Telefon
“Whenever he sees the phone, he thinks about calling his mother.”
AUGUST 8, 2024
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An unrelenting writerly force since the 1980s, Salomat Vafo is one of very few women to have made a mark on modern Uzbek literature: In 2004, she became the first woman to publish a novel in Uzbek. Much of her writing — like the short story “Telefon,” presented here — engages with the interiority and spirituality of everyday people at the outmost edges of her country. “Like other writers and poets, I could have written ‘morning, dawn, tears, love, separation,’ but in the end someone has to speak about pains and dreams — the pains of women enduring hardships in the remote Aral Sea region, of people carrying buckets of water, with no gas, no electricity in their homes, suffering in winter, suffering from lack of firewood,” she told the BBC in an interview.
Uzbek, a Turkic language, contains a great number of Arabic and Farsi words, and the dialect of Vafo’s native Xorazm overlaps with the Turkmen language spoken just across the border. Writing systems (between Arabic, Latin and Cyrillic) and the way sounds are transcribed changed numerous times during Russian and Soviet rule and after the country achieved independence. I relied heavily on conversations with the author and with my friend and colleague Munira Nurova to traverse these textures while translating “Telefon.” The translation aims to reflect the special sonic qualities of Uzbek, in which so many phrases are sung, not said. It is a language in which echoed and repeated words create emphasis and inflection, and with scores of onomatopoetic phrases — along with the latitude to invent new ones. In such a verbal environment, the narrator’s tinny radio emits a vast psychedelic range of articulations that fuel his fantasies. English works at a lower decibel.
Written in 2006, “Telefon” bears traces of Uzbekistan’s relationship with Russia, from the surname of the protagonist’s haughty boss, Dosaev, to the story’s title — the word “telefon,” like so many pertaining to technology, is borrowed from Russian. The story’s stretched, tangled telephone wires not only signify the strain on relationships and the rifts created when the Soviet Union fell but point to greater existential disunities — and to the promises and failures of technology to reunite them. Nowadays another Russian export, the app Telegram, which I used to speak to Vafo, has perhaps helped close some of these distances. It helped create this translation — it, too, a kind of telephone.
Sherjon swings the heavy doors open and goes inside. The house, which has long stood vacant, has a certain desolate smell about it, like that of a cemetery. Its emptiness frightens him at first. Actually, having worked for some time as a watchman at kindergartens and bakeries, he’s grown used to it, but it still irritates him somehow. He has a great need for people and affection and feels as though he’s missed out on a large part of his life. Since he works four day shifts and four night shifts per week, he isn’t home much. Working in this world of silence, he spends a lot of time looking out the window and daydreaming.
Thoroughly bored, he wanders in and out of the house, stroking its objects one by one and muttering. He imagines doing this or that when he gets home, but these dreams will flutter up to the sky. As soon as he opens the door, he’ll be greeted by his wife, who’s tired of her difficult life, tired of the shortcomings in their marriage and of the children’s endless quarreling. “Emin broke the window at school.” “Otash was fired from his job for drinking.” Dark thoughts stream in. He unbuttons his shirt before going back inside. He feels like he’s suffocating. Is anyone really happy? And what is happiness, anyway? Back before he was married and lived in the village, he’d had different ideas about it.
“Where else could one find such a paradise? Crazy woman. Why did God grant this house to such unworthy people? One person needs it, another neglects it.”
