The tall wall starts near the barn, goes down to the valley, reaches the ridge, goes parallel, then, in an arc, reaches the barn. On top of the wall are carefully arranged mamkh and masri bushes. There are no overhanging cracks or bent stones in the wall. Every spring and autumn, a pair of trembling hands go all the way around the wall. The best garden and vegetable garden is inside that wall. And the best barn with a red roof, oak floor, dry. The barn, with the buffaloes, is in the same hand of an old woman, whose head sways slightly and her eyes water quickly. The head does not sway when the mind is strained and, once again, when the bright and handsome buffaloes are separated from the great herd that is blocking the road, stand at that door, suddenly a great pride comes and stands at its door. It does not flow to the depths of the village along the road near the house, it picks up and stops at its door. Inside, the ancient copper cowbell jingled, and the head stopped swaying.
The grandson came from the army.
Khazal picked the apples when they were told. His head spun, and he didn't know if it was from joy or from working bent over.
After the news, the grandson rushed into the garden, rolling stones from the fence. With the habit of years, he gave her cheeks to kiss, then he saw that the old woman was very beautiful, her faded blue eyes were watery, and she was trembling. She was a dear, kind grandmother.
"Nans, nans... my beautiful nans... I was going and you were working, I came and you were working." You haven't even entered the house for three years. what a nice garden we had, nani... the state farm doesn't take it...
The grandmother wanted to see irony in her grandson's words against the state farm and determination not to give away the garden.
- Why, he will take it too...
"Yes, you know the law better than I do, more than six hundred to the state, nan, nan...
The grandson took it home and came back to put the fallen stones on the wall.
Chickens were slaughtered, wine and good things were put on the table, after a break of years the old gramophone played again, and the nan wanted this to be the continuation of the days when the son was there and the empty wine bottles were piling up in the cellar.
"Army dear, will you give the garden right?" Nan was upset.
The grandson, who was talking a lot, tried not to listen, but the grandmother was waiting.
"Well, I've just arrived, Nani. I don't know what's going on here."
"More than six hundred toothless to the state," said the grandmother.
"The toothy ones," the grandson smiled. Don't be afraid, tell me, your grandson is toothy.
- Six thousand.
- Who needs it?
"Well, that's right, dear child, you're right." In the end, it happens that they don't have six thousand, or a buffalo, but the herdsman gave them a head on a stone.
- I am a tractor driver, Nani. I was a tanker driver, now I will be a tractor driver.
— A tractor is better than a mower, better than a herdsman, but there is also the brigade. There was a tractor in his father's time, but he was a foreman or president.
- Do you want me to walk with the boy?
"What do you lack," encouraged the grandmother, "it's wind, it will give," she thought anxiously and, again, remembered her son with a sharp longing. He was twenty-five years old, he managed a village, he managed a village, he kept a house. He kept it, he kept it well.
The grandson and daughter-in-law were laughing, they didn't see the end of the songbook, they didn't change it until the grandmother told them.
It was a Turkish song, he didn't understand the words, once the son wanted to translate it for his mother, he said a couple of words, left it unfinished and, turning his barbecue in front of his mother, held the plate to his ear and sang along with the gramophone. He finished with the gramophone, then kissed his mother and took out the songbook. "Let's live, dear Nani, until we reached this day, what did we go through!"
"Dad fought against the kulaks," the grandson said seriously, with faith, unconditionally before going to the army. He said, as he used to say about Shchors and Chapaev in history class.
"Dad fought against the kulaks for the sake of collectivization and had fun," he said now, winking at his mother.
Grandma got upset. "What do you know, what are you aware of..."
... It was summer, the hay was rustling from dryness, the horses were turning in the same way, he was turning over a hay spike for the thousandth time, and the only thought was turning over in his slightly spinning head for the first time: when will he tie a silver belt from flowered silk. The whirl of horses and minds was interrupted in the afternoon, when the owner of the stallion yoked with their horse appeared in the stable. "It's not your fault for that stallion, right? You threw it outside... Drive it, drive it, it's someone else's product." Ato had an evil eye, don't let anything happen...
