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The Intersection
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The Intersection
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He took several steps and stopped involuntarily. The main dining room of the restaurant was packed. On the semi-circular bandstand at the far end of the room stood a tall young guitarist swaying affectedly, his dark, wavy hair shining under the bright light of chandeliers, his fingers flying recklessly over the strings of the colorful instrument. The musician winked at the sax player next to him, and the latter puffed up his full cheeks to begin his riff.
Jamshed took it all in at a glance: the layers of cigarette smoke hanging above the tables, the trembling crystals of the chandeliers, the swaying shoulders of the guitar player, the dancing couples, intertwined, and the strangely solitary, slightly out-of-place back of the piano player in the corner. He had the rounded shoulders of an old man who made his music thoughtfully and whose reflections were evident in every melancholy chord.
"Don't block the entrance, young man! I've told you I don't know how many times that all the tables are full!" the irritated voice of the hostess, an elderly woman in an absurd green headdress brought him back to reality.
The number ended, and the tall guitar player sat down, carefully resting his instrument on his knee; the merry, noisy dancers returned to their tables; the pianist stooped even lower over the key board and brushed back a shock of chestnut hair with his delicate fingers.
Jamshed tuned to leave, but suddenly he spotted a small table by the window not far from the bandstand. There were two empty seats after all.
"There are two free chairs over there," he told the woman, who had not left his side.
The woman waved her hand in displeasure and resignation and stalked off, muttering something under her breath.
Jamshed made his way through the carefree couples, approached the table and paused indecisively. A man in an expensive, coffee-colored suit was sitting opposite a woman; he leaned close to his plate, pushing the food onto the fork with his knife and greedily shovelling it down his gullet. The top button of his white shirt was undone, and the knot of his tie pushed to one side. The woman was staring indifferently out the window. A bottle of pop stood untouched beside her empty glass, and two red roses blazed in a porcelain vase in the center of the table.
Jamshed put his hand on the back of one of the empty chairs and asked the man, "Excuse me, is this place occupied?"
The man raised his head, still chewing, looked up at Jamshed, and swallowed hurriedly. His shiny face lit up in recognition:
"My, my, what a surprise, Jamshed, old pal. How nice to see you! How are you doing these days?"
Jamshed looked away in confusion. This was not what he had expected at all. His eyes flashed dark, and his heart pounded. No, no! anything but this! This was the last thing he needed! He clenched his teeth and tried to get a hold of himself. He greeted the man politely, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not force himself to look at the woman.
"Please have a seat; do sit down! " Jalil said, pulling out the chair for him. "Let us have a look at you. How nice it is we've finally run into each other after all these years! When we go back home, I'll be sure to tell your father I've seen you!"
Stunned by the unexpected and totally undesirable meeting, Jamshed sat down. He didn't want Jalil to think he held any grudges. "I'll sit with them for a few minutes and then go," he decided.
"Excuse me, I didn't recognize you..."
"Don't worry about it! I didn't notice that it was you at first, either," Jalil said with a smile, his gold teeth gleaming. "But since our hearts are pure and our intentions noble, fate herself has led us to this little table."
Jalil called the waitress over, whispered something in her ear, and turned back to Jamshed:
"So tell me how you're doing! How are the wife and kids?"
"Fine, thank you, we're all doing well. Why don't you tell me about yourselves instead..."
"We just drove out here to relax. As they say, 'A rest is relaxing, and a little jaunt is the most relaxing of all.' We have our own car now--nothing luxurious, of course--so it's just a hop, skip, and a jump for us to zip out here." He fell silent for a moment, pursed his lips and looked at the woman. "But this time, we're not having much fun..."
"Why, what's the matter?" inquired Jamshed politely, trying with all his might not to show how distraught he was.
"Shakhnoz is not feeling well. It seems the climate here doesn't agree with her," replied Jalil, pursing his lips again. Then he added, as if he had only just remembered: "But, of course, you know each other, don't you? You went to school together, as I recall..."