He stands for a while, bewildered. He thinks that he should look in on the second floor. But the stairs are so long, the rooms so immense, and walking from one end of the house to the other is exhausting. He’s fed up with doing this thankless job day after day. A pipe burst at the kindergarten the night before and he didn’t get to sleep until very late. Now his head’s spinning. Reluctantly, he creeps up the stairs one by one with his old shoes. He pauses halfway and looks down. Despite a thick layer of dust, the courtyard looks beautiful, done up in fine wood and marble tile work. Because Sherjon, now in his 60s, has been admiring this view for three years, he heaves a heavy sigh and continues. The higher he goes, the hotter it gets. The warm air is creeping upward. He enters the rooms one by one, floors squeaking as he drags his feet across them. He opens the windows in the great hall. Fresh air drives out the stuffiness. The carpets have been rolled up and the furniture covered in plastic since they first arrived. He walks into the next room, touching the walls and the door with his rough hands. Again he opens the curtains and fresh air comes in. A cobweb in the corner. If the house’s owner comes by, he’ll complain. He glances around the room, at the expensive daybeds, sofas and armchairs covered with crackly plastic and coated in dust. Left over from someone’s birthday is a large, withered bouquet of flowers. Dust particles play in long ribbons in the light from the window. The dust makes him sneeze. “Stupid.” Sherjon has repeated this word for three years, every time he comes here. So in that time, he’s said the word “stupid” about a million times. Since he lives in a three-room house with his wife and children, he gets nervous at the sight of so many vacant rooms. The owner’s jealous elder wife lives in the city, refusing to move here or allow her husband sell the house. In Sherjon’s opinion, the old woman should move in and live happily in a house with a garden.
The Khumson Mountains are visible from the porch. In summer, their slopes are covered with blue-green juniper trees. Water rushes down them. In the mornings, you hear birdsong and the bleating of sheep. Although it’s the end of winter now, the mountains are still wearing their white furs. “Where else could one find such a paradise? Crazy woman. Why did God grant this house to such unworthy people? One person needs it, another neglects it.” He drags his feet loudly through the remaining rooms, muttering and cursing. Then he goes out on the terrace facing the mountains. He takes a deep breath. Looking around, he’s suddenly filled with joy. To the south, he sees the first ambassadors of spring, green grasses sprouting and some newly returned birds chirping and fluttering their wings. “Praise God.” He always measures things against his own desires, and he gives thanks for his miserable life.
Though he’s all alone in the house, he never uses the bathtub. He worries the doorbell will ring or the owner will walk in.
So spring has finally come. The thought reminds him of death. One day he’ll leave all this. Back in his 40s and 50s, death didn’t scare him. “Have a head, have a death,” he used to say when he was drinking, and punch the table. Those days passed in the blink of an eye. Now old age, full of frightening winter illnesses, has arrived. In the past, he’d feel bored and restless during his long winter days at work. His head would ache from thinking all night about his children and wife. But recently he’s noticed something. His family has gotten used to his absence, and the minute he stretches out in front of the television, they leave. Even his wife says she’s not feeling well and goes to bed early. (The objects in the house he watches over are taking the place of his mother, wife and children.) He’s growing accustomed to living this way. He leans against the wall and looks around. The trees have started to bud. Next door, a house belonging to the hokim — the local administrator — is already being prepared for spring, and men in yellow uniforms are carrying things in and out.
Someone addresses him: “Salom, Sherjon aka.”
“Salom, salom,” Sherjon responds happily.
And immediately he thinks about going back inside. Because today he has nothing to offer. He used to meet this man, a worker in the hokim’s house, on his paydays. Sherjon would carefully pack a bottle of vodka for the occasion. The worker would bring a bowl of food or some cold snacks. Sherjon always asked his name and then immediately forgot it. On those days, he was the happiest of men.
“Let’s sit together on Saturday, Sherjon aka. You’ll be here, right?”
Sherjon stands up and nods. He gestures noncommittally.
“My wife’s going to a family wedding in the morning. There’ll be all kinds of food. Somsa, norin … whatever they have, I’ll bring some.”
“Mmm …” says Sherjon, showing his yellow smile, which has probably never seen a toothbrush.
The neighbor guy has grown accustomed to their chats over the years and watches indifferently as Sherjon fades away like a shadow.
Sherjon continues on his dawdling rounds. He turns on the bathroom light and stares dumbly. The expensive tile work sparkles. He goes to turn on the faucet as usual, but then he pulls his hand away and bends down to take a look. There in the bathtub is a small, delicate baby snake — a “snakelet.” A toy, he thinks. How did it get in here? He tries to prod it with a toothbrush. “Voy! Are you crazy to come in here? Where’s your mother? Are you thirsty?” He turns on the faucet and water rushes out. For a moment, he watches the snake slither through the water and slip down the polished sides of the tub. Then he turns the faucet off. Though he’s all alone in the house, he never uses the bathtub. He worries the doorbell will ring or the owner will walk in. “You stink,” his wife told him. She refuses his advances at night. I’ll enjoy taking a bath here, he thinks every time he sees the bathroom.
