Safi.
“You can’t die; think what she’ll say!”
“Oh, I know what she’ll say. ‘It’s not enough that Allah saw fit to let the Russians invade Crimea in the first place, that He allowed that oaf Stalin to send us all away, that He gave me a stroke six months ago so I couldn’t return to Crimea; no, He had to let my fool of a son take a lift with a kamikaze bus driver…’” Refat sighed gustily. “You’re right, Safi. We’ll just have to hold on tight.”
Refat had argued with Mehmed and Ibrahim and, a week later, finally taken up Andrei’s offer to drive him to Kermenchik. In private, Mehmed had asked Safi and Grandpa to go too. “I don’t think Refat realizes what it’ll be like,” he’d said worriedly. “I don’t want him to be on his own.”
The road looped down the valley between smooth high cliffs. In the flashes of sunlight the cliffs gleamed silver; in the shadows they were dark violet. Silver and purple clouds raced. At the head of the valley, Ai-Petri Mountain dazzled with its cap of snow.
Refat pointed. “Up in those cliffs are the caves where Alim the bandit hid out, and where my uncle when he was a boy kept an old rifle and took potshots at the Germans.”
“Did he hit any?”
“Of course. They came after him in one of their jeeps but Mother stole the commandant’s bicycle and rode through the woods to warn him. Then that lousy Hamzi Shustov, the son of the village headman, told on my mother, because he was sweet on her but she didn’t want anything to do with him, the cross-eyed slimy son of a – ahem…”
Safi giggled. Refat was the gentlest, sweetest-natured person she knew; he never had a bad word for anybody. “Refat, you don’t even know him. How do you know he was slimy and cross-eyed?”
“How do you think?” Refat patted his pocket, bulging with his mother’s letters. “She never did get a chance to pay him back for telling on her, and she’ll never forget it until she does.”
“Here you are!” Andrei called out, as the bus came to a crashing stop. “Schastlivoe. I’ll be back this way in a couple of hours.”
Schastlivoe, which meant “happy” in Russian, was what Kermenchik was called now. Safi jumped out, eager to see what a real Crimean Tatar village looked like. She was puzzled why Mehmed and Ibrahim had tried to persuade Refat not to come here; she thought he was lucky that his mother’s village was still standing, unlike Adym-Chokrak.
Grandpa took Safi’s hand and tucked it under his arm. Refat pulled out the fat packet of letters and began to read as they set off down the muddy, crooked lane. The new leaves on the trees shone bright as sudden flames in a flash of sun, and the banks were thick with violets. There was no one around but a few ambling dogs and a solitary, skinny black hen.
“‘Next to Anife Batalova’s, that miserable old witch – she still owes me a dozen eggs – make sure the fountain is still there, although it was never the same since that trollop Catherine the Great ordered another well to be dug further up the valley…’”
Safi giggled again. Refat’s mother had no respect for anyone. In her letters she talked about Stalin, the Russian empress Catherine and even Allah in exactly the same way as she talked about her former neighbours.
The fountain was made of stone, with a graceful arch carved in the front and some lines of Arabic script. The trough was choked up with weeds and rubbish, but when Safi filled her hands from the pipe and drank, the water was deliciously, coldly sweet.
“‘What does your mother say about the water?”
“‘This one fountain had enough water for the whole village, even for that stuck-up schoolmaster’s wife who collected twenty pails a day to wash herself and her husband, although why she bothered, Allah only knows: no amount of scrubbing would make the old skinflint smell better than a billy goat’s backside—’ Oh! I beg your pardon.”
“Billy goat’s backside
“You can’t die; think what she’ll say!”
“Oh, I know what she’ll say. ‘It’s not enough that Allah saw fit to let the Russians invade Crimea in the first place, that He allowed that oaf Stalin to send us all away, that He gave me a stroke six months ago so I couldn’t return to Crimea; no, He had to let my fool of a son take a lift with a kamikaze bus driver…’” Refat sighed gustily. “You’re right, Safi. We’ll just have to hold on tight.”
Refat had argued with Mehmed and Ibrahim and, a week later, finally taken up Andrei’s offer to drive him to Kermenchik. In private, Mehmed had asked Safi and Grandpa to go too. “I don’t think Refat realizes what it’ll be like,” he’d said worriedly. “I don’t want him to be on his own.”
The road looped down the valley between smooth high cliffs. In the flashes of sunlight the cliffs gleamed silver; in the shadows they were dark violet. Silver and purple clouds raced. At the head of the valley, Ai-Petri Mountain dazzled with its cap of snow.
Refat pointed. “Up in those cliffs are the caves where Alim the bandit hid out, and where my uncle when he was a boy kept an old rifle and took potshots at the Germans.”
“Did he hit any?”
“Of course. They came after him in one of their jeeps but Mother stole the commandant’s bicycle and rode through the woods to warn him. Then that lousy Hamzi Shustov, the son of the village headman, told on my mother, because he was sweet on her but she didn’t want anything to do with him, the cross-eyed slimy son of a – ahem…”
Safi giggled. Refat was the gentlest, sweetest-natured person she knew; he never had a bad word for anybody. “Refat, you don’t even know him. How do you know he was slimy and cross-eyed?”
“How do you think?” Refat patted his pocket, bulging with his mother’s letters. “She never did get a chance to pay him back for telling on her, and she’ll never forget it until she does.”
“Here you are!” Andrei called out, as the bus came to a crashing stop. “Schastlivoe. I’ll be back this way in a couple of hours.”
Schastlivoe, which meant “happy” in Russian, was what Kermenchik was called now. Safi jumped out, eager to see what a real Crimean Tatar village looked like. She was puzzled why Mehmed and Ibrahim had tried to persuade Refat not to come here; she thought he was lucky that his mother’s village was still standing, unlike Adym-Chokrak.
Grandpa took Safi’s hand and tucked it under his arm. Refat pulled out the fat packet of letters and began to read as they set off down the muddy, crooked lane. The new leaves on the trees shone bright as sudden flames in a flash of sun, and the banks were thick with violets. There was no one around but a few ambling dogs and a solitary, skinny black hen.
“‘Next to Anife Batalova’s, that miserable old witch – she still owes me a dozen eggs – make sure the fountain is still there, although it was never the same since that trollop Catherine the Great ordered another well to be dug further up the valley…’”
Safi giggled again. Refat’s mother had no respect for anyone. In her letters she talked about Stalin, the Russian empress Catherine and even Allah in exactly the same way as she talked about her former neighbours.
The fountain was made of stone, with a graceful arch carved in the front and some lines of Arabic script. The trough was choked up with weeds and rubbish, but when Safi filled her hands from the pipe and drank, the water was deliciously, coldly sweet.
“‘What does your mother say about the water?”
“‘This one fountain had enough water for the whole village, even for that stuck-up schoolmaster’s wife who collected twenty pails a day to wash herself and her husband, although why she bothered, Allah only knows: no amount of scrubbing would make the old skinflint smell better than a billy goat’s backside—’ Oh! I beg your pardon.”
“Billy goat’s backside
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