... Yes, Jalil, we went to school together. We were even in the same class. You know it perfectly well, so why are you being such a hypocrite? Or do you think I didn't recognize you that night? Well, if that's what you think, you're mistaken! I remember everything clear as a bell. I remember the dark, foggy street and the lone streetlamp in the distance, the turned-up collar of your coat, and the wide-brimmed hat that covered even your eyebrows, and your weak chin, hidden behind a scarf.
"Yes, we went to school together," replied Jamshed.
"And now you're working at the newspaper, or so I've heard..."
"Yes, that's right."
"You journalists probably do all right for yourselves."
"We make enough to get by on."
"That's good... I heard it through the grapevine that your father-in-law is well-placed. With his support, you can go far. By the way, is he the one who helped you get such a good job at the paper?"
Jamshed started, but he kept his cool. Finally he got up the nerve to look at the woman beside him. Shakhnoz, who was staring out the window, slowly turned her head, but did not return his glance. She knitted her brows, and her lips trembled: was she ashamed of her husband's crassness? Jamshed did not take his gaze off her, and it seemed to him that not a spark of the fire that once burned in her almond-shaped eyes remained. There was some vague new shadow in them Jamshed could not quite put a finger on--an odd mixture of indifference, unconcern, and regret...
"But her beauty has not faded," he thought. "She's filled out a bit, but no more. I wonder if she has guessed that I still remember her after all these years?"
Eight years before, when they had just graduated from high school, Shakhnoz had given him a copy of Voinich's novel, The Gadfly, bound in green leather for his birthday. She had smiled mysteriously and said:
"In the whole world, there are only two people that I care anything at all for. One of them is the hero of this book..."
"And who is the other?" asked Jamshed with a sinking heart.
"The other one?" Shakhnoz continued, averting her gaze. "I don't know him yet..."
"I don't believe you!
"Why not?" inquired Shakhnoz, raising her marvelous eyes to Jamshed, as he felt the blood rush to his face against his will. Her eyes glowed with pleasure. "Do you think ... that ... you know who the other person is?"
"No, I have no idea! " he replied, his heart skipping a beat.
"The other is the heroine of the tale..."
... Goodness, how long ago that was! And I've kept your gift all these years, Shakhnoz. For it is the only memento of my first love and all my unrealized dreams...
Jalil took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and asked:
"Could I offer you a cigarette?"
"I don't smoke, thank you."
"Good for you."
... That whole last year of school, no one had any doubts that we were head over heels in love. We sat next to each other and almost never left the room during recess: we could not bear to be parted even for a moment! Sometimes, we would study together in the evenings, and we would go to the movies in our free time... All the while, we had no idea our classmates were calling us Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, Leila and Medjnun... How blissfully the days went by that last year... After we graduated, Shakhnoz began taking correspondence courses at the teacher's college, and I went to work on the railroad. We had a big family, and every extra kopeck was worth its weight in gold. I wanted to work for a couple of years to help my father out, save up some money, and then go to college. I had dreams of becoming a journalist...
"Good for you," repeated Jalil. "I know every cigarette I smoke is another nail in my coffin, but I've been smoking for twelve years now, and no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to kick the habit," he proclaimed and stopped talking long enough to take a cigarette from the pack and light up. "And how many children do you have?"
"We've got one daughter..."
"How nice..."
... Every evening, when you got off work, I'd be waiting for you by the kindergarten gate. I knew every scratch in that gaily painted wicket gate by heart, even though I never had to wait long. You'd appear in the twinkling of an eye, hurrying toward me as if the expectation of our meeting had hung heavy over you all day. If I close my eyes, I can still see you, just as you were then. I really believed then that you had spent the whole day just waiting for me. "I saw you standing here through the window," you would say with a tender smile. Every day I swore that that very evening I would ask you to marry me, and every evening you managed to change the subject... Do you remember? The days passed, and the months, until one day you finally said yes. It was cold and snowy, but I didn't feel my legs under me. I flew home as if I had wings! Remember, we decided we would marry that summer, as soon as your exams were over...