He goes back downstairs and has something to eat. Bzzz … He turns the dial on the pocket radio that he always carries around in his bag. Flooding continues in the United States, the announcer says. Even though America is very far away, Sherjon listens attentively. It’s a highly developed country, but nothing is helping. Bzzz … His world is filled with clamor. This one goes out to the rap fans. Startled, he turns the dial. Bzzz … The room is filled with flute melodies and a mournful voice. Lately, Sherjon can’t listen to sad music. With a heavy heart, he remembers his mother and the other relatives he hasn’t seen for 10 years. Turns the knob again. A strong, sonorous voice comes through. There is no better companion than a friend … Then some voices singing in Russian. Someone sings in a language he doesn’t understand. Black people’s music, he thinks. For some reason, whenever he hears people singing in a foreign language, he imagines they are Black. Bzzz … Another pleasant voice rings out.
Hard to believe, but he’s thought of his mother every time he’s seen a telephone for the last 10 years. He always finds a reason not to call.
The song tugs at Sherjon’s heartstrings, though they’ve hardened over the course of his long life. Every time he hears it, it brings back long-forgotten feelings and memories. Sometimes he’ll hear a song whose name he doesn’t even know and start to sing along. And sometimes, when he’s been drinking and a song by Xonzoda Ezoz comes on, he closes his eyes. His heart yearns to surrender to sweet fantasy and affection, though the feeling he has for her couldn’t really be called love. As soon as Sherjon hears Xonzoda’s sweet voice, her beautiful face and fine clothes and fancy jewelry all appear before his eyes, and he longs for her. When he’s drinking, he indulges in devilish fantasies. He imagines Xonzoda naked in his arms. “Voy, your house is so big. I thought you were a nobody but turns out you’re something after all. But it’s so chilly in here, I’m cold.” He thinks for a moment and then goes to get the owner’s fluffy robe that’s hanging from the bathroom door. He panics, worried someone might show up. “What’s this picture?” Xonzoda asks. “Do you like horses?” “Me too.” “Who painted this one?” Sherjon mutters some gibberish. What was the artist’s name? Suddenly he’s startled back to reality. The tea is boiling over. His fantasies vanish.
Now the reality that surrounds him seems terrible. In his thousand-year-old knapsack, Sherjon has brought his evening meal — a glass jar of fried potatoes and half a flatbread. “Don’t eat too much, you’ll get fat. You’ll get sick,” his wife told him. He knows very well she’s trying to save on food. Though it’s not much of a meal, he still enjoys eating here. It’s quiet and his wife can’t bother him. The kids can’t get on his nerves. The music plays and he’s alone … Oh, how sweet. His eyes fall upon a dusty telephone. Sherjon thinks about his old mother far away. She must be ancient now. Maybe they could talk. It used to work, he thinks, though lately it’s stopped ringing. “Wonggg,” goes the dial tone when he picks up the receiver. “So it does work,” he says, sounding depressed by the fact. Whenever he sees the phone, he thinks about calling his mother. Now these anxious thoughts start up again. Hard to believe, but he’s thought of his mother every time he’s seen a telephone for the last 10 years. He always finds a reason not to call. Since his mother lives in a foreign country, he worries it will be expensive.
“Oof …” He gets up with a sigh, grabs a tattered magazine from under the table and flips through it for maybe the 300th or 500th time. Inside the cover is a color photo of Xonzoda wearing a green dress and lots of jewelry. She regards him coldly. Involuntarily, as though some kind of secret or the answer to some riddle might be hidden in those eyes, he stares for a long time. Sherjon looks at this picture for hours. He doesn’t dream of uncovering the secret. Because he’s neither rich nor young. So he finds consolation in her songs. He has all kinds of fantasies like this every day. Now it occurs to him that he comes here to think about this woman. Here, his wife isn’t constantly in his ear. It seems like this has become his life’s purpose.
