Read Online The White Ship by Chingiz Aitmatov - Free Book Online
Authors: Chingiz Aitmatov
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everything. And Grandfather Momun forgave him. Why should they forgive? Such people should not be forgiven. He was a rotten man, a bad man. Who needed him here? They'd be much better off without him.
The boy's embittered imagination conjured up a picture of just punishment for his uncle. All together, they jumped on Orozkul and dragged him, fat, huge, dirty, to the river. There they swung him and threw him into the wildest, most turbulent rapids. And he pleaded for Aunt Bekey's forgiveness, and Grandfather Momun's. For he, of course, could not become a fish.
These thoughts relieved the boy. He even wanted to laugh when he imagined Uncle Orozkul thrashing about in the river, his velvet hat floating next to him.
But, unfortunately, the grown-ups did not do the things the boy thought would be just. They did everything the other way around. Orozkul would come home tipsy, and they would welcome him as if nothing were wrong. Grandpa would take his horse, his wife would run to make the samovar. As though everybody had been doing nothing but waiting for his coming. And he'd begin to carry on. At first he would lament and cry. How was it, he'd complain, that every man, even the lowest good-for-nothing whose hand you need not shake, had children, as many as his heart desired? Five, even ten. In what way was he, Orozkul, worse than others? What was wrong with him? Didn't he have a good job? Thank God, he was chief overseer of the forest preserve. Was he some homeless tramp? But even Gypsies had their brats, swarms of them. Or was he a nobody, without respect from anyone? He had everything. He was a success in every way. He had a fine saddle horse, and a handsome whip in his hands, and he was welcomed and honored wherever he went. Then why were other men of his age already celebrating their children's weddings, while he . . . What was he without a son, without his own seed?
Aunt &key also wept, bustled about, tried to please her husband. She brought out the bottle she had tucked away and took a drink herself to drown her troubles. And so it went, till Orozkul would suddenly go wild and take out all his anger on her, on his own wife. And she forgave him everything. And grandfather forgave him. Nobody tied him up. He'd sober up by morning, and his wife, all black and blue, would have tea ready for him. Grandpa would already have his horse out, fed and saddled. Orozkul would drink his tea, mount his horse, and once again he was the chief, the master of all the San-Tash forests. And it never occurred to anyone that a man like that should have been thrown into the river a long time ago. . . .
It was dark. Night had fallen.
And so the day ended, the day when the boy was given his first schoolbag.
As he was going to bed, he could not think of a place for his schoolbag. Finally, he put it next to his head. The boy did not know, he would learn later, that half the class would have exactly the same schoolbags. But that would not upset him anyway. His own would remain a very special one. Nor did he know that new events awaited him in his small life, that a day would come when he'd be left alone in the whole world, with nothing but his schoolbag. And that the reason for it all would be his favorite tale about the Horned Mother Deer.
That evening he had a strong desire to hear it again. Old Momun was also fond of it and told it as though he had witnessed everything himself, sighing, weeping, falling silent now and then, and listening to his own thoughts.
But the boy did not venture to disturb his grandfather. He understood that old Momun's mind was not on tales that evening. "We'll ask him another time," the boy whispered to his schoolbag. "Tonight I shall tell you about the Horned Mother Deer, word for word, just like grandpa. And I shall speak so low that nobody will hear. And you will listen. I like to tell stories and see everything before me, as in the movies. Well, now. Grandpa says that all of this is true. It really happened. .
The boy's embittered imagination conjured up a picture of just punishment for his uncle. All together, they jumped on Orozkul and dragged him, fat, huge, dirty, to the river. There they swung him and threw him into the wildest, most turbulent rapids. And he pleaded for Aunt Bekey's forgiveness, and Grandfather Momun's. For he, of course, could not become a fish.
These thoughts relieved the boy. He even wanted to laugh when he imagined Uncle Orozkul thrashing about in the river, his velvet hat floating next to him.
But, unfortunately, the grown-ups did not do the things the boy thought would be just. They did everything the other way around. Orozkul would come home tipsy, and they would welcome him as if nothing were wrong. Grandpa would take his horse, his wife would run to make the samovar. As though everybody had been doing nothing but waiting for his coming. And he'd begin to carry on. At first he would lament and cry. How was it, he'd complain, that every man, even the lowest good-for-nothing whose hand you need not shake, had children, as many as his heart desired? Five, even ten. In what way was he, Orozkul, worse than others? What was wrong with him? Didn't he have a good job? Thank God, he was chief overseer of the forest preserve. Was he some homeless tramp? But even Gypsies had their brats, swarms of them. Or was he a nobody, without respect from anyone? He had everything. He was a success in every way. He had a fine saddle horse, and a handsome whip in his hands, and he was welcomed and honored wherever he went. Then why were other men of his age already celebrating their children's weddings, while he . . . What was he without a son, without his own seed?
Aunt &key also wept, bustled about, tried to please her husband. She brought out the bottle she had tucked away and took a drink herself to drown her troubles. And so it went, till Orozkul would suddenly go wild and take out all his anger on her, on his own wife. And she forgave him everything. And grandfather forgave him. Nobody tied him up. He'd sober up by morning, and his wife, all black and blue, would have tea ready for him. Grandpa would already have his horse out, fed and saddled. Orozkul would drink his tea, mount his horse, and once again he was the chief, the master of all the San-Tash forests. And it never occurred to anyone that a man like that should have been thrown into the river a long time ago. . . .
It was dark. Night had fallen.
And so the day ended, the day when the boy was given his first schoolbag.
As he was going to bed, he could not think of a place for his schoolbag. Finally, he put it next to his head. The boy did not know, he would learn later, that half the class would have exactly the same schoolbags. But that would not upset him anyway. His own would remain a very special one. Nor did he know that new events awaited him in his small life, that a day would come when he'd be left alone in the whole world, with nothing but his schoolbag. And that the reason for it all would be his favorite tale about the Horned Mother Deer.
That evening he had a strong desire to hear it again. Old Momun was also fond of it and told it as though he had witnessed everything himself, sighing, weeping, falling silent now and then, and listening to his own thoughts.
But the boy did not venture to disturb his grandfather. He understood that old Momun's mind was not on tales that evening. "We'll ask him another time," the boy whispered to his schoolbag. "Tonight I shall tell you about the Horned Mother Deer, word for word, just like grandpa. And I shall speak so low that nobody will hear. And you will listen. I like to tell stories and see everything before me, as in the movies. Well, now. Grandpa says that all of this is true. It really happened. .
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