And do you remember the next thing you told me: "Don't come to walk me home any more. People are starting to talk." I was shocked, but blinded by the joyful thought that you had finally consented to be my wife: "So let them. We're getting married soon anyway!' " And do you remember how you bit your lip, jerked your hand away, and ran off? The sky fell on me that day, for up till then, I had only read in books how painful love can be. From then on, you had no more use for me or my love. I saw you several times after that, and every time, you were walking with that worthless Jalil. He had just graduated from the economics institute and had been named the director of a big department store.
Do you remember all that?
"We have three boys," said Jalil, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth. "The eldest is already five."
The waitress brought three plates of chicken Georgian-style, a bottle of cognac, three bars of chocolate, some cheese and a pitcher of lemonade, all of which she arranged on the table before us.
Jalil tapped the ashes into the ash tray and took charge with obvious relief: he poured two glasses of cognac, broke the chocolate into little pieces and arranged them on a plate...
"Shakhnoz, you won't have anything to drink, I assume..." he addressed his wife without looking at her or awaiting a reply, then continued, still facing Jamshed: "We've known each other all these years, and this is the first time we've ever sat down to have a meal together. Old friends should stick together, Jamshed. So let's drink that we might meet again in the near future."
Jamshed looked at Shakhnoz out of the corner of his eye. Her face was motionless as a Greek mask, and she continued to stare pensively out the window, but under the table, her nervous, tense fingers crumpled her napkin with unexpected malice.
"Well, if that's something we have to make a toast to, then bottoms up," assented Jamshed. He suddenly relaxed, and Shakhnoz felt his change of mood immediately. She glanced at him quickly, and he thought: "Their glances intertwined, as the saying goes." And so it was...
"Let's drink then," said Jalil, extending the other's glass. When he had taken it, Jalil announced: "It's your turn, pal!"
"My turn for what?" inquired Jamshed, breaking into a smile.
"Well, you're the eloquent journalist among us, aren't you?"
... Soon there were rumors that Shakhnoz was engaged to Jalil. I couldn't sleep nights: as soon as I closed my eyes, your face would appear. You would whisper something to me, but I couldn't make out what. So I would wander the streets aimlessly until sunrise. No matter how hard I tried, I could never understand what I had done to offend you or why you had shattered our happiness to bits with your own hands.
One day, I could stand it no longer. My feet took me to the date of the familiar kindergarten of their own accord, as if drawn by some mysterious force. I didn't have to wait long that day either, only about ten minutes. You glanced coldly in my direction from the door, curtly returned my greeting, and hurried off in the other direction. I went running after you and asked:
"Shakhnoz, is it true?"
"Is what true?" you asked over your shoulder without stopping.
"What people are saying."
"Yes, it's true."
"But don't you know what kind of person he is?"
"Why? Do you think there's something wrong with him?"
"That's not for me to decide, but I..."
"What about you? At least he's not the kind of person who would hold a girl's hand and then tell everyone he had been with her..."
"What do you mean by that. Shakhnoz?!"
"Don't you know?"
"If I knew, I wouldn't be asking!"
"A fine one you are! It's a shame I didn't find out what a dishonest, envious person you are long ago!"
Yes, that's what you said. I stopped dead in my tracks from shock, stunned by the base slander I had just heard. I never found out what foul person had spread such lies about me, but even now I am outraged and wounded by the injustice of it. That was the last time I saw you, and even now we haven't a word to say to each other. Why do you turn away, Shakhnoz? What are you thinking about?"
Jalil softly touched Jamshed's shoulder and asked with a chuckle:
"What are you ruminating about, old pal? Has the cat got your tongue, or what?"
It seemed to Jamshed that the other's inquiry and laughter had a triumphal ring to them and no little irony.
"I was ill the day of your wedding and never got the chance to congratulate you. It may seem funny after so many years have passed, but today I would like to drink to your health and happiness."
"Thank you, Jamshed, old pal. And to your happiness as well." They drank. The quartet on the bandstand started up a whimsical melody, which mingled with the shuffling of the dancers into yet another tune consisting not just of sounds but of the mood of everyone present. The song was whimsical and at the same time rakishly carefree, despairing and sad, even mournful...