He goes to sleep with his clothes on. He’ll bathe the next day, he tells himself to justify his laziness, today he has a little cold. And then it’s morning again. He hears a car outside and a knock on the door. Washes his face, then his head and neck. He rubs his bald head and neck with a towel and clears his throat. “Coming …” He slaps his old shoes on his feet and runs to the door. Scowling and squinting, the owner is standing in the entrance by the gate.
“Sun’s up, still sleeping? They say old people don’t sleep much, but you were snug as a silkworm. Here …” He thrusts a paper bag at Sherjon.
Dosaev, a man in his 50s, walks self-importantly inside. He must have quarreled with one of his wives and decided to come here early.
“Is the water leaking upstairs?”
“No,” says Sherjon, confused. He swallows and looks at the paper bag. “There’s a snake up there.”
“What do you mean, a snake?” Dosaev stops and looks at him with suspicion. He wonders whether the guard has gone a little batty all by himself. He turns his ear toward the second floor to listen.
“A baby snake, in the bathtub …”
“Good grief.” The owner is displeased, but he heads begrudgingly upstairs. Sherjon follows.
“What’s a snake doing in the bathtub? Did you bring it in from outside?”
“Surprised me, too,” Sherjon murmurs.
They enter the bathroom. When the light switches on, the milky tiles glow.
“Where is it?” The owner looks impatiently beneath the rubber mats.
“It was here yesterday … I asked it where its mother was.”
The owner looks at the bald, wrinkled man in his sixties. Must be losing it, he thinks. The long silence between them builds to a breaking point. He pushes Sherjon outside, cursing.
“Where are these snakes? Maybe they slithered into the portraits on the walls and became pictures?”
Maybe they were thirsty and slid out of the paintings, Sherjon thinks. “Didn’t you close the …” the owner is saying from down the corridor. Sherjon dawdles behind him and stops in the middle of the great hall. He watches the owner of the house run his fingers across some paintings of leaping horses.
“I told you to close these. The sun causes fading. This thing cost 5,000 euros.”
Sherjon’s gaze falls on the silvery horses. In his childhood, in the village, they used to ride horses all day. They’d bathe with their horses in the Shavat Canal. His mother, very young at the time, would come looking for him with a willow switch in her hand. “Come on home, your father’s on his way.” Hidden inside the wall, a grasshopper chirps. Kids are shouting in the hokim’s swimming pool next door. Someone is cursing. It’s Sherjon’s drinking buddy yelling at his son who was supposed to bring back bread from the market: “Clumsy son of a bitch. Why’d you drop it?”
“Last week you said to open them,” Sherjon mutters.
“What’re you, hungover? Where’s your mind at? If you opened them last week, you’ve got to close them now. They’re supposed to be aired from time to time. Sun kills the mildew. Probably why famous paintings are occasionally exhibited. Do I really need to explain this to you?”
Sherjon is unsure how to respond. He looks at the window. Should it be open or closed?
The owner looks him up and down, frowning. “You’re getting old. I’ll need to find a replacement.” Dosaev knows full well that no young person will work for what he pays Sherjon. The parquet floors creak underfoot as he goes back downstairs. Sherjon straggles behind him.
“Tidy up the garden. We’re coming Saturday.”
Voices float in from the street — the owner speaking with the neighbors — then a car roars off. Sherjon stares at the paper bag the owner brought like an eagle admiring its prey from afar. Oil is leaking through the bottom. Atop two flatbreads are assorted baked goods — sweet buns, toast with jam — and a chicken missing one wing. Sherjon can’t help but smile. The owner is rude and haughty but also generous. He brings Sherjon all kinds of food from the restaurant where his son works. While eating the chicken and enjoying the pastries with his tea, he thinks of taking a thigh home to his wife. But he decides not to. Because a few times when he came home earlier than planned, a plate was immediately hidden beneath the xontaxta — a low table. Then, after he’d washed his hands and sat down, he was served a plate of fried pasta. After a hard day of work, he deserved more than that. So stingy, though I’m only home a few days each week, he’d thought.