The husband was heartbroken, angry and powerless, he stopped the horses to pull the stallion inside. While fastening the khamut, he looked at the woman from under the neck of a tall, stilted horse. There were drops of sweat on the woman's forehead, her face was burning with redness, moisture was shining under her eyes. There were tears. The husband smiled, "Okay, what happened, it will be okay," and turned his face away. It seemed as if he was going to curse Ato's horse, Ato, the world, but he just drove the horses away with a whistle and cracked his whip in the air. With a clatter, looking to the side from under the hood, the black stallion gave a soft and heavy kick to her husband's chest. Falling down, he begged for air with his mouth open from the woman, the horses, the horse, the sky... it didn't happen, it didn't exist.
The son was six months old at that time.
The world is full of bread, they long for bread, half the world is men, there was not even a scarecrow at their doors.
He asked Ato's boy to bring wood, they didn't have wood. He brought it without chemuchum. He called in for bread. He came. He sat down, looked at the long table, did not eat. The widow understood, "Eat," she said in fear. "Eat, you say," and his hand suddenly patted her back. He firmly bit the hand in his lap, "I'll tell your father, dear." Rubbing the bite, he pulled back, waiting in a smile for the day when it would be willingly, willingly. Then the wood ran out, Ato's son brought more. He waited for her to call him in for food. He did not call. He learned to put the solution, flew away with a sigh. "It's a pity, it's a pity."
When bringing the sheep from the hunt, he left a bag of dull wool near the house. The widow brought the thief to the house, poured wool, white, thread... put it in a bag, tied the mouth with the same goat's hair and took him outside, but the child cried, and he hurriedly came back, dragging the bag behind him. The child buried his nose in his full breast and moaned, looking only into his mother's eyes. He wanted to get carried away with the child and forget the wool, but the child was full and fell asleep. He took the bag out, he would like, he would very much like, that the child would cry, that he would come back again.
"You are a fool, fool," said Ato's boy as the other day passed, "you are not a fool, you are a child, you are a naive god's sheep."
Then, on the rose festival, the boys rode horses. Urth stopped to look. It was a feast of silk, silk, silver belt and eyes. And one wanted to be in love and cry. And one wanted to be promiscuous and beautiful. Tricks and laughs. He mocked and fought with his hands on his hips.
The widow, standing aside, for the widow, no matter who wins the race... One felt that Ato's son and their black stallion were not in the line. And he, with a stallion, appeared opposite. "Stand up... me too..." Dropping the horse, he brought the horse to the tree and, untying the rope, looked at whom to drop. "Hold," and the yapnji fell on the widow's head. He felt hot for a minute and passed. The scent of a man enveloped her. Now their stallion's forepart was hearty. It came, it came, it came and, damn it, it stopped running. It's a man, huh...
The widow felt him as her own. And the women enviously looked at Ein Ato's daughter-in-law, who stood tall and proud, hugging her chest with crossed arms, bursting with pride.
"I'll bury your head," said the widow, "you enjoy it, I'll enjoy it... for what sin of mine?"
That same night, Ato's Sako took the tent cover back. He accepted the widow and kept her until morning. The other night, he did not accept her, "you have found a woman without an owner", but then he begged that if he does not leave El, let him enter by force, let them keep their wood El, wool El, he is his slave, let him leave like a slave. But when he was leaving at dawn, he said that he would like the shawl that is on his wife's shoulders, he said that the silver belt of his wedding is at their house.
"You're good, but don't say it again," Ato's Sako bent his neck, "we understand that much."
The son was growing tall. "Will he forgive me?" thought his mother. The son was an open-eyed, judgmental child. He grew up and saw that their field was the size of a patch next to a wide and barren train of other fields, their buffalo in the spring, when they take it out of the barn, is not as full and fat as the buffaloes of Atoi. The widow didn't understand one thing until the end: did the son know the connection between his mother and her, or did he naively praise Ato's son. He said, "Actually, he is the first man in the village." He said, "The horse kicked him. You were beautiful, weren't you?" Then one day he said, "My dear, you are still very beautiful."
Comerite first was written in the village of Ordin. First he was sent to courses. That's what he planned. Planned - business, thought - livelihood. Only one thing happened unexpectedly, he fell in love.
One day, he came with a girl from the rural town where they were taking courses.
- Here is our house.
The girl had to smile, and the widow saw her white teeth. But it was not a smile.
The son had lost his head, his mother had never seen him like that.
- this is our house. You really wanted to see our house. - He kicked the dog that was hugging his legs.
"Isn't it a sin... What a lovely dog you have," said the girl. The door also kicked open. The girl stood in the middle of the room confused.
- Sit down.
The girl looked around for a chair.
- Sit on the throne.