"How about another, Jamshed?"
"Thank you, that's about all I can handle."
"Don't be so squeamish! It's barely a jigger-full..."
"I still have some work to finish up this evening..."
"Have a little more! Your work can wait! " Jalil set the shot glass down in front of Jamshed, turned to Shakhnoz, and added: "Your food is cold."
But Shakhnoz, pale and silent, simply raised her head and glanced querulously at her husband as if she had not even heard him.
"Your food is cold, I said," Jalil repeated patiently and indulgently. "You really should try to eat a little, even if you don't feel well." Shakhnoz continued to stare indifferently at him, but she raised her fork and picked obediently at her chicken, then lowered her head again.
Jalil struck the match several times before it finally caught, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag...
... After our talk that day, Shakhnoz, I went to the restaurant at the railway station and drank vodka for the first time in my life. At the time, I thought that was what a real man would do--drown his grief in wine. When I finally left the place, my head was spinning, and my legs were unsteady: I barely made it back to my street in one piece. I had just crossed the irrigation ditch that runs along the road when I heard someone shout "Stop!" through the darkness on the other side. The voice was hoarse and unfamiliar, but I stopped anyway. I leaned against a tree trunk to keep from falling. Someone came up to me, grabbed me by the collar, started to shake me, and said: "So the little wimp has gone and got his feelings hurt... My, my, how sad!"
The anger welled up inside me, but I kept calm, for I wanted to find out who my assailant was. But I couldn't tell: his raised coat collar, wide-brimmed hat, and scarf hid his face completely.
"Who are you, and what do you want?"
"It's none of your business who I am, but if I catch you talking with Shakhnoz one more time, I'll chop your head off and throw it to the dogs. First you go running your mouth, and then you try to hide!"
"I'll see whoever I want, and it's no one's business but mine! "
"You think so?"
"Yes! "
"Then remember this, you little wimp: my friend's honor is more important to me than anything on earth! If you dare to see Shakhnoz alone ever again, I'll cut your throat!"
The blood rushed to my head, I pushed myself away from the tree, and shouted angrily at the stranger:
"You can go and tell your friend Jalil that if he were a real man, he wouldn't let someone else do his talking for him! If he's got anything to say to me, he knows where I live!"
The rest of the incident was like a dream.
The stranger shouted: "So it's Jalil you want?! Here, take this! "I didn't manage to duck, and the powerful blow to my face almost knocked me from my feet. Feeling the blood gush from my smashed nose and split lip, I reeled forward, aiming my fist at the hidden face of my offender, but I missed and came away with only the end of his scarf in my hand. Whether from the blow or from anger, I sobered up right away and recognized the stranger. With the scarf pulled back and the hat askew, it would have been impossible not to recognize him!
Forgetting the pain, my swollen lip, and my throbbing nose, I burst out laughing:
"What a roach you are!"
He bent over, covering his face with his hand, and aimed at my groin with all his might. But I jumped back, so he only got my left knee, but again, the blow was so heavy, it almost knocked me to the ground. Pain, anger, and offense cleared my head and gave me the strength to act. I balled up my fist ready not only to deflect the next blow but... I wouldn't have let him get away alive...
The next thing I heard was the sound of someone running away. Sometimes I wonder why he ran away. Perhaps he was afraid I would recognize him and tell everyone of his dastardly deed. After all, we had been neighbors for years--how could I help but recognize him? Or maybe he didn't want to ruin things between us entirely--but what kind of relationship could we possibly have after all that had happened? In any case, that was neither the first nor the last time he did something base...
"What did you say?" asked Jalil in surprise.
Jamshed and Shakhnoz looked at him.
"Nothing," replied Jamshed, shrugging his shoulders, not realizing that he had begun to mumble aloud.
"I thought I heard you say 'old' or 'told'..."
"Ah-h-h," proffered Jamshed with a tight-lipped smile. "I said, 'Your supper is already cold.'"
"You look as if you don't feel well, old pal. Is anything the matter?"
"No, everything is fine. I've just been feeling a bit lonely the last few days. I'm at home alone for a while."