The fragrance of the tea he’s brewed still hangs faintly in the air. He sighs and returns to the picture of Xonzoda. I swear her eyes were black before, he thinks. Now they’re sky blue. I can’t even tell colors apart anymore. Am I losing my sight? He begins to see Xonzoda Ezoz everywhere, with sky-blue clothing and eyes. Happy holiday to all the children of the world! Today is Marine Day in Japan, and the sea, after all, is the children’s future, the radio announcer says. Strange that such a holiday exists. What are they celebrating? Maybe in Switzerland, there’s a Sun Day and a Sky Day, too. When we see something every day, we become indifferent to it. But maybe the gracious, tirelessly shining sun needs some attention, too. For what would happen if it stopped shining? Sherjon used to take a 10-hour train ride to visit his village from time to time, but since the Union collapsed in 1991, he’s been on one side of the border, with his mother on the other. Sherjon’s dreams are strange just like he is. He imagines that if the sun isn’t shining where he is, it isn’t there either. Thanks to the rain that greeted us … There’s a song for everything. The doorbell rings. The horses in the pictures appear startled. The owner must have left something. My my, the richer a man gets, the more forgetful he becomes. Or maybe it’s the neighbors. Then he starts to dream: Maybe it’s Xonzoda Ezoz … He opens the door and sees two women in shabby clothing standing in the threshold.
“Assalomu alaykum, aka. We’ve come to you as a good man,” says one of them. Her eyes are full of buried suffering.
“Well, what do you need?” Feeling almost as though he is the master of the magnificent home, Sherjon puffs himself up a bit.
“Can we make a phone call?” says the weary-faced woman. The way she looks at him makes it hard to refuse.
The younger woman beside her smiles.
Sherjon thinks: What if these are evil women, with accomplices lurking? But they don’t look so bad.
“Just no long-distance,” he says, with a bit of a swagger.
“Of course not, aka. We know,” says the older woman.
They come in and make their call. But they can’t get through.
“Thank you. The people we needed to reach weren’t home.” They start to leave.
Then the younger one turns back as though remembering something.
“Can you give us a place to sleep for the night, aka? We’re working in the city.”
“A place to sleep?” A half-dead feeling of astonishment flashes across Sherjon’s face. He looks at the women and then all around. His thoughts become jumbled. The fearful face of the owner appears before him.
“We got a bad feeling from the guys we’re working for,” says the older woman, glancing back to where they’d come from. “Drunks, like all men.”
“But …” he says, “I can’t let some strange women stay here.”
“Bless you, brother. We’re good people. Look at our hands. We’ve done hard work for 12 years, but we’re still women,” the older woman responds, holding out her dark hands, eyes brimming with tears.
“Your neighbor said he’d take us in, but there are two young men in the house. My sister wouldn’t agree to it. She’s always worrying about me,” the younger woman says, glancing in the direction of the hokim’s house, where Sherjon’s drinking buddy works.
His wife goes off to a wedding and immediately he’s getting into mischief, Sherjon thinks.
Finally, he steps aside and invites the women back in: “Welcome.” The women enter cautiously and look around.
“You could fit a hundred people here. And still you didn’t want to let us in?” says the younger woman reproachfully.
The older woman pokes her in the ribs. “Should we sleep here or is there another room?” she asks Sherjon. “I’m Oyshagul, and this is Noli.”
Sherjon is suddenly ashamed of the mess and begins to quietly collect breadcrumbs and bones from the table. Unfamiliar feelings awaken within him.
“Leave it to us,” Oyshagul says, sweeping the table clean and heading for the kitchen. “Can we wash our hands here?” Before he can answer, he hears the water running. In an instant, the younger one dusts the floor and furniture. In an instant, the courtyard glistens, as though for a wedding or a circumcision feast. Sherjon makes tea. He lights the expensive chandelier. Dust falls on his clothes and he scolds himself for not having bathed. He doesn’t have anything else to change into. It’s been a few years since he bought anything new and he suddenly feels self-conscious. He doesn’t hear the women. Must have gone to the bathroom. Fine, let them wash up, they were covered in grime. Suddenly he remembers a bottle of vodka hidden in the garage. But if he brings it to the table, they might get the wrong idea, take offense and leave … Better to sit quietly. Listening to the women’s cheerful voices and laughter, Sherjon’s heart races. He hears the water running.
