ON A FRIDAY AFTERNOON, wearing his striped Chinese Addiddass sweatpants, Anarbek hurried through Kyzyl Adyr-Kirovka. He pushed his lumbering frame into the pochta, shoved past the scarved Russian babushkas fighting to collect their late pensions, and leaned on the cracked counter.
“Beautiful!” he called in his loud, exultant voice.
He was beckoning the postwoman, Altin Eje. She had two moles on both sides of her nostrils, a swollen throat, thinning gray hair, and a mouth full of scattered gold teeth. The teeth that were not gold were missing. Altin Eje scuttled to the counter and blushed, as she always did when he teased her.
“Come away with me, Altin Eje. We can ride my horse into the mountains.”
“Only to meet your seven other women there. Not me. I’m no fool.”
“Oh!” Anarbek said. He turned to the crowd of old women. “Did you hear that? Did you hear what she said to me?”
The babushkas were not amused by his game. They wanted their pensions.
“Do you have anything for me, Altin Eje?”
He was hoping for the certificate of deposit. The government payments lagged, skipped months, but just when Anarbek thought that the factory oversight had at last been reported and the payments had dried up, the money always seemed to arrive again.
“Nothing from Bishkek,” Altin Eje said. She sifted through a shoebox full of letters, yellowed with age, and found a crisp envelope, conspicuous in its poorly shaped Cyrillic letters, the kind sloppy first-formers scribbled before they learned to write. She handed it to him. “This is from the American, I think.”
“Great. Big thanks, Altin Eje.”
“Good leaving.”
“Good staying.”
Anarbek examined the envelope, postmarked in smudged red ink: January iz, Istanbul. Disappointed, he saved the letter for Nazira to translate. He stepped outside again into the bright village afternoon, ignoring the smell of a smoking pile of trash, and hurried opposite the park and the statue of Lenin into the bazaar, where the Kurdish milkmaids called to him. At the butcher Nurgazi’s table he shook hands, scrutinizing the cuts.
“Aaaaaasalaaam aleikum!”
“Aleikum asalaam.”
“How much a kilo?”
“Twelve som,” Nurgazi said. “Take it.”
Anarbek clicked his tongue. “I’ll kill my own for that much. How does anyone afford to eat in this village, with you selling meat at such a price?”
“I haven’t sold a piece all morning,” Nurgazi said.
“Give me a half-kilo of the kielbasa.”
Three times a day Anarbek visited the bazaar. He bought kilos of rice and stringy mutton, plastic toys and bars of Iranian soap, and even the inedible cabbage salad from the Koreans. Everyone was grateful; often it was the only sale they made that day. Nobody considered that his small family—Lola, Baktigul, and young Oolan—had no possible use for so much stuff. His efforts had kept half the village fed. The people of Kyzyl Adyr-Kirovka depended on the funds he distributed, and for seven years he had trusted their discretion. Nobody mentioned the cheeseless cheese factory. It remained, he thought, a village secret.
At Yuri Samonov’s alcohol kiosk he eyed glinting bottles of lemon vodka, an expensive pepper vodka, and three cans of German beer.
“I’m celebrating, Yuri. I really need champagne.”
“No champagne today. But you should try this cognac, Anarbek agai. Or some vodka. Highest quality.”
Noted geologist Yuri Samonov held up the bottle of homemade vodka. The Stolichnaya label he had glued on its front was peeling. There was no champagne, but Anarbek had to buy something. He was keeping the geologist alive.
He watched for a second the sad man before him—the displaced Russian mired in his swamp of suffering. A month before, Yuri had lost his only son to the copper-wire epidemic. Across the nation young kids were dying, their bodies charred. In a national shortage the value of copper wire had increased twenty-five times. People bartered with the scrap metal in the markets, then vendors melted it into ingots and sold it to wandering Chinese traders. Young men from penniless families succumbed to the temptation of lunatic acts. They scaled poplar trees, telephone poles, or rusting steel towers in an effort to snip the wire. Not only were these children plundering the antiquated electrical grid, but they were setting entire districts of cities, entire regions of the mountains, back into darkness.