"Did you and your wife have a quarrel?" inquired Jalil with obvious interest. "Has she been gone long?"
"Nothing of the kind!" Jamshed said with a laugh. "My mother came over, and took her and my daughter for a brief visit. One of our relatives is getting married."
"Oh, so that's what happened. And I thought..."
...I saw you two days later on my way home from work, Jalil. My knee was still sore, and I walked with a slight limp. You were standing by the gate of your house eating pistachios, and wearing a fine green robe of silk blend and an expensive deer-skin cap. "How did you hurt your leg, Jamshed? What ever happened?" you asked innocently. I laughed, looked you straight in the eye, and said: "Some dumb son-of-a-bitch jumped me in the middle of the night. Too bad I never found out who it was!"
"What a bastard! Have you reported it to the police? We seem to have more than our share of hoodlums these days."
Jalil proceeded to expound on this subject at great length, taking great pains to avoid my gaze. It was all I could do to keep from beating him to a bloody pulp in a righteous attempt to rid the earth of such scum...
One night, some five years later, I realized that I had been wrong to keep my peace. I should have shouted my tale of woe up and down the street to expose that treacherous villain. I should have beaten the dickens out of him instead of suffering silently... But I was no better at that sort of thing then than I am now, for there I was sitting at the table with him.
"I heard you came to visit your father last winter. It's a shame you didn't stop by."
"There really wasn't enough time. We were only in town for two days."
"I hope we'll be seeing each other more often now. Remember, Jamshed, you are always welcome at our house. Drop by any time. A person is like a pearl of great value, after all. And for as genuine a human being as you, I would do anything."
Jalil pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and loudly blew his nose. Shakhnoz started, raised her lovely eyes to her husband, and lowered her head again. "Her indifference is but a form of collaboration with her husband," Jamshed thought suddenly, surprised by the unexpectedness of this thought. "Passive participation..."
"Not long ago, fortune smiled on me again, and I got a better job. So now I'm in a position where I can always help my friends," said Jalil, then fell silent in expectation of some query, and finally continued: "You have to know whose back to scratch to get ahead these days!"
"For as long as I've known you, you've always managed to succeed at whatever you tried you're hand at."
"That's because my intentions are pure!"
The men ceased talking.
Supper had long grown cold. The glasses of cognac stood neglected near the edge of the table. Jalil continued to smoke, and Shakhnoz did not break her silence. Jamshed was getting more and more depressed. The general festive mood of the restaurant passed him by. He regretted that he had come and that he was carrying on such a pointless conversation. It occurred to him that their chance meeting was more like a funeral repast...
"Excuse me, but I really have to go now..."
"What do you mean? It's still early. We have the whole evening before us!"
"I still have a lot of work to do tonight."
"Well, if it really can't wait, then at least have another drink before you go!"
"Thank you, but I really can't."
"What kind of a man are you? One tiny glassful never hurt anybody!"
"I'm sorry, but I really can't. I wasn't planning to spend the whole evening. I just came to eat supper, actually."
"It's a shame to waste good brandy." Jamshed glanced at Shakhnoz. She had not said a single word the whole painful evening. At some points, it had seemed to Jamshed that she was crying, that remorse had filled her dark soulful eyes. And then she reminded him of a wounded partridge shrinking before the feet of the hunter. Then her face would change imperceptibly, and he would find himself sitting next to a cold, unfamiliar, calculating woman who would be transformed in an instant into a confused young girl... But who was Shakhnoz, really? "Why do you want to know?" Jamshed rebuked himself. "What's done is done; the past is dead... A strange woman is sitting next to you, not the girl you loved. Why reopen old wounds? Get up and leave. Can't you see she's suffering. Do you want to get pleasure from someone else's pain? What makes you think she's suffering anyway? Maybe she just doesn't feel well..."
"I won't try to make you stay. I know myself what urgent business can be like. I run up against the same problem once in a while in the evenings," Jalil said in a soft, insinuating tone. "As soon as we get back, I'll pass on greetings from you to your father, and we'll be glad to see you the next time you get to town. And your wife is more than welcome, too. We'll sit and have a nice long chat." Jalil raised his hand, caught the eye of the waitress, who was sitting behind a painted column, and gestured for her to come over.