Oyshagul comes out in a long red bathrobe. There’s some fragrance floating from her, shampoo perhaps.
“Think you’d gotten rid of us? Noli, why don’t you set the table?” She shakes her long hair. “Sherjon aka is a good man.”
Meat, somsas and all kinds of baked goods fill up the small table.
“It’s great you have a telephone at home,” says Noli, happily.
Sherjon fidgets nervously. He feels as though his face has become more wrinkled, and his hair is mussed.
“Just keep it down, and local calls only.”
“Yes, yes, I know.”
Feeling more at ease, Sherjon turns to Oyshagul. He smiles to himself.
“There’s some … we could have a drink?” he says, mumbling as usual.
The woman stares at him with her beautiful, slightly wrinkled eyes. Then she smiles brightly. He feels himself both a king with a magnificent palace and a servant in the court.
“We will have a drink,” she says.
Sherjon slips out to the garage, a little surprised that the woman drinks. Taking off his dirty shirt, he grabs one of his boss’s, a T-shirt with all kinds of writing on it. It’s too big and comes down to his knees. At least I won’t be hot in it, he thinks.
Sherjon looks funny when he returns, like that little cartoon cat in big boots, but with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a jar of pickles in the other. Seeing him, Noli spits out her tea. Oyshagul laughs, too, but tries to hide it.
“Come on, aka. It looks really good on you. The girl’s just messing around. No matter how tired she is, she always has the strength to laugh.”
Clutching her stomach and laughing, Noli puts some piyolas on the table, then goes back out.
“It really is big. I used to be very fat.” And suddenly Sherjon bursts out laughing like when he was young.
Deftly, he pours vodka into the piyolas.
“Pour for two. None for the girl,” says Oyshagul, placing her hand over the third piyola.
“All right, drink up,” he says as though in a hurry. “We’ll drink the first one without speaking. A silent toast. And then on to the next …”
The woman’s cheeks are flushed. She tosses her hair back. A white smile flashes across her tan face. But her flirting and laughter are overshadowed by her coarse, sun-darkened hands. The drinks go to Sherjon’s head and his eyes are drawn to the woman’s full breasts.
“Where are you from?” Still feeling bashful like a young man, he plays with the tablecloth.
“From Lower Sarpanja. We came to the city for the summer to earn a few extra soms.”
Noli’s voice drifts in from the other room: “We’ll just make another hundred or two and then I promise I’ll come home.” Oyshagul’s eyes darken. She tries to pull Sherjon into the conversation to distract him.
“But it doesn’t seem like there’s any work here. You must get very bored.”
For a moment, Sherjon forgets he’s supposed to be the master of the house.
He imagines the owner standing there, imagines that he had forgotten to tell him something and came back. He’ll see the women and it’ll all be over. Why’d he let them inside?
“I look after this and that, look after the garden. The owner of the house … the people who live here come out for market day on Saturday. I was about to call my mother when you arrived. I speak with her often,” he says, making the thing he’s been dreaming about for days, years, a reality. Why’d I say that? he thinks.
“How old is your mother?” asks the world-weary woman, playing along as though she still believes he’s the master of the house.
“Almost 80 …” he says, swallowing the words. How old is his mother? It’s been 10 years since the border closed. Ten years since he’s seen his relatives. “She’s gotten old. But we speak … often,” he says, negating his innermost desires, then suddenly he stops. Why’d he bring up his mother? Why is he lying?
