didn’t study. At first Akbilek understood

nothing. She was taught literacy at the father’s home by the aged Mullah. And here the

men, dressed in urban suits, stood in front of her and wrote on the black board with chalk

such words that the head didn’t house at one time. However, then they explained what

they wrote. For the first time she heard about arithmetic and geography. Akbilek recorded

diligently into a copy-book everything she was taught. When she came home she asked

sister-in-law or brother to explain those places she didn’t understand. They explained.

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Akbilek studied at the courses for six months. At home she helped sister-in-law about the

house. She put on an apron and peeled potatoes, cut noodles. She learned culinary secrets

of cooking pies, samosa, meat pockets, and cutlets. And she began to dress differently.

After their coming to Semipalatinsk brother and daughter-in-law ordered urban dresses in

the latest style for her.

Sometimes Akbilek with brother and Marisha went to the theatre to watch moving

pictures. She was surprised: “How these flat figures move? Do they have hearts, aha?”—

she kept asking sister-in-law. It turned out — they only seemed alive, there was a special

technical method.

Then Tolegen received in the Department of Education the assignment for his sister to the

worker’s faculty in Orenburg. She went there with one girl. With Azhar. We shoud say

she was a light-minded girl. Urban one. Azhar behaved like a capricious child. She either

did a make up on her face and ran over trifles or she lay in bed for days.

That was the first time Akbilek got on train. She heard about a railway and an iron horse

but it was quite another thing to go by train. At night brother and Marisha took her on a

cart to a railway station. There was a crowd of people, everyone rushed somewhere,

bustled. A steam engine roared. The brother cared to buy the ticket in advance and they

took them without queueing.

Sitting in the carriage Akbilek speeded past four cities. Once she had to spend a night

with her travel companion at a railway station when they made a change to another train.

There Azhar gor acquainted with one guy which turned to their interest in some way. He

was handy to queue firmly and he bought tickets for them. They saw various and

wonderful places. They went by enormous lakes and along high bridges. Here the

mountains and there the forests were stretching behind the windows. Akbilek was afraid

for the train not to crash into some rock or not to get stuck in the thicket. No, it ran

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slipping artfully through stones and tree trunks. And how it ran! It flew like a whirlwind!

When they arrived to Orenburg, they took a cart and got to Azhar’s acquaintances.

Orenburg was far more decent place than Semipalatinsk. The streets were paved and they

liked the cart. It wasn’t very big except it swayed a bit.

In the morning they went to school with the papers. They were shown a big house. It was

full of young people. They found an office and showed their assignments. They were

accepted without spare word.

The girl commune was situated in a separate building. Akbilek and Azhar were given

separate beds. They brought beddings and settled. The girls around were all Russians.

Only five-six Kazakh girls were among them.

It was difficult to learn here, not the same like in Semipalatinsk. In Semey the teachers

were the Kazakhs and the books were in Kazakh. The amount of Russian lessons was

almost to nothing. And here studying was in Russian. And the teachers were the Russians

too except for two-three Kazakhs. Akbilek learned some Russian words and expressions

from brother and sister-in-law but was it a science?

What was good— there were many Russian girls around, the conversations with them

brought more use than all lessons of Russian. If it hadn’t been for her Russian friends to

whom she didn’t want to yield, Akbilek wouldn’t have studied so successfully.

Of course, there were such girls who were rushing and jumping like goats that escaped

from out the fence. Having looked at them the Kazakh girls began to jump like crazy.

Especially our Azhar and another girl. They disappeared at nights. In the commune they

got to the darkest corners and hugged with the men. Azhar had jumped till the end — in

mid-winter she left the worker’s faculty. They said she had got pregnant. It could be so,

who knows?

The guys made court to Akbilek if it could be called courtship. But she carefully avoided

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the meetings with them. It was more interesting for her to spend time with modest

Russian girls-friends. Still guys kept up: “Let’s go for a walk. Let’s go dancing. Let’s

have a talk.” But she resisted such blandishments. She had lived enough. Had she

suffered a little from men? Soon she earned a reputation of a too arrogant girl; Bai’s

daughter, hot-shot. They affirmed that she was in correspondence with a real heap of

fellows. And all of the letters, they said, were love letters and they weren’t limited by

only letters. They tossed her notes with vile suggestions and threatenings. One dark

evening they simply beat her, knocked her down. They stole her copy-books, books,

handkerchiefs. But that was a mug game, damn them all! The fellows weren’t the biggest

problem though. In two-three days there were meetings necessarily. It was odious. She

couldn’t believe how everyone made his best to bad-mouth each other, to trample upon

his neighbor, humiliate, and frighten. But if only you tried not to come to them — they

would inform immediately. Our Kazakhs were especially diligent in this. Akbilek didn’t

understand: what they needed, what they lacked?

About five hundred people lived in the hostel commune. They lived close and cold.

Whether they washed or not, that was, you know, a personal matter — it was difficult to

understand. But stench stood horrible. In some way such atmosphere was inevitable.

When they opened a small window — it was cold, when they closed it — there was no air

to breathe but you could catch a cold easily. Besides, it was hard with food. Years of

hunger. For a day they had half of a pound of dark bread and thin soup with potatoes. In

the eveing it was a mug of boiling water.

It was easier to die of hunger than to understand a lecture. How many young creatures

disappeared after they had fallen ill! There were really dead among them. By the end of

winter Akbilek had come up to complete exhaustion too. In spring with two-three her

fellow students she returned to Semipalatinsk. Akbilek was astonished how she managed

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to live through in Orenburg but she knew for sure: you’ll never become weaker from

studying.

Akbilek’s brother had already worked at the reputable position in the province committee.

Immediately he hired a childless teacher of Russian for four months for her so that she

wouldn’t get bored for lack of occupation. It was her who taught Akbilek to write and

speak in Russian correctly. It was such time then — it was necessary. You wouldn’t live

as the Kazakhs went on living: in soot, stench and with lice. The wealth is in knowledge.

—Let it be soot, let it be lice but together with my people, among them. I miss the aul so

much, the faces of relatives! It seems I would give anything in the world just to be among

them!

Akbilek studied for three years in Orenburg. The city didn’t look strange to her any more.

The students decided to stage a play “Baibishe— tokal” and Akbilek played a role in it.

They staged the play at the scene of the Club named after Sverdlov. The tickets were

distributed and sold among the students. The play was a success and Akbilek was pleased

with her performance as well. They were presented flowers. One of the teachers invited

her to tea-drinking just after the performance. At the table she was introduced to two

comrades: Akbala and Baltash. They offered her to drink beer but she refused. The men

didn’t insist.

She used to see Akbala in the streets of the city before. He was said to be an eloquent and

knowing a lot person. He was of average height but his forehead was high and face was

white. Indeed, when he talked — you would listen spellbound to him. That evening

Akbala talked most of all. The rest were listening to him and laughing at his jokes. He

addressed to Akbilek asking her about studying, about her life. He didn’t take his eyes off

her. Baltash sat next to Akbilek. He made court to her and offered to taste this or that.

Saying good-bye he mentioned politely:

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—If there are any problems, please, contact us. We need such cadres and we simply have

to support you in anything.

Akbilek didn’t seek for the meeings with new comrades, she studied.

Once she read in the newspapaer that comrade Akbala was preparing a report. She didn’t

know why but she had s desire to listen to what he would be talking about. The arms

stretched to a comb on their own, the legs carried her to mirror. She didn’t remember how

she put on coat and ran out.

The big meeting. Akbilek sat at the last row of chairs. After the speech of one Russian

comrade the chairman announced: “Now I see comrade Akbala”. Akbilek’ heart shook.

Akbala came up the scene with a sure step. He put a bag on a table, looked over the hall

closely. Akbilek hoped he noticed her. No, it seemed he didn’t, or did he?