The decoration is charred logs, the walls are not plastered, the only decoration is a poster from two or three years ago: "Long live...".
Until then, the widow considered herself the owner of a decent living. They get rich, one by fraud, the other by theft. Well, he has something, he is not far behind. Now it broke. For the first time, when he went to make bread, the copper bowls seemed black and poor. This time he treated them mercilessly. The son came out with so much noise and when the mother bent over the tripod straightened up, she saw tears in her eyes.
- It happened from the smoke. Why did you go out, go inside?
"There was smoke!"
The buffalo growled in the courtyard.
This time he milked without a song. The buffalo craned its neck and took a long sniff of the milkman. When he came in, the bride and the son were sitting facing each other in the silent darkness.
- Well, so are we.
"How can..."
And they were silent. Even if he wanted to, his son could not speak. The jaws were clenched and the cheekbones stretched and weakened under the skin. Then he took the table knife and was beating the tablecloth, cutting the tablecloth. The son drank vodka, pushed the chicken away, drank again. The girl abruptly refused the meal, ate only half of an apple.
"Would you like some milk? It's freshly milked, it's good," said the mother. The girl smiled. I will drink it. - The widow brought it. - Is it buffalo milk? - asked the girl. - I don't drink buffalo milk, I just don't like it. Then they sat in silence.
The dog barked and snuggled up to someone's legs. Someone's steps stopped behind the window. The son made his mother understand with his eyes what it was and that the mother should go out. And he froze, stuck to the throne. "Go," muttered the son, "he is waiting, go, this world is a thief's world." What are you doing, you poor woman, lost in the mud, who are you ashamed of? "Come on," shouted the son, "come on," and hit the glass in his hand on the lamp.
"Don't do atrocities," said the girl.
"You go to your aunt's house."
— Have the courtesy to accompany.
"Of course," the son stood up.
The aunt was Ato's wife. in their house, milk cups were separate, there were carpets on the walls, a gramophone, Aton had brought an armchair from Tiflis.
"Sit down later." The girl peeled an egg and drank milk from an enamel cup.
"You will stay here," said the son.
"Then, eat now, then." The girl chewed the bread thoughtfully, then said to the widow, "but you were a beauty, huh!"
Then the girl asked to open the bed, and when her mother put back the folds, she said:
"You have a very good bed, mother."
The son sat down to write a speech for the solemn session of November 29. Nothing worked for a long time. He threw the pen and cursed. But then I got both the speech and the position in the office. The consolidation began.
The son laughed at those giving the ox with a collective cry in the middle of the village and cried for the buffaloes at home. By God's luck, the collective did not have a herd of buffaloes, their buffaloes were given back, the buffaloes wanted a lot of care, and a day was written in exchange for the care. In the village, the serzat car entered the warehouse first, then their house, the honey car entered their house first, then the collective farm warehouse, the sewing machine entered their house, did not enter the warehouse, and then what the son saw, what fell into his hands. He built a barn similar to Ato's old-fashioned house right next to Ato's house, laid red brick on it, and laid an oak floor on it.
"You say that my father was not to blame for the stallion, again... It was the place for him, the ruthless shepherd, Uncle Ato... You say how are your affairs... the blanket fell under your belly, huh..." He was laying tiles on the roof of the barn and carefully handling the old rich man. You were going to make me a prisoner, weren't you, uncle... And I'll do you a favor, your house is old, it's going to be torn down, it's going to be torn down, just like my barn. It is dry, boarded up, a barn like a house.
Outside, the son led others to live the life of the collective, changed clothes at home and became a diligent business owner.
"It's not bad, isn't it," said the mother hesitantly.
"It's not bad," said the son.
"It's not so good," said his mother.
"It's good, it's good."
- How much did Ato have...
- it was not allowed that much.
The war began. The son was in the apiary when he called the executive of the village council.
He came home quickly. The bee had stung his face, his eye was closed. Shorer changed his clothes, cursing the living and the dead of those who started the war.
"Arrrr..." the grandson was crying breathlessly in the crib. The son kissed his mother and patted her on the back.
- Rock, rock... - he stood by the cradle, thought to say: "Let's see if he will become a man or...". He didn't say, the crib was a thing that didn't take anything to say, a red ball with an open mouth and, errr... then the breath would stop and the saliva would bubble up.
He wanted to rock her with his foot, but she did not move, the woman had fallen heavily on the cradle and was whimpering, clawing at the yoke. "Rock, rock," and went out.