The waitress came over with her pad and pencil in her hand. She asked Jalil:
"What can I do for you?"
"Could we have the check, please? We're leaving..."
"It's still early. You can sit a while longer if you want," protested Jamshed.
Jalil glanced at his watch, then added: "Right you are; I thought it was much later."
"Twenty three roubles, seventy eight kopecks," announced the waitress, putting the check down on the table.
"We've changed our minds, miss. We'll stay a while and dance a bit. So the other gentleman is the only one who is leaving. Come back later, and we'll take care of the bill then."
As the woman was about to walk away, Jamshed stopped her, took a twenty-five rouble note from his pocket, and handed it to her.
"They are my guests; I'll take care of everything," he said, rising and looking first at Jalil, then at Shakhnoz. "Well, take care of yourself!"
"Don't offend us, Jamshed, old pal! That's no good! It's not as if I couldn't pay myself!"
"Don't be offended, Jalil, old pal," replied Jamshed, deliberately repeating Jalil's favorite phrase. "Next time, you can treat."
"That's another matter, then. More befitting a man."
The waitress held out his change.
"Keep it..."
"Good-bye, then," repeated Jamshed, glancing at Shakhnoz.
"I hope, Jamshed, old pal," began Jalil, rising from the table, "that even though we live far from each other, our hearts will be united from this day forth! We were neighbors once, after all! And neighbors are closer than brothers. They say that even in the next life, on Judgement Day, we will all have to account for our sins and our good deeds will be weighed in our favor. So, if it be the will of Allah, we shall meet again."
"Of course."
Jamshed looked at Jalil once more and then at Shakhnoz, picked up the glass of brandy from the table, and drank it with unexpected pleasure, gazing into the bottomless eyes of the woman across from him. Deep within them a tiny spark flared up, then went out again. But it might just have been the reflection of the glass: the light from the chandelier shining on the upturned bottom. The light...
"Good-bye, then."
Jalil shouted something after him in a tone of admiration, but Jamshed didn't hear what it was. On the small bandstand in the corner of the main dining room, something changed imperceptibly. The tall young guitar player stopped clowning; the sax man stepped to the side, and the elderly pianist straightened up. He reached up with slender sensitive fingers, rumpled his chestnut mane like an unseen wind, and...
Jamshed's face turned cold as the smoke-filled hall, the noise, and the clinking of knives and forks were drowned out by the compelling melody of the famous Ogynsky polonaise.
Jamshed looked about, but he could see neither Shakhnoz nor Jalil: their table was concealed by the painted column. A balding drunk was clinging to one of the columns crying plaintively, his head drooped. The tears had reached his wrinkled chin and were dripping to the floor...
... Several days went by.
Jamshed was returning home from work. A lilac twilight had already fallen over the city, and it was raining. A fine, warm rain that had been falling since morning, washing away, the grime of winter--the trash, last year's fallen leaves, filthy rags--and returning everything to its original fragrance and color: the houses, fences, the bushes with their swelling buds, and the first blades of grass.
Jamshed stopped at an intersection to wait for the cars to pass. Through the misty rain he saw a black Volga stopped at the crossing, and behind the wheel was Jalil smoking a cigarette with Shakhnoz sitting next to him. Both were staring indifferently ahead in utter estrangement. The drops of rain tapped against the glass to be brushed off by the windshield wipers, and just as quickly, the faces of the people sitting inside the car were brushed away. It seemed that they would be erased completely after a few more sweeps. But they themselves would not notice their facelessness: they would simply drive on, visageless individuals...
The light changed, and the cars pulled off. Jamshed leaned over to look after them, but at that moment, an old man tapped him on the elbow and asked:
"Could you tell me if there is a tea room nearby sonny?"
"There's one just around the comer."
While Jamshed was explaining to the old man how to get there, the car passed, and he didn't even see which way it went. Only the rainy evening remained.
1980