Akbala began his speech. He spoke slowly, loudly in good voice. And Akbilek just gazed

at him. He spoke of some big state issue. What about — Akbilek couldn’t get. She could

only see his face; she only heard his baritone. He spoke passionately clenching the fist of

right arm and casting it down the tribune as a blacksmith bumps his hammer down anvil.

With each word spoken he grew more and more excited, his voice grew firm. The passion

of his speech infected Akbilek too. Every sound coming off his tongue sounded like

patter of hoofs. And he finished his address throwing his head in the air like a stallion that

rode swiftly from bandits. The audience burst with applauds. Akbilek clapped her palms

without sparing them too.

After Akbala’s speech the word was given to his opponents. A few remarks and

criticizing comments were told to his address. Akbilek burnt each such critic through with

a scathing look. She didn’t like that people who had been just applauding to the orator

were criticizing him now. Akbala sorted his papers out calmly, then came up and

answered in detail to every criticism. He thanked someone for estimation, didn’t agree

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with another one, and literally destroed the others with his arguments, auh!

It went dark. After the meeting was over Akbilek left the building. While she was looking

around in search of a companion with whom she could return to the hostel safely,

somebody came up to her from behind and touched her shoulder. She looked— it was

Akbala. He was smiling:

— Good evening.

She got confused. Perhaps she even blushed. She got scared that he could notice the

deceitful face color.

—I was going to return to the hostel.

—A-ah, come on, I’ll give you a ride.

She felt ashamed. Earlier she didn’t happen to go in the Commissioner’s cart. But the

maiden shame could already change nothing. Anyway, it was flattering to take a ride with

the Commisioner in his araba.

Akbala helped her to get to the cart, sat next to her and brought her straight to the school

building. Aon the way he asked:

Have you heard my report?

Yes, I have.

And how did you like it?

It was good report.

His question about the report, his desire to know her opinion, his hand on her wrist, his

urge to sit closer to her, a warm gleam of his eyes in the light of rare lanterns — all of this

was more than enough for Akbilek. Saying good-bye Akbala offered:

What if we go to the theater tomorrow?

I agree.

That night out of a clear sky Akbilek saw Akbala in her dream. Perhaps, it was a feeling

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of liking towards him? Akbilek didn’t think particularly about this. The following day at

the set hour she came up to the theatre. Akbala had already been watching out for her.

They entered the auditorium, sat side by side. They spoke about many things. He began to

talk about educated women, about love. When he said something he asked: whether she

agreed with him or not. Akbilek was at a loss. She certainly wanted to say him something

pleasant, even it be far away from truth but she didn’t manage to — she said what she

thought. He, in his turn, said: “I like your opinion”. He asked her about her parents,

relatives. Then he brought her home on the cart again. He shook her hand softly stroking

it again and again. Sometimes hands of a man in love speak instead of his numb tongue.

That night Baltash was at the theater too. He sat in the other row but came up in the

intermission and didn’t leave them afterwords. Akbala and Baltash were exchanging

comments on something strolling together with Akbilek in the crush-room. Akbilek was

pleased to go between two clever men. She was just soaring as if she had wings on her

both sides. Alikbek found Baltash as a competent polite man who neither fancied himself

too much nor he did he seek for her attention. And if he asked a question it was like this

one:

—You started to visit theaters. And how... did you like the play?

The vivacity with which the Commissioners talked cheered up Akbilek’s mood too. And

it did not for a bit but sky-high. It seemed to her that they were showing off for her sake

and she herself wanted to shine.

Once she met Baltash in the street. He stopped, went by her side speaking of something.

He wasn’t as voluble as Akbala, repeated his words, hesitated, and mumbled. He spoke

mostly about studying, life and spring. It was seen that he wasn’t a whale to speak to

girls. In parting he held Akbilek’s hand for a while and said:

I wanted to talk to you. Will you find time for me?

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I will, — Akbilek replied. She liked that he was embarrassed. She waited for him to say

more. What woman will refuse herself in such kind of pleasure?

In three days Baltash sent a letter via one student:

“Comrade Akbilek! I ask you, if you have free time, to come to the park named after

Comrade Karl Marx. Please, pass your reply via this student. Baltash”.

Akbilek liked Akbala but here Baltash began making court to her, funny. It was no good

to ignore the meeting. She thought what if he would take offence? There’s such

strangeness in women behaviour. Besides — it was early summer. So she went at the

appointed time. She came but he wasn’t there. She waited — he wasn’t still there; waited

— no sight of him. She was aggrieved and about to leave. Here he ran out of breath as if

he was dashing from the Ural’s bank. Akbilek waited for him. He ran up and greeted.

Have I kept you long? — he apologized.

It emerged that he delayed on one business. He paused for long time not daring to

continue the conversation. And suddenly he declared:

It passes for normal when a man is married. I’m also looking for a life partner.

I wish you to find what you look for— Akbilek wished with a smile.

He tried to speak of unrelated matters and then returned to heart affairs again:

— I like you.

Akbilek couldn’t but admit that Baltash wasn’t as wise as Solomon. You see, it turned out

one of the teachers praised her! Akbilek avoided the direct answer mentioning the need to

consult the relatives. He considered such approach to marriage to be correct. They walked

for a while, he saw her off to the hostel. Featherheaded he was. He even couldn’t take

tenderly her arm as Akbala could.

The next day there was a letter from Akbala. He wrote sorts of nice words. He mentioned

that he was burning passionately with an obvious feeling to her: “I’m writing to you

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because I can’t help but write to you. You are an ideal for me, I love you. Without you

my life looses any sense. Please, reply to me”.

Joyful feelings descended upon Akbilek when she read the letter. Could she think that he

would offer her his hand? She thought he just decided to have fun and nothing else. She

was even taken aback. All hearty thoughts were about Akbala. Balrtash seemed plain and

lightweight in his light. She replied to Akbala: “Your words please me. I like you too. But

I have to speak to my relatives. Soon I’ll give you a definite reply. Be patient, don’t be

offended”.

Then it remained to chill down Baltash’s feelings so that he wouldn’t bother himself. She

met with him in the garden near the building of serai.

—There’s the man whom I promised to marry — and she waited for his reaction.

Baltash darkened and asked:

—Who’s he?

She didn’t reply. He didn’t give up. Seeing that he couldn’t calm down Akbilek called the

name. Baltash said:

—I thought of him too. He’s always excited women’s admiration. But he’s never been

fond of students. Apparently he’s developed a passion somehow... if he’s not given

anything else.

Akbilek was full of romantic feelings but she was replied with a prose of life. Baltash left

offended. And she didn’t see him for long time.

It can’t be worse than when two fellows who are in love with one girl come across each

other, Akbilek thought. In the beginning everything looks amusing but then it turns into a

gall for one of them. She didn’t find any special pleasure in the fact that she had to tell:

“You’re worse than he’s, I don’t love you”. Everyone can say the same about him.

In two-three days Alikbek met with Akbala. It emerged that her words about the people

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she had to consult with weren’t up to his heart. “Isn’t an educated woman a master of her

heart?”— he stated with some degree of arrogance. And after her assurances that both her

brother and sister-in-law would willingly give their consent to the marriage and accept

him, he calmed down. And her words that she would refuse him in no case fully restored

trust-based relations between them. He began to kiss her with words: “Honey... my love...

darling”. He was the groom and she was the bride, what did they have to be ashamed of?

Joy overfilled Akbilek. She was unable to sit at a place. She talked to everyone she came

across and laughed at any silly thing. She lived through these days as if being slightly

crazy.

So a month passed. It was time to return home. A letter from brother arrived: “If he

promised to marry — marry him”.

She was happy. There and then, the way she was she ran to Akbala’s office. She knew the

road; she had already dropped in to him. She showed brother’s letter. He put the letter

aside, closed the door and began to kiss cuddling her. Both were swimming in happiness.

In the evening they went to a cinematograph and sat to a remote box. As soon as the

lights went off they started kissing and hugging again. They didn’t look at the screen.