The president had declared a national emergency. The declaration had not helped Yuri’s teenage son. Last month on the dirt road along the reservoir; clutching a set of pliers, the boy had scaled a power pole. He had believed he was safe because his friends had stolen the wires connected at both ends of the structure. But he had lost his balance and grabbed hold of a metal bar hanging between two chipped ceramic insulators. The live current devoured his hand, raced through his insides, tore his intestines and groin, seared the inner right thigh, and then threw him, smoking, twenty feet to the ground. The boy’s friends had found the body. Yuri had been drunk ever since.
Anarbek pointed to a box of Israeli bonbons.
“How much is the chocolate?”
“Thirty-five som.”
“Thirty-five som! You cheat me every day, Yuri. I can’t believe it. Give me one.”
“Take it, brother.”
“And—another one.”
“Thank you, brother. Good going.”
“Good staying.”
In his tan Lada Anarbek tossed the letter from the American, the kielbasa, and the box of bonbons onto the passenger seat, tightened the rearview mirror, and drove an hour out of town, thirty kilometers past the village of Ak Su. He hurtled by the dreamlike mountains and mud farmhouses, the blackbirds perched on grazing horses, and he let his mind wander, anticipating the pleasures of the evening ahead, until he turned south off the main road onto a dirt track. The small holes he had been avoiding became craters. He slalomed toward the Ala Too mountains, and the track climbed and swept through dusty curves, through fields of wheat and patches of potatoes. He passed a donkey cart piled with tinder. When he honked, the driver waved back with a whip.
It was difficult to imagine a village more isolated than Kyzyl Adyr-Kirovka, but here it was: a solemn collection of mud-brick homes without a name. He pulled around the abandoned one-room village school and at the next house sounded the horn.
Darika appeared in her soiled velvet work vest, patting her face, adjusting her scarf, and blushing. Her young blush thrilled him.
“Salamatsizbih,” he said.
“Salamatchilik.”
“Come to Talas with me.”
“I cannot.” She approached the car. “We’re canning strawberries. You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“How can I tell you I’m coming? You have no telephone. What can I use? Satellites? Smoke signals?”
Darika coughed in the dust. “Women have to work, don’t you realize?”
He leaned over and found one box of chocolate on the passenger floor. It had slid under the front seat, its contents had melted, and each heavy turn had crushed the box against the door.
“Here. I brought these for you.”
“You can bring something more useful than chocolate next time. Like flour.”
“Come to Talas with me. We’ll get flour for your family.”
Darika rested her hands on her hips; she looked at the ground and back up at his car. Her black felt vest hugged her figure; her ruddy cheeks thrilled him more and more as he stared at her. He had spotted her last fall in the Talas bazaar, eyeing a plastic Chinese mirror on a low plywood table. He had haggled and bought it for her for thirteen som, and he had taken her back to Talas three times since then.
“Let me tell my mother.” Darika disappeared behind the gate.
Anarbek cleared his throat and spit. He flung his elbows twice behind his back and opened and closed his fingers in front of him, imitating the cosmonauts he had once seen on television. He was as strong as ever. He stuck out his chest and breathed the fresh spring air, remembering twenty-nine years ago, when he had wooed his first wife, Baiooz. He was aging, it was true, but his power of persuasion had diminished little. He would be no slave to time.
Darika returned wearing a fluffy pink jacket. In the car he readjusted the rearview mirror, which kept shifting with the potholes. As they bumped along the road to Ak Su, Darika opened the box of melted bonbons and ate them in little bird bites. Once Anarbek swerved the vehicle so hard she was thrown against him. He stopped on a hill overlooking the northern Talas Mountains, lit golden in the afternoon sun. Through a distant pass the yellow Kazakh steppe stretched to the horizon. Anarbek shut off the engine, leaned over, and kissed the young woman, first on her cheek and, when she turned her head, on her chocolate-stained lips. She did not resist. She hardly moved.
The main road into Talas was lined with poplars planted by past generations of Young Pioneers. The car jounced by the button factory, two abandoned collective farms, and the crowded orphanage at recess. In the center of town, in a park overgrown with thistles, seven boys on horseback were playing oolak with a lamb carcass. He pointed as they passed.