Then, as the two strangers sit talking, the doorbell rings throughout the high-ceilinged mansion. Sherjon’s heart drops and he freezes like a toad. “Who could it be at this hour?” says the woman, smiling. “Noli, come here.” The girl rushes out of the next room, tangled up in the long cord of the telephone. As Sherjon walks to the door, his insides turn to jelly. “Who’s there?” he asks hoarsely. His heart is beating, perhaps faster than ever before. And his blood pressure is reaching record levels. He imagines the owner standing there, imagines that he had forgotten to tell him something and came back. He’ll see the women and it’ll all be over. Why’d he let them inside? He opens the door. But it’s his buddy from the hokim’s house, with something in his hands.
“You weren’t sleeping, were you, Sherjon aka? I sent those women over, after all.” He walks past Sherjon, without invitation. “How are you settling in?” The women stand up to greet him. “I told you Sherjon aka was good people. Now you’ve seen it for yourselves.”
Oyshagul drops her eyes and fixes the collar of her robe. Noli observes at a distance, picking at the food on the table.
“But Sherjon aka, you’re an old geezer.” The emphatic word “geezer” — and not “master of the house” — hits particularly hard. If at this moment Xonzoda Ezoz were to come in and say, “I’m looking for Sherjon,” the neighbor would eat his words. “Your guests must be bored.” Quickly, the neighbor adds more food to the table and slams down another bottle of vodka.
“You said you’d be right over,” Oyshagul says, arching her dark brows.
“Work, lots of work,” says the neighbor, pouring vodka into the piyolas.
Voy, what’s this all about? Sherjon thinks. He sends these women ahead and then shows up himself. Sherjon aka is just a guard, he probably told them. He’s a pushover.
“How about a drink? Say a few words, Sherjon aka.”
Disoriented, Sherjon says, “Mmm …” and makes other strange sounds. He shrivels like a popped balloon. “You planned all this …” he begins, but he’s too timid to continue. Like an actor, the neighbor throws his head back and laughs. Ass. Grinning like a boy who’s peed his pants in front of these women. Look at him showing off.
“I thought to myself: if I go with them, he’ll think I’m up to no good. I swear, brother, these two women approached me in need. They left me no choice. So I told them: Go see Sherjon aka. He has a huge house. I’m not such a bad guy, really …”
Sherjon straightens up a little. I never said anything against him, he thinks … He’s an all right guy, this worker. Just a bit of a know-it-all. He laughs. But instead of laughter, the many wrinkles on his face move about.
“Let’s drink,” he says, raising his glass.
Sherjon suddenly stops and frowns into his cup as though he’s seen something disagreeable there.
“What’s wrong, brother?” the neighbor asks earnestly.
“My glass is very full.” His wrinkles start to move again.
In fact, a full glass is what he prefers, but he wants to make a good impression on the women.
“Now Sherjon aka, the respected master of the house” — oh, how this pimp understands Sherjon! — “can drink as much as he likes. That’s our way. But Oyshagul — that’s different … So let’s drink, it won’t kill us! Oof, that’s good … Disinfects your insides … Will you drink, too?” He casts a strange glance at Noli, who’s gotten even prettier after her bath.
Although Oyshagul has had a few, she understands where things are headed.
“Her, drink? She’s just a child,” she exclaims.
Sherjon grasps the situation with the dignity of an old eagle.
“Quiet!” he tells the guy, with the special firmness reserved for the master of the house. “Do you talk just because you have a mouth?”
The neighbor frowns slightly and turns red. He looks at Sherjon out of the corner of his eye and whispers, “Old pig.” The veins in his neck bulge as he leans forward and swallows.
“Whatever you say, Master Sherjon. Nice T-shirt, by the way … Cheers, ‘Dosaev’!” The neighbor puts his piyola down delicately on the table. He hands a somsa to each of them.
Noli watches the scene closely.
“Let’s go up to the second floor, there’s this portrait there. A true work of art.” Sherjon coughs into his rough hands. “Priceless …” he says. Struggling to remember what the owner said about it, he tries to get up.
“Sit, sit. Let’s make things halal first.” The neighbor winks mischievously at Oyshagul.
Sherjon and Oyshagul have had more than half a bottle. The woman grins, realizing the neighbor’s plan for her once Sherjon passes out. He lets out a long yawn and sighs.