Akbala decided to arrange the weding in a week and to bring Akbilek and her belongings

to his place.

The following day Akbilek received a letter from Baltash:

“I have to meet you on a very important matter. It’s connected with your nearest future. I

beg you to meet me in any case”.

Akbilek was surprised but she forced her to go to this meeting— after all it was improper

to refuse to such comrade. She went with some annoyance. They met, said hello. And he

said, just imagine:

Akbala is no match for you

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Why?

He’s been in love with such girls before you. And then he left them, you see, he didn’t

like them anymore!

I’m not interested in it — Akbilek replied understanding that he wanted to set her by the

ears with Akbala.

If you don’t believe, here’s his diary — Baltash insisted and taking a notebook out from

the inner jacket pocket, stretched it to Akbilek.

Where have you taken it?

We’re friends, so I took it.

Aren’t you ashamed to steal the friend’s diary? — Akbilek lost her temper feeling how

blood flew to her face.

I know it’s shameful. It contains notes about his meetings with one girl. I want exactly

you to read them. Don’t you want to know who your groom really is?

—No, I don’t.

Baltash began to assure that these Akbala’s love affairs were very interesting. He stuck

like bur:

Let me read.

If you want to — read.

The diary related to the time when Akbala for some reason, apparently due to blunder in

work, was transferred from rather high position to the county. Anyway, there was such a

practice— staff turnover

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“February 5, Monday.

...Kulyan came up to me near school. I made efforts not to meet her. I thought she wanted

to tell me something. She spoke bout Abiken’s wife. I let her see I can’t stand gossiping.

She laughed but in her eyes I saw she wanted to speak about the other things.

February 6.

On the way home I saw Kulyan and Zhanyl coming towards me. They were chatting

about something and laughing. Yesterday I saw how one fellow met Kulyan and went to

see her off home. The same guy was waiting for her today.

February 9.

The Committee secretary was caught at taking a large bribe, Seksembayev released him

on bail.

February 11.

What I need in this life is the passion of life, something of the kind. If I had a beloved

then I would just dedicate the entire my life to her. I care not a snap for career and this

deed of labor. And now I go as if I’ve lost something, I was deprived of something, as if

there left a half of me...

Yesterday I was asked to a party. Kulyan was there too. All men tried to talk to her. I

didn’t enter a conversation, sat aside. She was wearing a nice red jacket. Her hair was

curly, perhaps it was done somehow. She talked to me first. I answered laconically and a

bit coldly. I asked her to return my letters. She obviously felt my estrangement and

laughed without missing a beat. She asked whether my desire to return letter was

connected to the events that had happened in the town X. I answered I wanted to

remember none of this town. She asked: “And the girls too?” I replied: “The girls too”.

She didn’t expect for such reply and was surprised. Recently I had seen one of such in the

street. I had walked past without saying hello.

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February 12.

Kulyan made it a manner to walk in the park with two-three guys. She goes with them

under arm, laughs and talks to them about something. Today she didn’t appear. She didn’t

leave her class. Perhaps she’s busy with her lessons. Or she has no mood. She isn’t that

kind of woman who has feelings written on the face though.

February 14.

The fellows of the second degree organized a circle and began a work. The work went

wrong, they re-elected the leader. And those who left with the first one bought home-

brew vodka from Russian guys and got drunk on the occasion of their leader’s birthday.

They put up a fight. The former one seems to be Bai’s son. How can the good people go

out of such ones?

February 16

The people from the town X came. They began to praise me, affirmed they really lacked

me very much. They called me back. My friend Kapay started saying that now I can use

them how I want. Whatever the Kazakhs do! You can’t understand who’s right and who’s

not. Whose side to take? I sit, feel sorry for them, it’s uncomfortable to send them away.

And then it’s interesting to know what they’ve planned there. Otherwise I wouldn’t listen

to them. If I get involved in all the Kazakh squabbles, I won’t achieve my stated

objectives. And I don’t want their going hither and thither to do harm me. The people will

look who comes to me and start talking sorts of things. From the other hand, whatever

they are, either bad or good, all the same they are my people. If you avoid your people, it

won’t take you long to become Russified.

February 17.

The citizens of the town X have one feature — everything is wrong with them. Nobody

wants to go deeply into the core of matter. They believe only to those who hold the

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position and this doesn’t benefit to state service. This reason is already enough to keep

away from them. They wrote to me a letter asking to assist with the release of a few guys

that had studied well in their times. What a mess!

February 27.

I received a letter from Kulyan’s sister-in-law with invitation to visit. I went there with

Kapay. We sat late with the budget and were free only at eleven. We came and Kulyan

was there. She cooked samosa, poured tea. She got red, sat arranging her hair. There was

a lamp between us on the table. She moved the lamp aside. So her face was in samovar’s

shade and mine left in the light of the lamp. She put the plate with sweet oatmeal in butter

to the lamp’s place. Closer to us. I made up three conclusions out of this: 1) she

deliberately hid herself in the shade of high samovar; 2) she wanted the plate with

sweeties to be by my side, otherwise... 3) she decided to put away the lamp as a barrier

between us. Anyway, the oatmeal has nothing to do here. She certainly wants to get back

together with me. If so, then it’s the best variant.

March 10.

One idea came into my head when I lay in bed in the morning. I need to know whether

Kulyan really likes me. I need clearness. I have to find a way to get out some movement.

Otherwise I’ll simply die out of expectations. I consulted Kapay. He offered to speak to

Kulyan’s sister-in-law. We swore to keep everything a secret.

March 12.

Last night Kapay went to this her relative. As I thought it was of no result. He couldn’t

talk face to face.

At eleven in the morning we with company went for a walk in the mountains. Kapay rode

by Kulyan’s side and I rode with one Russian paramedic. I managed to speak to Kulyan.

She laughed and joked again in her manner... This, that and the other, she said nothing

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definite. I thought her feelings to me weren’t strong. Far and by, she wasn’t inflamed with

passion. Be a woman even the most educated, well-bred and the cleverest, all the same

the most important thing in her is sensuality. A woman without feelings is like a flower

without fragrance. What ideas are these: “I’ll study”, “Marriage will interrupt my study”!

Studying is the voice of reason. Love is the voice of feelings. And she neither loves nor

feels... too much well-minded! She doesn’t allow herself to say: “I love”. She doesn’t

want to change her plans. She dedicates everything to her studying no matter how

difficult it’s given to her. Shouldn’t love win everything in the world? I don’t understand.

I have to write a letter and finally explain ourselves.

In the evening some elderly Kazakh woman dragged herself to my place, mother of a

policeman. She claimed that unfamiliar to me Bai’s daughter, whose elder brother works

here as a teacher, fancies me and wants to marry me. And she began describing what a

beauty she is...with big eyes and as fast as a fawn...I guess this teacher has sent the

matchmaker to me. I sit and don’t know whether to believe this old woman or not. I wish

it weren’t a joker of the known to me specimen from the town X. I asked to bring me a

letter from this girl.

March 13.

Today I wrote the letter to Kulyan. If I don’t get a refuse— she’s mine... in my mind I see

that trip to the mountains out of the town, so wonderful and dear to heart pictures. I spent

in bed the whole morning imagining that trip again and again...

... mountains. Slay-ride runs file between the trees and in the distances it seems to hug the

waists of birches. Up, down. The rocks... forest is around... white crisp snow. The

paramedic has frozen to the saddle. The urban coat doesn’t warm him, but ridges. He

doesn’t dare to whip the horse, tries all the time to. Kulyan is dressed in a fine hare

Kazakh fur coat. On her head she has foxy malakhay. She sits in the saddle as a real

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dzhigit, roars with laughter, shoots ahead and teases with her entire fresh complexion...

In the evening I went with Kapay to watch a play. It was a one-act drama about slavery.