“I used to be the best in the whole Talas region.”
“I heard. People from Kyzyl Adyr are known to ride well.”
“I had the longest arms and I had no fear. The other men couldn’t catch me. And I stole the sheep in the crowd without them knowing. There are secrets.”
“What were your secrets?”
“They’re secret. I still play.”
“You’re too old.”
“Too old, nothing!” he boomed. “I still play.”
“You’d break an arm. You’re too old to ride fast and steal sheep.”
“Careful, or I’ll steal you.”
“And what will your wife say then?”
The Talas bazaar was twice the size of Kyzyl Adyr-Kirovka’s. Anarbek searched for champagne and finally found a Russian lady selling two bottles between piles of turnips.
“Atkooda?” he asked. Where’d you get this?
“It’s from Moldova.”
“It was an anniversary present.”
“Give me one.”
They also bought a sack of flour. Two boys helped him drag it to the Lada and plop it into the trunk, sinking the car in a billow of white smoke.
In the central town square, Anarbek took the long way, around the park, to avoid the former hall of sports. They drove past the broken Ferris wheel. Though children tried to push it, the enormous machine was ancient and rusty and, with a will of its own, moved only when the wind blew in from the steppes. Recently five children had climbed into one of the swinging cars, the wind had blown, and they had been stuck at the top for three straight nights. The telephone wires above the Ferris wheel had disappeared.
His secret apartment was in Microregion 4. Everybody knew where it was, and most people suspected what he did there, though he hinted at these assignations only to his closest friends in the sauna. The stairwell smelled of urine and the lights did not work. He fumbled in the darkness of the second-floor apartment until he finally found the circuit. They plugged in the cement hot plates and Darika started the chai. He lounged on the embroidered tushuks, the only furniture on the bare floor, while she served him steaming cup after cup. They bit into chocolates and he opened the champagne.
To health.
To friendship.
They chased shots of champagne with bites of kielbasa. Darika protested, pretending she’d had enough.
To Talas.
To family.
She was giggling and swallowing bonbons whole.
To flour.
To us.
When the bottle of champagne was empty, Darika stuffed and swaying, Anarbek rose.
“Where are you going?”
“More champagne,” he said, slipping on his plastic sandals. “I’ll just run to the bazaar. I’m coming right back.”
She leaned back on the red tushuk as he closed the door, a suspicious smile on her face.
He hustled over to the Talas telegraph, where he could call Lola and make some kind of excuse. But as he passed the police station, he saw the all-too-familiar figure approaching—shoulders hunched, elbows splayed out to his sides—and it was too late to turn away.
He feigned surprise. “Bolot agai!”
They greeted each other with a handshake and the usual courtesies.
“I haven’t seen you in two months,” the privatization official said. The man’s doughy chin had doubled—he was growing heavier each time Anarbek saw him. He had on a bent pair of glasses, and his shoes, usually scrubbed to a shine, were chalky from the dust of the street. Bolot dug into his pocket with one fist, then held out a handful of roasted sunflower seeds in offering, and Anarbek accepted them and dropped them into his own pocket, trying to calm himself.
“I’ve meant to—to stop by your office,” Anarbek fumbled. “I have last month’s payment.”
“And this month’s?”
Anarbek couldn’t say that he had already distributed it. “Yes, yes, that too.”
Bolot set him at ease with a smile and a wave of the hand. “You can forget it, Anarbek. Forget both months.”
“Really?”
“Really. It’s a favor from me to you.” The official spit a sunflower seed on the ground and draped one short arm around Anarbek’s shoulders; they walked across the street. Over the past three years Bolot had often described the many pleasures of married life—after a long search he’d found a wife, and they’d quickly had a son—but now he was complaining about the heavy responsibilities of a family. He led Anarbek to a beer stand, where on a grimy bench beneath a plane tree they sat down.
“As I said, you can keep the money from the past two months. I’m going to need more than that.”
Anarbek’s head shot up. “How much more?”
“Twelve thousand dollars.”