- Oh, so...
The son stood up for the mother to say what she had to say, and he
"Am I..." he was waving his hands.
"What..." the son wanted to wait a little longer, but the mother couldn't find the words.
- that ownerless water completely destroyed the meadow, since when... he opened the door of the garden and left. He forgot what he had gone for and bent down to pick a piece of bread.
"It seems we have something," the son heard the voice, then the crack of the whip and the rustle of the apricot leaves.
"Nani, where is the pacifier?" asked the daughter-in-law.
- Tsatchich? - he raised his head, looked at the swaying branches of the tree that rustled as his son passed by. - Tsatchich... Rock, sway... - and he heard his son's voice: "Sway, sway" as if we have something... shishk..." - Tsatchich... did that ownerless water destroy the meadow, since when, huh...
"Rock, rock..."
And the gramophone didn't sing, and the songbooks didn't spin when the black varnish splashed under the light. And one of them did not sing with his son.
Cheeks from you, lips from me,
Bowl, bowl
Sweet girl, don't leave me...
until this evening... And an indescribable joy drowned the grandmother when the grandson in the next room, trying on his father's boots, repeated his father's song:
Bowl, bowl
Sweet girl, don't leave me...
At one point, it seemed to the grandmother that her son was singing in the next room, then it seemed that the son had sung a while ago and left, he is not in the room, and the song is still ringing. And his head stopped shaking for a moment.
"Aman, Aman, beautiful girl..." He stood in the doorway dressed as his father. "And so the father wore red boots, a leather jacket, tied a naga and fought against the kulaks... Cheeks from you, lips from me... A girl has a cheek with a mole on it, a boy has a lip with a mustache on it, a boy shaves his mustache and, don't you, the mole... Woe to them!
The dog barked. The grandson went out. He came a little later.
- It was the buffalo, he thinks he watered it himself, he entered the garden and is salting cabbage with appetite. Cheeks from you... Ah, nani, alas, the buffaloes are unnecessary. Where am I going to mow so much grass? There will be a lot of money from the tractor, we will live. Five tons of grass for twenty kilos of oil. I went to the village.
He sold the buffaloes after three days.
"A buffalo is in a dream, it's painful, fulfill it the same day," says Epremerdi... the grandson was laughing at the buffalo, Epremerdi, the dream and the buyer at the same time. "If I were you, I wouldn't buy it..."
Desicden talked so much that the buyer thought he was a puppy, did not understand anything about the product, and gave half the price.
The grandson understood.
- Don't be greedy, give whatever it's worth, whatever you brought with you.
"As much as you want," tried the buyer.
How many years have you decided with your wife at night until morning?
He gave the price and fatherly predicted.
- You are an economic boy, my son, you will have a good economy.
The grandson, as if flattered, took the tone of a good steward.
- I'll put a little more on top of that money, I'll buy three cows, fifteen sheep. Why are you laughing... fifteen sheep, two sows, don't you know where to sell them...
He accompanied the buyer to the village, on the way back he brought an expensive and suspicious radio receiver from the village coop store, he gave the rest of the money to his friend who was building a house, he had to cover his head.
- Don't think about returning it, you are our son, when you have it, you will give it... Wait a minute. Don't you know how to read? Put your finger here. What is it that you don't know how to write? Don't think about returning it, I take the lowest percentage in our province, don't give a shit... Listen, Barsegh... uh... what was I going to say, I forgot, hey, we don't have pet, pet, we don't have winter reserve pet... is your donkey idle? You say your ass is nailed, right? It's okay, come on, Jahel, you're a strong boy...
And the two of them weren't laughing!
And grandmother came home from the garden only in the evening.
- I will die.
The next day he was in the park again.
Apple trees are lined up along the wall, all of the same height, planted in one day.
He remembered. the son had gone to the district center for collective farm work. One day he was late and brought those apple trees. He quickly went to the village and came. "Dear Nani, to know what kind of apples they give... uh... with red stripes, hardy. Drive to the market in May." He tied a thread, lined up two lines...
"— With red stripes, hardy..." he heard his son's voice, he smiled, then he remembered that the buffaloes were sold and stopped living for a moment. "With red stripes, hardy..." the son said again, and the nan continued to collect khazal.
On the third day of the sale, the stubborn chairman of the village council jumped over the fence into the garden.
"Tell me, old woman, which row of trees do you want to keep, how should I measure it?"