Kulyan appeared with her sister-in-law in the theatre. From time to time I found her with

my eyes. I hope she didn’t remain indifferent either. She looked in my direction fluttering

heavy eyelashes. She definitely counted that we would see them home after the

performance. And indeed, they were standing at the entrance. Kapay ran rusty and pulled

me home. And Kulyan with her sister-in-law went home with the paramedic. I don’t

understand these games of her sister-in-law with the Russian paramedic! Her husband is

in the other town and she walks out with this man here. No, women can’t be trusted.

March 15.

I went out to take a breath in meal period. And this time Kulyan appeared from the next

door. She smiled at me and called me up with her finger. I came up. She said she perhaps

had written a letter to me but she hadn’t it with her. And she added that she didn’t like to

read and suggested better to have a talk. We agreed on a place. She promised to tell time

of meeting.

March 16.

I saw Kulyan in my dream, we talked about something. I hugged her and kissed. Science

states that a man dreams the things he thought of much and long time. Consequently, my

dream reflects my true wishes. I scold myself for this weakness. I called myself so many

various names. I try to stop myself. I’ve fallen in love in vain. Everything is a lie and this

passion won’t bring me anything good. I’ve decided to find drawbacks in her so that to

arouse hostile feelings to her. I should also consider my life in order so began recalling

my mean deeds. I’ve realized that family happiness will hardly wait for me if I marry an

educated girl. No, nothing works. I still think of her. I’m reeling off as a crow on a

branch. She’s tied my hand and foot and holds as if in a leash. I’m in the trap and the

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name of this trap is Kulyan.

When did I see her in a dream: today? Or have I seen her during a year? I remember, for

the first time I dreamt her in summer after arrival to the town. I remember her dress, laces

on it. She went past as if cut me with a razor. I dreamt her in Orenburg too and in this

dream she talked to me with her eyes reverted. I tried to console myself with the thought

that a man hunts for a woman and nothing more. No, it turns out to be some empty

consolation, now I understand this.

I’ve just romanced that I can meet with her and explain myself. I’ve invented some unreal

life with her, happy days expecting us... everything is blank. I feel my blood is about to

boil in me. I’m sinful, sinful! I can’t please but I’ve just got bites.

March 17.

I was at school. She stood with one teacher. I greeted with a nod and said in my mind:

“I’m yours”. She looked at me either with vexation or with tenderness. What eyes she

has: warm and sweet. One of sparks of her shining eyes has burnt my heart. Magic rays of

her glance literally make my heart pant and fill the soul with bliss! No, I take my words

back! They neither fill heart with anything nor warm my soul but hit and then disappear

mysteriously. A sound is like one touch of a fiddle bow to kobyz’s strings: it’s wonderful,

excites but is full of sorrow and only promises a melody of love. It folds my heart to her

breast. The radiance of her eyes floods me and plunges to eternity. They ripple like

waves, whisper something...

She promised to meet me at six. I looked at the watch constantly. I sent one boy to look

out for her. With every minute the heart beats faster. There’s still a half of an hour. How

time keeps jogging on! I don’t know what to occupy myself with, sat to write a diary. It

seems to be a limit of happiness if she comes in a twenty minutes, smiles and says with

her tender voice: “Good evening”. I can’t think of anything else... Thoughts gallop. I sit

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and don’t know how to console myself. She’ll come! She’ll come if nothing happens. Or

she won’t? It’s possible too. What is she busy with now? Is she dressing? Is she adorning

herself with fine clothes and looking into the mirror? Or... or... I have to look at time!

Eighteen minutes left. Hold on, I have to leave, what if I run out of time, what if her

watch is fast...

12 midnight.

I was waiting for her at the corner of the street. I saw how my watcher was going, waited

with impatience and gave way, met him half-way. He said: “She left home”. I hurried.

She came up to Commissariat from one side and I approached from the other one. We

met in the lobby. Some Russian man came up to us and asked for a ticket. There’ll be a

performance right here tomorrow. I could hardly wait for him to leave off. The two of us

stood together. A few students appeared in the street, they entered Commissariat...She got

embarrassed and went behind the stage. They study together with her and she was afraid

of gossips. We went outside through another door.

We talked about nothing. Gossips of the town X, local gossips, who said what and who

heard. I told my opinion of the girls who study. One of the reasons of my desire to meet

with her is the same: I want to make our relationship clear. We agreed: it’s time to drop

the curtains. We had to seclude ourselves for a long talk. We’ve decided that some day

she’ll come to me. But she warned me that she wants the fellows that live with me to keep

dark about this. It seemed we talked a lot but again we didn’t tell the needful, we

couldn’t. Only our eyes told the most important words. She repeated all the time that it

was time for her to return. I didn’t notice how we were at her home.

March 18.

We were at the performance. She came. She sat at her previous place behind our row. I

kept turning around to look at her until I was made a remark. I changed the place. The

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attraction to her was so strong that I looked at her more than at the stage. She looked at

me too. I was waiting for an intermission impatiently but four students spoiled

everything. They stood around her and talked to her. One of them, the red-haired one, was

familiar for me. I saw him once when he saw her home. I don’t know what they were

talking about there but I saw that she was talking unwillingly.

I can’t stand these men from the town X. Kulyan assured she didn’t like them either.

There are perhaps no worse townsmen than they are.

When she returned to her place she asked her sister-in-law something quietly but her

request evidently didn’t hit the taste of the latter. Nevertheless, soon I changed places

with her relative and was by her side...

We saw our companions home together with Kapay.

All the way that red-haired student was flocking about us. He either went ahead or

dragged behind us. He jumped out from somewhere aside, went straight before us and

puffed with his cigarette so heavily that sparks flew apart. I mentioned: “In such a way

he’ll burn himself”. She responded to this: “Why are you raging so much? Can’t you be

more lenient towards people?” Her mood seemed to have spoiled. It turned out that these

students blabbed that she had been at my apartment which wasn’t true. They were going

to celebrate Nowruz and invited Kulyan to the spring holiday.

Kulyan doesn’t want to break with them referring to the fact that they study together. And

the fact that they talk nonsense about her – well then such things happen in the friendly

company. You may think that they don’t shoot off mouths without any friendship. Now

she couldn’t imagine how she would be able to come to me. What’s that?! Why doesn’t

she leave them?!

March 19.

The watches of the local townspeople never keep time. Someone certainly sticks like glue

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in the street: “What time is it?” and he sets hands at his watch.

Local students are completely immoral. Two guys are standing and you can hear: “Will

there be a performance today? Let’s go with fawns? (or with the old women?)”— without

ceremony they speak about the girls (they refer to them familiar girls and Kulyan is

among them).

March 21.

I stayed out. We drank kumiss. It wasn’t very interesting. Kulyan with her friend Zhakim

went to celebrate Nowruz with fellow mates. Kulyan doesn’t like them, she spoke of

them unflatteringly. If it’s really so, then why did she go with them?

Another pair of shoes is if she treated them with respect, if she hadn’t given them such

unflattering characteristics... Is such girl worth to be trusted? Either she does it for my

spite, or with any other purpose? Is she afraid to be condemned by them? A man should

definitely distinguish bad things from good ones and not to wag on the life journey. And

is this woman that I take for my angel of such kind? Yearning... it seems it can’t be more

depressing. I wonder, how will she try to justify herself? We’ll see.

March 22.

Yesterday called in to Kulyan’s sister-in-law’s home. We talked about Nowruz. The

sister-in-law supported me and spoke disapprovingly of this her trip out of town. Kulyan

admitted that she did the wrong thing. Kulyan’s sister-in-law sat down to talk to Kapay

deliberately. And we went to a stove and had a talk standing there. I asked her to come to

my apartment again. She said again she was afraid of gossips. She told: “When we leave

the town”.

March 24.

At six I came up to school to a meeting. Noone came. I stood at the doors for a while.

