The Mountain and the Wall Read Free Page A

had slid down his nose, “how we used to work in the vineyards during the Soviet days. We’d do a little work, then someone would turn over a bucket and start beating on it like a drum and the rest of us would dance the lezginka. Usman was still in school back then, he hadn’t been expelled yet. He was the biggest drinker of all—he’d get drunk, and then would go around mooching, asking everyone for a ruble.”
    “Which Usman?”
    “What do you mean, which one?” countered Kerim, gesturing with his fork. “The one who became a holy man, Sheikh Usman. After he got expelled, he worked as a welder for a while, then got into selling fur caps or something like that. And now people go to him for barakat. ”
    “ Vakh !” Yusup was surprised.
    Dibir lifted his square face and fidgeted on his chair. He cleared his throat and asked:
    “Are you really an atheist, Kerim?”
    Kerim dropped his fork and raised both hands in the air:
    “That’s all, I give up, I’m changing the subject! For the record, I used to give the sheikh his ruble…”
    Anvar laughed.
    “You know, brother, you have just the same iblis inside you asthe men hiding in the forest. You’re living under an eternal vasvas. And what kind of an example are you setting for those two?” Dibir asked through his teeth, nodding in the direction of Anvar and Maga.
    “Example?” Kerim spread his arms wide. “Well, I go out and work, for example, while you’re sitting around praying.”
    “Zumrud!” yelled Yusup, anticipating a fight. “Bring some chudu !”
    Sounds could be heard in the kitchen. Dibir scrutinized Kerim, who had redirected his attention to his eggplants, then whispered “ Bismillah ” and started piling vegetables onto his own plate. The women came in with two steaming platters.
    “Let’s go work out,” Maga whispered into Anvar’s ear, twitching his shoulders.
    Zumrud saw them in the doorway. “Come back before the food gets cold,” she said.
    It was already dark in the little inner courtyard. Nothing could be heard from outside the gate, not the shouts of kids playing, nor the usual music, nor the sounds of men greeting one another and clasping hands.
    “It’s so quiet today,” noted Anvar. He sprang up, grabbed the bar with his long arms, and pulled himself up.
    “Can you do a flip?” asked Maga.
    “Sure, look, I’ll do a flip and then a few giant swings,” said Anvar enthusiastically, and he began swinging his legs from side to side, warming up.
    Maga observed his maneuvers with amusement.
    “Hey, you’re doing it wrong, let me try.”
    “I’m not done yet,” said Anvar, hanging by one hand.
    “Listen, brother, show me your fist!” exclaimed Maga.
    “All right,” Anvar obeyed, clenching the fist of his free hand.
    “Now clench your butthole just like that, le !” laughed Maga, shooing Anvar down off the bar.
    Then he asked: “So who’s that Dibir guy?”
    “Friend of the family.”
    “A Sufi, right? All they do is spout ch’anda and then ferret out quotes from the Prophet to justify it,” said Maga; after doing a few brisk pull-ups, he sprang down from the bar. “Name’s Bashir, he’s from our village. He took me to this rock, once. Said it’s an azhdakha .”
    “Which azhdakha ?”
    “I’ll tell you: so there’s this ustaz who tells folktales. In our village, he says, there once lived a chaban, a shepherd who took care of people’s sheep, and this azhdakha started stealing rams from him. Stole one after another. But the shepherd wasn’t about to run and hide. Hey, he says, give me back the rams, or people will think I’m falling down on the job or stealing them myself. The azhdakha wouldn’t budge, no way was he going to give them back. So then the chaban took an arrow and shot the azhdakha, and the arrow hit him in the torso and came out the other side. The chaban went and took back the arrow and asked Allah to turn the azhdakha to stone.”
    “So? It worked? Does the stone look like an