“Fine, we’ll look at the artwork after another drink. Oh, what a picture it is!” Sherjon says, gesturing toward the second floor.
Sherjon’s speech is slurred now, and he tries to speak with his thick, dark fingers. “Water fairies … Xonzoda …”
“Ohh,” says the neighbor, “so there’s a portrait of Xonzoda up there. Sherjon aka carries her photo around in his pocket. At first, I thought he kept his naswar rolled up in it. He even takes it with him to the toilet. Sits and stares at it, he says. He’s a strange one all right. Xonzoda’s eyes were black and now they’re blue, he says. Hahah.”
The phone rings, and all kinds of garbled words in different languages tumble out. The mother-child relationship transforms into a telephone.
“Call Mama … peris … I’m a lion … stupid …” Then Sherjon’s thick lips curl and part in a wordless whisper. The wrinkles on his face seem to smooth out.
On his way upstairs, the neighbor looks back at Sherjon, who’s no longer even whispering.
“So you want to be the boss, big man? But Sherjon is no lion, he’s a tethered sheep, a blathering watchman. Look at him, Oysha, the old fool. Just look at that shirt …”
Sherjon falls asleep on his back, dead to the world. His breath is heavy from drink. The neighbor and Oyshagul reach the top of the marble staircase. “Wow,” says Oyshagul. As though she’d been waiting for the right moment, Noli picks up the phone and takes it to the other room. Trapped inside that phone are all the conversations Sherjon hasn’t had with his mother over the past 10 years. “Sherjon, my little camel, why the silence?” “Busy at work, Mom, and the prices have gone up.” Across the telephone wires stretching from Toshhovuz: “I’ve lost track of your journey, my son. At least call and say you’re healthy, dear. To a mother, her child is always a child, even at 60. But there’s no rush anymore. It’s been seven months since I left the realm of light. I’ll see you in the next world, my child.” The phone rings, and all kinds of garbled words in different languages tumble out. The mother-child relationship transforms into a telephone. High and low, the man and woman keep talking. The whole world becomes a telephone. For a while, he can still hear Oyshagul speaking with the neighbor. “That sheep will hear us … or the owner could come back.” “He’s gone … Old ‘Dosaev’ has shed his lion’s coat, wouldn’t you say … He’s staying until noon tomorrow. A man of almost 70.” After a while, everything is silent as pouring water. From behind a closed door, Noli’s whispering is occasionally audible. “I’m so sick of Oyshagul. Husband drinks all day and she matches him bottle for bottle … At the house of some guy named Shrek … Yeah, like the cartoon, but without the stupid ears … How’s Mom’s cough? … Wheat harvested? … Can’t get away from her now … All right, I don’t want to wake Shrek. He said no long-distance.”
Sherjon sleeps like a stone. Splashing water, peals of feminine laughter and the whinnying of silvery horses carry up to his ears. The horses come furiously to life and leap from the pictures. Xonzoda’s sky-blue eyes sparkle above his head like stars. “Xonzoda, please come now,” he says. More and more snakes slither hungrily around the bathtub. Somewhere, a phone is ringing off the hook. Peris emerge from the pictures. “We’re tired of standing,” they say, swishing past Sherjon in silk dresses. Suddenly waters from the flower gardens of heaven sprinkle down on him. His stony eyes and ears open.
“Why’s the door open? The phone’s off the hook. Who’s been using it? Who?!” From the doorway, the owner’s elder wife and grandchildren stare at the ogre in a red T-shirt sleeping alone in their mansion, as though encountering a strange creature at the zoo. “Shame on you. Faithless man. And at your age.” Sherjon’s glassy eyes fall on the telephone. Words trapped in the cage of its apparatus hurl themselves in all directions. “I’m a bad person, brother. I haven’t called in 10 years. The phone was right there. I’m a bad person, sister …” He drags himself to his feet. A feeling of regret like mourning fills his heart. His throat expands with grief and his eyes fill with tears. Now he’ll never make that long-distance call.
✺ Published in “Issue 19: Fiction” of The Dial