Zhakim turned up leading a little child by the hand. She is about 19—20. She was really

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told terrible things about. I heard she touched base with one teacher. She was not only

with him. She skipped classes. When she saw me she said to the kid loudly: “Tell there’ll

be both Kulyan and Malina” — and sent him somewhere. This was evidently counted for

me...

Russian girls walking with guys speak loudly, feel free to hug with them and roar with

laughter for the whole street. This Zhakim is exactly the same. Rotten-hearted girls are all

as like as two peas, have the same manners. To sell their goods to men tradeswomen flirt

with them, hint that they can count to have more. The girls, who laugh affectedly and

roar, are of the same tribe with them. Are educated girls all like this indeed? Aren’t there

remained well-bred girls any more?

March 26.

Yesterday at six Kulyan came to me. We shut the door and spoke from our hearts. We

discussed everything: our relations and our characters and the things which blabbers

speak about us, our plans for future and, of course, love. Then we began kissing. She said

she studied at the insistence of her father and she didn’t want his work to be a waste. And

she added that she would leave study. I answered that this wasn’t the matter. The most

important for me is her declaration in love to me. And she became yielding. Although she

blushed in my arms, still she got hot. Pleasant, sweet impression has remained.

I received “The working Kazakh”. It has the mourning message that famous Berniyaz

shot himself with his girlfriend. The sad event. It’s a pity, he was a talented poet!.. What

an awful thing to happen! Suicides among the Kazakhs have become a rarity. It’s

unthinkable thing! Was it because of drinking or love, or a lie? Has the way of life or

enemies seized him?.. Whatever it was, apparently it came sorely to him. Yes, life... ane

— and it broke!

March 28.

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It seems as yet Belinsky wrote: “Imaginary love is harder, more dangerous than true love.

Love dreams fall a heavy stone on heart, they are constraining, painful, poisonous”. I

believe it’s true. The heartache was severe as if it was burnt through.

March 29.

I spent evening with Kulyan. The moon shone to the utmost, it was warm. She can’t ever

dare. It’s all the same: “What will Princess Maria Alexeyevna say?” and what will uncles-

aunts say! What kind of person she is: neither here nor there! And what is the difference

between educated and uneducated girls then? I’ve been keeping fast with zealous prayers

for the whole winter and everything seems to be in vain.

April 4.

Kapay said Kulyan had told him that there were some letters which I had written to his

girlfriend who he was going to marry. I assured him that I hadn’t written and wasn’t

going to. Let her show if there are such letters. Kapay is my friend and I have hidden

nothing from him. Why has she done this? To cause trouble between us? I haven’t

expected that Kulyan is able to lie as everyone else.

April 6.

Now, I return to the letters again. Kapay is the Chairman of the town Executive

Committee. And it was no trouble for him to find the man who Kulyan read my letters

addressed to her. This man turned out to be that red-haired student who showed the letters

to his friends mockingly. They said she spent a night with this student at her licentious

friend Zhakima – at the house near the market a month ago.

Unhappy my head! How I deceived myself! How I was deceived! I starved to drink pure

water from an uncracked cup but it was lapped up by a mangy dog. A man in love is like

a blind man, it’s stated right. How could I be so mistaken?! No, I won’t believe any word

of an educated woman! Everything is buried: my sacrificial heart and inspiration for her

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sake, and readiness to give her all my heart!

April 8.

I wrote a letter to Kulyan with polite request but solicitation to return all my letters to me.

And I said goodbye forever drily. I wrote only three phrases. She replied to me: “All your

letters I tore up and threw away. Believe me”.

The diary hasn’t made the impression that comrade Baltash had expected. Akbilek

considered the girl Kulyan to be at fault in this tawdry tale. Comrade Baltash insisted on

Akbala’s fault. And the more he spoke about nasty traits of his friend the stronger anger

has boiled in Akbilek. She wanted to hear nothing; it seemed the only one desire

remained in her: go away, go away from me!

—And what is so special about this? Everything can happen to everyone.

No! He still insisted and kept saying that Akbala wasn’t the man she imagined... Being

finally lost, she said something she didn’t expect herself to do:

—What to do here? And I’m not the one... maiden. I’m worse, I gave birth without

husband!

And no mistake — she surprised comrade Baltash but still she couldn’t get rid of him. He

didn’t leave her off, but, on the contrary began asking about the thing she let it slip out.

He listened to her patiently and with words: “You did it right that told me everything”

finally went away.

In a day Akbala sent a note to Akbilek with request to come to the park named after

Marx. She came. Akbala, who appeared to the meeting, frowned and spoke through

clenched teeth:

—You don’t want to tell me anything about your past, do you?

—No, I don’t — Akbilek replied being taken aback.

—Don’t bluff your way. After all you shared it with Baltash. I want to hear the truth. The

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thing that you told about you — is it true?

—It’s true — Akbilek replied.

If it’s so, then our ways have broken apart. I considered you to be a maiden. — and he

moved away along culturally arranged park path.

Akbilek remained sitting alone on the wooden bench. She sat and couldn’t realize what

had happened.

“The dawn of Zaysan” screamed twice. Fashionably dressed women went off the

steamboat hurriedly. A slim woman with white face, black eyes, dressed in a beautifully

tailored frock and white silk Panama hat on her head, stood on the deck leaning on the

rails and watched the people bustling on the quay.

There was the last steamboat whistle. The woman went up to an open illuminator of the

first-class cabin and said something. Those, whom she addressed to, went out the deck

without delay. One of them was Baltash. His two travel companions worked with him

once, studied with him somewhere. The friends from Semipalatinsk had already received

Baltash with his spouse for three days. They took them to the island, strolled around the

city, and now they spoke friendly talks on the steamboat lingering farewell. Baltash, as a

true traveler, treated friends with beer and kept speaking with enthusiasm. He went with

them to the nose of the steamboat.

The citizens of Semipalatinsk had solid reasons to express every sort of respect to the

guest. After all, Baltash occupied one of Commissioner’s positions in the capital of

Republic. It’s clear and excusable for province people to drag after the capital visitor as

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the kids after father who came from the market with bags full of presents.

Baltash is the prominent Communist, who is able to answer any political question. He’s

experienced employee who prepares resolutions. Baltash is young but we won’t

exaggerate if we call him a patriarch of the Soviet service while his friends still have to

walk those steps which he has already passed climbing up. He served in Akmola and

Semipalatinsk, and in Uralsk and in Bukey province. He’s familiar to all office

intricacies, personnel matters. He mixes up with people of name without ceremonies, so

we may say, the entire world lies at his feet. And although he isn’t related to the first

Party leaders, his bossy chair is propped from all sides — it won’t reel. He can criticize

the right person competently and refer to the appropriate authority in time, he can also

defend his opinion at any meeting, and on the whole he is a statesman. Comrade Baltash

is notable for respect to independent point of view. He likes to highlight: comrades,

although comrade K. doesn’t march in step but goes his own way, I welcome him. He’s

man of principle and always points comrades at their mistakes. If comrades don’t react he

can decide for the most radical making the break. But he also can be a friend.

Friends wondered:

—And how is Akbala there?

—What will happen to him? Akbala is safe and sound. He lives by his dreams. He takes

as usual for any inconceivable issues and goes ahead posthaste. He discourses hobnob as

before— and he smiled.

—And how is that one there?..

—Wah, forget about him! He considers himself as a great cunning fellow who is able to

hose everone in the world. But where can you find fools in our times? He has just foxed

himself. He isn’t up-and-coming comrade.

Here, Baltash has his own opinion of every man.

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“The dawn of Zaysan” screamed for the third time. Baltash with the company came up to

the owner of white Panama hat who was still standing at the rails. Have you guessed? It’s

Akbilek.

Good bye, comrades!.. So act this way! — Baltash gave a tight handshake to comrades.

Good bye! Good bye! — Baltash’ friends said goodbye to Akbilek too and hurried to

come off gangway to the quay.