“Bolot agai,” he pleaded, “I can’t pay that.”
“Now I know you’ve been hoarding money, Anarbek, all these years. It’s no secret, your apartment here in town, your fancy sauna. The presents you’ve been buying certain ladies. You have your needs, but I have needs too. My wife would like to buy a house in Bishkek. We’re cramped in our old apartment. Microregion 8. Twenty minutes outside the city, on a busy road. We don’t even have a garden. And she would like another child.”
“But I tell you, I don’t have that kind of money.”
“I tend to think you do.”
“Twelve thousand dollars.” Anarbek looked up. “And what if I don’t pay it?”
Bolot Ismailov gripped his shoulder. His nails were neatly cut and clean, but his stubby fingers smelled of the blood of butchered sheep. He pulled Anarbek closer. “It’s a simple matter. You pay. Or I report the factory to the capital. You’ll be shut down in a month.”
“You couldn’t do that. Our village depends on the cheese factory, Bolot.”
“Cheese factory! What cheese? What factory? Your village depends on me. And my generosity has limits, like any man’s.” Bolot let go of him. “You think you’re the only one? I’m being squeezed too. I’ve risked my own job for what I’ve done for you, Tashtanaliev. Twelve thousand dollars. In dollars!” he warned with a hiss of his vinegar breath. “Not this worthless som crap. And the bills better be new. Nothing before 1991.” He stood.
“When do you need it?”
Bolot bit down on his bottom lip, made a fuss of adjusting his collar, and straightened his tie. “I need it now, Anarbek.”
“I won’t pay this!”
He stretched out his arms and shrugged. “Either way, you’ll pay.” With that he walked off toward the telegraph station.
Anarbek got up, brushed off his pants, and spun twice around, his heart galloping. It frightened him that this man, not even from his village, knew so much about him. Where would he get this kind of money? No, he decided, it was impossible! Bolot was lying. He would not report the leaking funds; he needed his graft. But then, what if he did?
Shaken, Anarbek forgot about the telephone call to Lola. He staggered over to the Talas bazaar, found the turnip woman, and bought the last bottle of champagne.
In the apartment Darika was already asleep. Anarbek peeled off her clothes, first her velvet vest and then her thin floral blouse. He unhitched her skirt and tore it in the process, tossing it against the cement wall; then he yanked off her bra. She hardly needed a bra: it had been a flattering present from him, bought in the Talas bazaar the last time they had met. The bulbs of her young breasts perked up in the frigid air.
“It’s c-cold,” she said sleepily, crossing her arms.
And he was over her, his stomach flailing urgently, his chest hair awash in sweat. His mind strobed in flashes: dying cows, his wives, Bolot, and this life that would not offer the slightest respite. He barely felt Darika beneath him. The village girl clawed at his back and breathed in desperate spurts. Her flushed eyes spun at the touch of his hands. Then suddenly it was no good; he felt—nothing. This had never happened to him before.
“Don’t you love me?” she asked.
“Yes, yes. One day—I’ll take you—to America,” he managed. And he collapsed, rolling off her. They lay awhile in silence on their backs, his hands propped behind his head, and soon he found himself drifting in and out of an uneasy sleep.
Anarbek dreamed he was flying in an airplane, a luxurious multifloored vehicle like the one he had seen in Air Force One, starring Harrison Ford, on the Moscow channel last week. Unlike the film, the villains of his dream were not nuclear terrorists from Kazakhstan, but Bolot and that young Traktorbek and a gang of Talas hooligani. In the dream Bolot once again demanded twelve thousand dollars. Anarbek refused. The men threatened his wife and children; and they also threatened his mistress Darika. He still refused. He was armed with his hunting rifle, the one he used for shooting pheasants. His enemies were unarmed, but they had seen many Jackie Chan and Steven Seagal films—they had lethal limbs.
Action music played in the background of the dream while he hid behind piles of suitcases and picked off young thugs as they spun kicking in his direction. The emergency door opened, and in a flash and a roll he somersaulted down the aisle and slammed the butt of his rifle into Traktorbek’s gut, spinning him out of the aircraft at ten thousand meters.
