День, когда рухнул мир - [6]

«Alright, Ake-Father, thank you for the lecture. However, we are all adults and an order is an order…»

However, he also avoided looking straight into grandfather’s eyes and I was mortified. I understood that at the time he was thinking that he would have to pay for grandfather’s monologue. But I wanted grandfather to tell the army officer more about our homeland. I thought that it was unlikely that the army officer knew anything coherent about us. This was probably the first time that he had ever seen any Kazakhs. Perhaps he thinks we are all sheep and he is a bear. I was feeling annoyed but just then the lieutenant-colonel went up to grandfather and embraced him.

«I do understand you, old man. We have all suffered. We have suffered more than any other nation. We lost the father of our people, Stalin, under whom the nation defeated fascism. And now a new danger threatens us. Do you know that the Americans have already dropped an atom bomb over Japan? And now they are threatening us and so we must defend ourselves. We do not want to attack anyone but we must be vigilant at all times. Am I not right? Yes, we are carrying out tests, but all measures have been taken to ensure that the local population is not.endangered. This is why we suggested that you leave the village. Therefore, insisting that we are driving you to your death is hardly justified. We have no choice – we want to save the country from an American invasion.»

Grandfather, frowning, did not speak. Then, turning around abruptly, he went towards his bullock cart. My father patted me on the shoulder and tousled my hair.

«Alright then, off you go. Help grandfather and grandmother as we agreed,» he said.

I nodded in agreement and then spontaneously looked up at the sky – what if an American bomb was already flying towards us. But the sky was clear, not a single cloud, a clear peaceful sky…

«What will you eat?» grandmother asked my father. «We have some flour, let’s share it.»

«It’s not necessary. We have provisions of tinned food,» answered father. «Don’t worry about me. It’s better that you do all that the army bids you to do…»

«If you really get hungry, then kill the hens. I’ve left them for you.» Grandfather lashed the horse with his whip, ignoring father’s last words, and we set off.

I MISS MY FATHER. My wife and I were walking around the shops attempting to buy something «typical of Moscow» to take to Semipalatinsk. There were queues everywhere for everything, people were snatching pieces of sausage wrapped in polythene, from each other, jostling each other for meat and cheese. Good quality candy, which my father used to like very much, had disappeared. I can’t find anything for my mother. I’ll just have to accept the fact that this evening, for the first time, I will fly to my homeland, to my father’s grave, with empty hands.

My wife and I walked silently down the Arbat. It was crowded. There were street artists, photographers, singers, poets and lively discussions. Young people like everywhere in the world were enjoying themselves, loving, hating and arguing.

The underpass leading to the Metro was filled with painters. I pushed my way through the crowd out of curiosity, and – was dumbfounded. A painting depicted the Genghiz Hills. I would have recognized those long bends and ravines anywhere. I touched my wife’s elbow.

«Look, can you see Genghiztau? Can you see how the fiery clouds tear the picture apart and how the evil dirty-grey mushroom hangs suspended in the sky?»

At the foot of the hills, incensed horses, their teeth bared, snorted wildly. The whole scene was being observed by a little girl dressed in white, with enormous demented eyes. «It can’t be,» I thought. «This is no mere coincidence. This has been painted by someone who has seen everything with his own eyes…»

But this painting hung above a bearded, young man who swiftly and confidently was painting the portrait of a young woman who sat before him, rigid with tension.

«Where does this painting come from? Is it yours?» I asked.

«Why, do you like it?» the painter answered the question with another.

«It’s not a question of liking it or not liking it. It’s terrifying,» I said, not being able to tear myself away from the painting.

«Terrifying for some and not for others,» the young man said indifferently, smirking and handing the finished portrait to the young woman, «I’ll draw you, if you like,» he offered. «If you’re in a hurry I can draw you in pencil, but if you have time I can paint you and you’ll have a solid portrait. They like solid portraits in Central Asia.»

«How do you know what they like in Central Asia?» slipped out from my lips.

«I know, I’m no fool,» barked the painter.

It was obvious that there was something in my face that made him look away and change his tone of voice.

«The person who painted this picture was much smarter than I. He understood Central Asia with his soul.»

«It’s Kazakhstan,» I said. «The hydrogen bomb test.»

«You’ve guessed it. Kazakhstan. Some hills, the name of which I can’t remember. The painting is by my father,» confessed the painter after a brief silence.