“Bye-e!.. Bye-e!.. Bye-e!” — the steamboat tried to repeat people.

Seers-off with smiles and tears stared covetous eyes towards sailing passengers of the

steamboat and shouted something indistinctive behind the leaving feeding-stuffs. The

hearts beat high. The steamboat clapped wheel paddles on water like an old dog licked

with its tongue on a thin soup. In the air over the quay the hats fluttered as crows and silk

kerchiefs flitted as butterflies. The heads drooped and the tears ran down the cheeks. The

passengers crowded at the back feeding-stuffs of the steamboat in such poses as: “We

don’t want to part with you either”.

A military brass band thundered at the deck of the boat: copper pipes, drum and

kettledrum played a cheerful march. Akbilek’s pulse became more rapid. Her soul reeled

with free waves. She also waved with a white handkerchief. The heat squeezed as if she

said goodbye to a very dear person to her, feeling endlessly sorry for her. The person dear

to her was of course Kamilya.

“Poor Kamilya couldn’t come to the quay. If nothing terrible happened to her, all the

same she has to live as a wrecked bird in a cage!” — Akbilek thought of her recalling the

day spent on the Irtysh island. She remembered another day as well. It was the day of her

marriage with Baltash.

The Registry Office — such offices appeared. They went to register marriage. The

registrar was a black-moustached man. As soon as Akbilek’s name was told he put up his

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eyes on her and literally eyed her face keenly. Akbilek immediately recognized him. It

was Black-moustached!

Auh! Holy men, ah!

Fearing that Baltash would suspect something Akbilek squinted at him. No, he stood

happy.

Going out of the Registry Office Akbilek turned back to look at Black-moustached. He

was looking behind her and did it as it seemed to her with warmth. Saying goodbye she

faintly nodded him. He ran his fingers through hair and clenched a fist. Either he regretted

or repented... who knows.

The deck swayed. The tears welled from Akbilek’s eyes. Baltash hurried to embrace her

shoulders:

— What’s the matter?

Just... so... I feel sorry for poor Kamilya... How can I help her? Dark, unanswered... what

is waiting for her? Grave darkness... — Akbilek said with deep sorrow.

Why are you upset over nothing? You can’t change everything in one day. Socialism is

coming and has already brought equality, hasn’t it? Remember yourself — Baltash

cheered up the spouse.

—It’s hard all the same... — Akbilek replied still breathing with anguish and loneliness of

her sister that was left there... at the bank.

It is a July day with whitish sun on the Irtysh. Green banks. Comrade Baltash with the

spouse are strolling along the deck breathing chestful of refreshing and winy wind like

beaten kumiss. How can’t she believe his words about the equality that has come —

which were said weightily by the executive official? Who but him should know

everything? And Akbilek calmed down.

When they breathed fresh air to the full, they entered a saloon, shining with mirrors. The

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blonde woman with incredibly straight back performed some piece of music on the piano

at the stage between two columns. Four people with long noses sat at the small table in

the corner to the right and played preference: “Go by...Go by...”. Their white collars and

manners helped to guess they were the specimen from trade.

Baltash and Akbilek listening to performance of the slim pianist sat at the large table

covered with snow-white tablecloth. Looking over the menu they began to make an order

to a waitress who came up to them in a white lace apron. Baltash started reading the list

of dishes asking: “Do you want?”

—And what will you eat?

—I know nothing of these steaks, I want some lamb.

The husband’s choice seemed very funny to Akbilek and she burst out laughing. When

one of traders heard inextinguishable laughter, he took his eyes off cards and looked at

laughing woman with curiosity. Since that moment he kept throwing obscene glance at

Akbilek from time to time.

When she finished laughing Akbilek told:

—I’ll, perhaps, eat some partridge.

The spouses ate, after that they drank a couple of bottles of beer “Zhiguli” and having

nice mood they went to their clean double cabin. They lay at springy bed and looking at

the magazine “Laugh maker” roared with laughter.

— Laughter is very useful for the digestive system—

Baltash stated with an air of authority.

Life is pleasant, life is funny! Everything seems funny for the newly-weds. Akbilek

became the lover to play tricks over husband. And it’s nothing. He endures and has no

shadow of offence.

Have you noticed how this tradesman ate you with his eyes?

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Yes? And I hoped you didn’t notice it!

You, my darling, be careful. These sharkers are dangerous— Baltash warns.

And you, dear, be on guard. Today one commander picked up my handkerchief that had

fallen on the deck.

Baltash is calm, after all what should he do? He’s chosen and stuck to Akbilek himself.

He’s calm because first of all he knew that Akbilek kept nothing a secret from him. She

told everything what happened to her. When she came home from work at tea she told

him all their conversations with colleagues and visitors. She trusted him all her thoughts,

doubts and even dreams. Baltash also often shared his problems with her. It’s a secret but

we’ll tell you: it was her who helped him write reports and lectures. She showed such

talent. She writes wonderfully, accurately and with paragraphs. He should only make hot

tea for her in time if she sits late after midnight.

On the third day the young spouses arrived at Zaysan. Tolegen with his wife and little

daughter met them at the quay. They received state telegram “Wait”. The meeting was

with ahs and ohs. There were hugs and kisses.

Baltash had been familiar with Akbilek’s elder brother before. Earlier he addressed him:

“Comrade Tolegen” —and today he greeted him cordially as a relative: “Dear, how are

you?”— and kissed on the lips. He kissed Tolegen’s spouse on the cheek.

Tolegen always considered Baltash to be a narrow-minded person. Now he doesn’t

remember about this. Now Baltash is his brother-in-law. Besides, he works in the centre.

What narrow-mindedness can be there in the new situation? He wouldn’t swagger, and

that’s enough.

Two road carts were waiting. Tolegen holding the women’s arms placed the guests on

soft seats and the carts rushed dashingly lifting clouds of dust through the streets of the

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town straight to his apartment.

They prepared the room for young couple. It had a carpet on the floor and the bed was

lain with fresh linen. The festive table, heaped with food, was set in the living-room.

There was a variety of dishes there! Bawyrsaks and pies paramish, and samosa, and

sweets and fruit drops, and roasted sunflower seeds, and pistachio, and biscuits baked

with walnuts and every thing— was heaped on dishes... the bottles with red, blue and

golden heads ganged at the buffet edge. They stretched their necks as swans on the pond

with pleading call: “When, when will you cling to us!..”

Tolegen considered that vodka didn’t correspond to his brother-in-law’s bossy status and

he bought a bottle of champaign for him for 25 roubles.

When the county under-Commissioners heard that the capital Commissioner arrived, they

hurried to Tolegen’s home as faithful people to Mecca. They were wearing trousers

bubbling on the knees and chewed up jackets. Halfpenny singers that run to the smell of

cauldron and in-service flatterers and pleasers accustomed to toy as hens to millet

happened to be there and then.

“Congratulations!”, “Come on!”, the movement there and here, creaking chairs, clatter of

dishes, clang of knives and forks, clinking of wine glasses — altogether it made not home

but fair whirlwind. The wine glasses made ting-a-ling, bubbling champaigne stroke noses

with sweet wine spirit, vodka sloped over, and they began singing. The company started

up, sure thing! Akbilek and Baltash are from the capital, isn’t it a reason to celebrate in

grand style? Is there any weightier reason for joy?! “Pour vodka! Raise a glass! Start

singing! Eh, have fun, people! Burn! Come on!”

In the excitement of celebration the company got drunk soon and in concert. The heads

hung loose, legs were rubber, the walls of the room were swimming to the sky and when

only the table began swaying, the guests clinging to one another started to leave. Akbilek

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pulled irresponsive husband to the bed and began to clear up from the table with her

sister-in-law. The host of the feast also lay somewhere thanking Allah for the fact that

everything had passed so well.