Nobody was flying the plane! They had killed both pilots! Anarbek jumped behind the computer control panel, pushing buttons, steering, searching the rearview mirror that kept coming loose.
“Damn thing,” he yelled, tightening it.
Action music grew louder. He spotted Bolot making a final dash and picked him off with his rifle. With the other hand he steered the plane amid flashes of lightning. The Kyrgyz-speaking air-traffic controller directed him through the storm. He glided the airplane over the Golden Gate Bridge and landed safely in San Francisco. Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky had been hiding on board. Anarbek had saved their lives and was now a world hero. Before he awoke, the American people slaughtered many sheep in his honor.
“Twelve thousand dollars. Twelve thousand dollars,” he mumbled as he drove Darika back the next morning. The vehicle, laden with the sack of flour, could make it uphill only in second gear.
On his return to Kyzyl Adyr-Kirovka he found Nazira at his house, eating lunch on the tea bed with his wife and two of the neighbors. In the breezy shade of the courtyard, his grandson, Manas, and his own son, Oolan, chased Baktigul around the walnut tree. At the sight of him Lola left the platform and vanished into the kitchen. The neighbors glared. Nazira frowned, her gentle face darkening a deep red that covered her freckles. She followed him inside to the sitting room. “Did you have a good night, Ata?”
He hesitated. “Of course.”
“Where were you this time?”
He wanted to say, “The sauna.” But just as it had once been impossible to lie to her mother, he found it increasingly difficult to lie to Nazira. She had inherited Baiooz’s power of detection. Directed at her searching eyes, a lie fell flat.
He stared at her, not knowing what to say. She was a wonder, as lovely as the moon. He had seen her last week at the May Day parade playing the kumooz, the tips of her fingers working at breathtaking speed. She could play the instrument upside-down and even behind her back. She slaughtered sheep. She could beat many of the village men at racing a horse. She danced in the annual harvest festival with grace and improvisation that enraptured the crowds. And despite her endless talents, like him she too was ruined.
He sank deep into the sofa, his mind racing, until his daughter said, “Lola is not stupid, Ata.”
“I never thought she was.”
“This is not a good way to treat a marriage. A marriage I set up.”
“You do not understand,” Anarbek pleaded.
“What would Ama think?”
“This is not a daughter’s place to say.”
“You seemed to love Lola, and I went out of my way for you. There were difficulties.”
“Has Lola done badly for herself? She has everything she needs and wants.”
“Except a loyal husband.”
“Nazira.”
“It is one thing to marry a man twice your age. But you would expect such a man to respect you.”
“I take good care of her.”
Nazira clicked her tongue. “She’s not your daughter. She’s your wife. She needs more than to be taken care of.”
“It’s not the same.” He stood and walked to the wooden cabinet, where he kept a collection of pirated beta cassettes—Schwarzenegger, Bruce Lee, Jean-Claude Van Damme. He ran his gnarled fingers along the titles.
“What’s not the same?” she asked.
He faced his daughter but tripped over his words. “She doesn’t seem—I don’t feel—”
“Did you treat Ama like this?”
This was too much. He lurched forward with an angry stomp and stood tall before her. But Nazira stayed on the offensive and quickly added, “Oui-at bay sin bah!”—You should be ashamed. She turned her back and hurried to the doorway, where she stood facing away, thinking. This ability to punish with her back, he realized, was an instinct entirely her own.
He remembered the letter from the American—the first they had received in two years. That would change the subject. That would please his daughter. He left the house and went back to the car, where he fished around on the floor for the envelope and found it encrusted in golden dust.
When he showed Nazira the letter and told her it was from Jeff, she flushed and tore it open. He listened as she read the strange English aloud, then translated it sentence by sentence for him into Kyrgyz. The letter was unusual: it mentioned Nazira twice and specifically asked if they were able to get by, if they needed some money. Midway through, her voice grew soft and she looked up at the cracked plaster ceiling, searching for the right words.
Anarbek was filled with great hope. Why had he not thought of him? Of course! Their old friend! The American! All problems have solutions.