- Measure it when you're having fun, - shouted the grandson from under the tractor, tightening the screw. - Do you need a converter?
- No, what does the converter build in our house?
"Me, you must have taken it from the tractor, again..."
"Why am I taking it?"
The grandson came out from under the tractor.
"It's a good thing to have at home, Uncle Nikol... is that right?"
"That's right," the president agreed with a smile.
"Measure, measure," and the grandson went to the basement.
- How should I measure it?
- Measure as you want, are you asking me?
The cellar was full of bottles.
There was something in the basement. A saddle, another saddle. A third saddle.
"What did you need the three saddles for?" The grandson did not understand anything about the economy, if he understood, he would have seen that one of the saddles is for a harnessed horse, another for a load, and the third for riding. Hammer for a horse, hammer for a nail, hammer for a nail, but a big one, pickaxe, nig, horseshoe for a Cossack and a beran... Plow chain, milk car lugan, goad, piece of rail... Sibil, tuh... Plow wheel... turner...
- The father planned that his son will become a tractor driver, the grandson teased.
When he came out, Nikol and his grandmother were standing and talking. Then Nikol, like a kind, understanding father, advised.
"Come on, you listen to me, I'm telling you something. Come on, break up with your mother and grandmother, formally, again, formally, do you understand? Break up, take half of the garden for yourself, half for yourself." Get married soon and get divorced.
"Will you give me a girl?"
- Ishi's head - said Nicole fatherly, - the division is formal, the garden remains undivided, one piece.
If the garden was Nikolin's, he would not have given it in any way, he would have divorced his wife ("formally, formally"), the garden would have been considered divided, but it would have remained in a fence. The garden was not his, it belonged to someone else, but he still couldn't get his hands on it. It showed that it doesn't matter to him how he shares it, he just wants to do that one favor.
- It's in my hands, I'm doing that one favor. Under the condition of half a liter, there should be honey alone, if there was no honey, I will divide it...
- And what about...
"Eh, your head!" You didn't plant the garden, your heart doesn't hurt. The grandson measured the garden with his eyes. Not a bad garden. rows of apple trees that bloom in spring, fill the fruit with juice in summer, drip the fruit in autumn, keep the seed in winter, so that they bloom again in spring... It's a garden, again... The gaze stopped at the pair of pear trees at the bottom of the tree, like a yellow flame. "What lovely things," thought the grandson, and remembered their large, juicy fruit. "Leave them to us..." thought the grandson, "Leave them to us", he thought to say, but said.
"You know what, Uncle Nikol, alas, I don't think he has any, I finished it." Measure the garden as you like, leave it to the committee...
In the evening, the grandmother was confused, she forgot what to say, she listened to what her grandson and daughter-in-law said, it seems, attentively, but she also forgot what she heard and the answer. At night, there was restless turmoil, and in the morning, when they went to call for tea, he was not in the garden. it was not even in the barn. He was in bed, dead.
Nicole spoke at the cemetery. He used to say: "we will keep his memory alive", then he looked for a stronger expression and said: "we will keep his memory traditionally, he raised such a son, he took care of such a daughter-in-law, he raised such a grandson", "we will keep his memory traditionally". Nikol had come to the cemetery from the place of measuring the garden, Nikol was drunk.
The grandson remembered the pear trees at the inner end of the garden. Two yellow flames... "If only the pear trees were left to us...", the grandson thought and suddenly realized that his grandmother would still be alive if the buffaloes and the garden remained.
"The garden and the buffaloes were his life," thought the grandson. "Nan was an old woman with a small soul" - came the second thought, and the grandson was disgusted by her cruelty, the coffin was being lowered, the mother fell weakly on the arms of the people, and he... but he did not give up that thought. "Love has sold. he loved her, but he shows that he loves her for the wool. She was a little old woman."
"Let the pear trees stay with us..." he thought coming from the cemetery.
"Let's keep the peaches," Nikoli said while parting.
"And the garden?"
- The garden, as you wish, let the pear trees stay with us.
He entered the garden to look at the pear trees once more. They had a wonderful garden. He remembered that a grain of hail does not fall into their garden or leave the valley.
"The best land is ours," said the mother, "the best cabbage grows in our land."
"It's already late, you can't break up, it will be too fake and showy," said Nicole the other day, sticking the sazhen in the soft soil.
The grandson was thinking, then reflected.
- Ah, how do you share? Share.