In two-three days Akbilek and Baltash being tired with invitations to visit and town

ceremonies, moved further to the aul native world.

You can’t go up the mountains in the road carts but only in a saddle. But it’s not a

trouble. Aren’t they the Kazakhs after all? They made fast and wise choice of reliably

broke horses for the trip of honorable brother-in-law.

Tolegen’s wife with the child got onto grey dapple mare. She also arranged a folded

blanket under her back. Tolegen sat on a chestnut stallion. Akbilek got quiet light ash-

grey horse. Baltash rode on a night-crow horse. Local comrade that accompanied the

guests also went not on foot.

They left early in the morning. Akbilek smiled watching her sister-in-law, who wasn’t

used to riding, fidget on the horse. She held a saddlebow with her one hand and with

another one she either drew bridle over or lost it. Tolegen had to settle his little daughter

in front of him.

It was a warm sunny day. At midday the travelers stopped to have a rest in an aul that

nestled on the mountain slope. They ate lamb, drank kumiss and got onto saddles again.

Now they didn’t move so quick as they did in the morning hours. The sister-in-law

suffered, hardly holding on her mare. And Akbilek pinched her horse cheerfully with

light touches of a whip. The girl dozed airily nodding her head. They rode her by turns.

By the evening the women began complaining for thirst and riders turned to an aul at the

bank of a lake. In the centre of the settlement there was a large house. A dozen of foals

were hanging around it. A white yurt was fixed up to the right from the house. The

travelers stopped at this yurt. They called up a teenager that appeared at the doors and

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asked about a host. The youngster answered that the farm belonged to Bekbolat. When

Akbilek heard this name her heart pounded down and collapsed. The first impulse was to

run away from here as far as as possible despite everything but desire to see her might-

have-been groom got the better and she waited for his arrival silently.

The greenhorn disappeared and instead of him Bekbolat came having a foxy treukh

shifted aside. Chapan was thrown over one shoulder. Looking frowningly at the

unexpected guests he moved half-way and as a token of greeting he took the bridle of

Baltash’s horse. When he met Akbilek’s eyes he got pale but greeted both her and her

brother as old kith. He hurried to bring the guests into the yurt.

A young swarthy snub woman was sitting in front of a pile of blankets busy with sewing.

Her figure stroke Akbilek’s eyes at once. Young hostess also first of all looked over the

women with displeasure. She obviously didn’t like that the women without turning an

eyelash came in and sat next to the men, nearly knee to knee! Her glance was struck with

one thought: “Look at them! They are dressed out in such a way! What do they fancy

themselves? Ah, damn you!..”

Bekbolat immediately sent the youngster to the large house to bring kumiss. He himself

spread a table cloth before the guests and then began to churn the refreshing drink which

appeared in a big bowl. He didn’t dare to look at Akbilek any more. He was timid as if

some fault before her had lain upon him. On the contrary, his wife with her short nose in

the air left the yurt showing that she shouldn’t have any thought to wheedle to any sort of

the townspeople, like – you spin as you wish, ragged clown, auh! Bekbolat looked behind

her with hatred.

A guest can drop in for a minute and see the entire life. Akbilek thought that Bekbolat

didn’t love his spouse and she felt sorry for him. Her several meetings with him came

alive again in her mind but this time they weren’t so vivid to worry her as before. And in

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the next breath they became a thing of the past irretrievably without any shadow of regret.

What are former dreams of a girl? They are like sand under woman’s feet. She walks

without sinking in it but breathing with new desires. And Bekbolat wasn’t the same either

— he’s become heavy, a beard has grown to the moustache. There were wrinkles at the

mouth and he seemed to be shorter in height. And what about conversation?

— Er, well then, you go to your relatives... What’s in the wind in the town?..We’ll

slaughter a lamb, be our guests! — that’s all he said.

Fearing that Baltash could guess about her close although old relations with Bekbolat as

well as worthless now feelings might revive in Bekbolat all of a sudden, Akbilek said in

Russian: “Let’s go!” Paying no attention to the continuous requests to stay, everybody

stood up and went to still saddled horses.

They rode in silence for a while. Akbilek looked at her brother from time to time but due

to his impenetrable face it was impossible to understand what he was thinking about. He

was busy with the choice of topic for conversation which would be able to arouse

interlocutors to any memories by no means. When he finally talked to the sister he made

sure with relief that she had understood his prudent plan.

Five horsemen and horsewomen on the mountain slope are like nothing more than ants.

They weren’t even seen in the mighty grasses of Altai highland at all. They passed a

ravine eaten by the caves, went past the rocks hanging over them as camel humps, rode

around the boulders polished by the winds as giantesses’ breasts... Here, at the very peaks

of Altai Akbilek has realized like never before this hour that the murder of her mother

and violence over her, and the stepmother’s bullying, the hours in the darkness in the hut

of old Barnet remained there — far beneath — and would never disturb her any more.

She brought her heart up to the seven heavens. There in space she washed it in the golden

bowl and was born again— pure, different.

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Altai is the entire world— Akbilek, stretching out as a string, sees in the sunset rays: the

horses rush with neigh and roar throwing up manes along the crystal waves of Markakol;

the mares fuff the foals and involve them to the mountain meadows; the foxy treukhs of

herdsmen burn red; on the slope closer to the bank the almond women heads in patterned

kerchiefs flicker; the green dresses outline the curves of bodies; and everything is seen

like through the spectacles with yellow glass. It has golden light and floats.

The dog barking and sheep bleat is heard in the corrals of the near aul. The goatlings call

their horny mothers with plaintive voices. The lark rings in the sky. And the swifts fly

near the ground and guard people. Three girls that go to bring water begin singing rolling:

The line of reeds hid an earring,

For the sister an unexpected stranger arrived.

Fingers are cut with double rings,

I feel sorry for her to heartache at time...

God knows from where from a boy flew out on the stallion with wavering tail. He saw

Akbilek with companions and turned back to dash to the aul.

Aqsaqal Mamyrbai’s dream was to see the daughter-in-law. Before Tolegen’s rare

arrivals he fixed up the white yurt for the newly-weds hoping that this time he would

certainly bring his wife. It rose up near Aqsaqal’s house this time too — the old man had

been expecting.

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The boy shouted straight from the horse:

—Uncles are coming! And Akbilek is with them!

When Aqsaqal heard long-awaited news he gave a start and began dangling around the

rooms in a fuss exclaiming:

—Eh! What is he crying there!

He hadn’t seen Akbilek since the day she left with brother. He heard she studied but only

frowned with displeasure without any word: “What a girl can learn?” She seemed to have

disappeared from the face of the earth for him. He only remembered that he had such

daughter. He didn’t think of her and didn’t imagine that he would ever see her again.

What should he do now? Will he have to stay at home? Or to meet half-way. How to

greet? It’s impossible to sit as if nothing happens. Will she ask forgiveness? Such bad

break has fallen upon him.

Nothing comes across the mind but the woman at the window started cackling:

—Here, they appeared! Four people! No... five... two women... I suppose one is the

daughter-in-law...

When Aqsaqal heard about the daughter-in-law he wasn’t able to sit at the place as if he

was pushed to his side. Remembering the famous saying that even six-year old child is

met when he comes from far away, the old man has to go towards and greet him first,

Aqsaqal Mamyrbai dared to leave the house and meet guests as is right and proper.

The same minute he went out they arrived en masse. A woman in white dress looked at

him from a light ash grey horse. Sarah settled in front of her. While he was lost in

guesses: “How can it be” — Urkiya was alredy hugging her and kissing on the forehead.

She turned out to be Akbilek. To his surprise she was the first who both men and the

elders of the aul approached to. Seeing that everyone treated her with respectful attention,

Aqsaqal decided to change his hostility to daughter.

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Tolegen came up, greeted and, pointing at Baltash who followed, him introduced him:

—Here’s your son-in-law. His name is Baltash.

—Er, how do you do, dear? — Aqsaqal said dumbfounded.

And he couldn’t grasp what to say else, only awkward words were spinning on the tip of

his tongue: “Congratulations!” Akbilek, leading Sarah by the hand, came up to father

after her brother. She stretched her arm to him.

—Is that you, Akbilek, dear? — Aqsaqal voice trembled and the eyes got wet. He could

hardly choke back his tears after he had taken a deep breath.

Akbilek stood sad without raising her eyes.

—How are you? Are you healthy, dear? — Aqsaqal asked her.

In the meantime the aul women took the daughter-in-law to the yurt for newly-weds, they

walked around it and brought her in there. The aul people began to approach greeting.

After Aqsaqal shook hands with everybody, he ordered:

—Enough, make way for them! Let them come in the house!

The guests came into the rooms. Aqsaqal was with them too. The women rushed to look

for a veil for daughter-in-law but Aqsaqal stopped their bustling:

—Leave it, don’t rush here! — And he said to daughter-in-law: —Don’t be shy, darling!

You can do without it! Any ceremonies are out of place now.

Meanwhile the latter one didn’t even think to be shy. And the women kept making noise:

—Eh, Aqsaqal, what the old man he is! Children have arrived! Gracious living! Well, are

you pleased? And this fellow is the son-in-law then! We wish the young couple to live

long and love! The blessing to all your children!

Aqsaqal was very pleased indeed.

They brought in traveling things, housed in. Aqsaqal went outside and butchered a lamb

together with workers in the moonlight and asked the brother:

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—What clan is the son-in-law from? Have you found out?

Amir, who had already learned everything about Baltash from Tolegen, could hardly wait

to gossip about the son-in-law.

—He’s from Semey, from the Tobykty people. He’s occupied a big position, a

gentleman! He’s at the state service in Orenburg! — he praised.

Aqsaqal’s former feelings disappeared into a thin air, his mood lifted — he was glad

insufferably.

When in the morning he looked at Akbilek and Marisha returning from the walk out of

the aul he thought rather pleased: “Son has well-deserved wife — she’s stout, white and

walks smoothly”. He was told she wasn’t the Kazakh but from the Estek people but he

decided the Estek to be certainly some Kazakh clan. When Aqsaqal saw Sarah who raised

Tolegen’s little daughter on her arms and she was going to go out, he said:

—Give her to me, honey! — and he smelled the kid’s neck tenderly, kissed her on the

face.

The mood was so nice that the heart was already singing.

—Hey, thank to the God, forgive us!

Tolegen and Baltash were about to go out too. They put on storm coats and had hats slant

a bit. Aqsaqal saw them off with the glance and thought: “I guess time belongs to such

people”. And he wanted to live long having such gentlemen as relatives.

While the young people were walking and drinking tea at their place, Aqsaqal dropped in

to the stable and ordered to beat up milk of all seven mares, returned and checked strictly

how the rooms had been swept and cleaned. He ordered the wife to spread the especially

thick blanket for Akbilek.

He waited patiently for an hour and sent his brother to bring the youth. He invited

Tolegen and Baltash who appeared at the entrance to sit at the dastarkhan’s head and

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seated Akbilek with Marisha to his right hand.

The stepmother began to pour kumiss into red drinking bowls. She did it generously and

thoroughly not depriving even neighbors and children. And she simply stuck to Marisha:

—Drink, honey, drink! Let me pour some more for you!

And she didn’t ever dare to look at Akbilek’s face, only bent stretching to reach her

drinking bowl. Aqsaqal was never tired to treat the son-in-law:

—Why don’t you drink? What a great kumiss!

—I’ve drunk enough! — Baltash replied.

Aqsaqal responded to this thoughtfully and sadly:

—The urban life leaves nothing from man’s stomach.

Aqsaqal sat pretty: what great son he had! What great son-in law! What great daughter-

in-law! What daughter! Who else could boast his life is such a success present times?! If

he spitted over the threshold this time— he was sure: his spit would hit just dog’s nose

exactly.

Well, it goes without saying, Mamyrbai organized the toy! He wanted to slaughter a

mare- three-year old one but Tolegen insisted on a yearling. Furthermore, ten kindred

houses slaughtered a lamb each. Five Markakol auls celebrated Aqsaqal Mamyrbai’s

holiday! The cauldron couldn’t house the meat, kumiss was flooding almost to the lake,

the wrestlers played with their shoulders, the riders seized in kokpar, and singers didn’t

leave dombra off...

It took some doing to celebrate. Akbilek with her sister-in-law hung over the yurt a red

fabric and began teaching women reading and writing. The men — Tolegen and Baltash

— took higher: they led the men to the heights of political awareness.

Akbilek was soft, talkative and quiet to father. Mamyrbai couldn’t imagine what else

about to speak to Akbilek if not about forgiveness. He noted:

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—Akbilek, dear, auh! Why to bother yourself so much? Have a rest. Is it worth to teach

women to read?

Father, it’s such a time now.

They can’t be like you all the same!

Akbilek didn’t argue. Her thoughts were occupied with Sarah. Sister was twelve; she was

already wearing long dresses. It was time to go to school for her. She would certainly take

her to the town. But it was more complicated with the brother. Kazheken upset her with

the fact that during the years of her absence at home he had become deceitful and

revengeful. Gloomy and restless fellow— he aggrieved her and disturbed her. Well, then

let Tolegen take care of him.

Akbilek often went to the lake bank with Urkiya who kept treating her with the same

tenderness. One of such days an unhurried conversation somehow made Akbilek ask

about the man who pointed the Russians at her:

—Auntie, what happened to this... Mukash?

—Haven’t you heard? That winter he went out of his wintering and disappeared.

How could he disappear?

Who knows? Perhaps someone killed him.

He brought much evil to the people.

So does evil return.

Well, how could they know that one known to us day the sentence had been passed upon

him by Aben Matayin and it had been executed by his people as well.

The women sank into a reverie for a while and were silently watching Sarah playing with

Tolegen’s daughter on the bank sand. A conversation about girls seemed to suggest itself

but Urkiya could only talk about her sweet son — Iskander. Iskander is a handsome boy

with an attitude.

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She loved him madly. According to the mother he was clever and wise: he composed

songs and knew time for play, he could look for sheep and hold a calf. Except for he was

hot-tempered. If he didn’t like something then he got back up and agreed not for anything

— he would lay about himself until his arms were caught, and if he was knocked down,

he would fight back with legs and his head.

And this time he rushed to fight with a boy who made his urban sister cry. That boy was

older and larger him but he was taken aback and ran away. Urkiya got scared and waved

with her arms. And Akbilek said with enthusiasm:

—Iskander, come to me, darling! My brother, aynalaiyn¹! — and she gave him a very

tight hug and kissed.

Iskander writhed himself free and ran to water. Akbilek without taking eyes off him

asked:

—Auntie, why is he Iskander? In Russian it’s Alexander.

Urkiya answered quietly:

Do you remember your Duana Iskander? He saved you. So I called the son in his honor.

Akbilek’s eyes came round, she thought for a while and said: —Auntie, auh! Iskander

looks like me, doesn’t he?

Urkiya laughed and replied to her:

—If he looks like you then perhaps you gave birth to him!

—Is it true, Auntie? — Akbilek exclaimed and called again: — Iskander! Iskander, come

up to me!

The boy ran up and she grasped him so tightly in embraces that she herself lacked breath.

—My little colt! How nice you’ve done everything, auh! — and she dashed to kiss

Urkiya. — I thought I killed him... How happy I am! Will you give him to me?.. Well,

when he grows enough to go to school?

- 271 -
—I will — Urkiya answered.

Markakol water is honey sweet. The divine udder creatures are fed by its water and grass

and it runs from enclasped teats — not milk but real bliss ... And here she is— Akbilek

Mamyrbaidina — Markakol’s daughter, the son’s mother and the woman.

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