was wearing a long patterned skirt and a colorful print blouse with sleeves that went all the way down to her wrists.
“Won’t you be hot?” asked Shamil in surprise. Madina was silent, sullen. Her expression betrayed a vague, ominous tension.
“Why so grouchy?” asked Shamil, trying to make light of it.
She slammed the door behind her and started down the stairs.
“What have you heard out on the streets?” Her cork soles tapped down the stairs as she answered his question with one of her own.
“You know, don’t you? Such an aria-urai ! I stumbled on two different demonstrations going on at the same time.” Shamil had a thought. “Hey, is your phone working?”
“No. They say almost all of the services have been disconnected. Some glitch in the system. Or maybe someone shut them down on purpose.”
They came out into the courtyard, cluttered with garages, but still spacious. A bench nearby was occupied by a number of young people from the building; he greeted them, clasping hands. Then he caught up to Madina and started babbling the first thing that came into his head, just to break the silence:
“Listen, I wanted to come by car, but Magomed took it. It’s all right—I’m thinking of getting an Audi. I can order this one Omargadzhi told me about, from Stavropol, only slightly used.”
Madina was barely listening. She glanced at Shamil only once, to point out the glass door of a bakery to him. A sign over it read WINDOW TO PARIS. They entered an empty, cool little room, lined with shelves of cakes and pastries.
“Let’s go to a regular restaurant,” Shamil suggested.
“No,” Madina said bluntly, sitting at a table directly under a humming air conditioner. She frowned, and her hands fiddled with a napkin she had picked up somewhere. A young waitress appeared behind the counter and sauntered lazily over to their table with a menu.
Madina was Shamil’s third cousin. Their great grandparents had been brothers who lived in the large mountain town of Cher, on one of the branches of the Great Silk Road. Cher was divided into quarters, each with several tukhums, each of these centered around its own mosque. One tukhum was military; another was made up of farmers and herdsmen. There was a tukhum of weavers who made cotton textiles and hempen cloth; one tukhum comprised merchants and boot makers of Jewish ancestry; and there was a tukhum of stonemasons and former slaves, descendants of Georgians who had been taken into captivity long ago. Their great-grandfathers had belonged to the agricultural tukhum known as Khikhulal, which was very distinguished,and which had occupied a place high up the mountain, overlooking a steep precipice.
At one point after the death of their parents, the brothers quarreled. Madina’s great-grandfather Zakir had decided to marry a beautiful girl from a noble family, who was expected to have a substantial dowry. In those days dowries consisted of land—that is, the most valuable commodity in the mountains. But if a girl married into a different free community, khanate, or kingdom, she would receive nothing at all. When he learned that his younger brother’s intended bride would come from another community, and so would not have a dowry, Shamil’s great-grandfather Zapir was livid. He forbade Zakir to appear in his house with his new wife: “You can plow on her forehead,” he raged, “and reap her eyebrows!”
So Zakir took his wife, a horse, and several friends, and set out to conquer an adjoining territory, one with fertile fields and pastures belonging to alien tribes. Numerous raids on settlements there resulted in a formal complaint in court, with all the local authorities and clerics presiding. They presented Zakir with a copy of the Koran and compelled him to swear that the land that he was attempting to occupy, and on which he was now standing, had belonged to his ancestors. “If you can swear to this, then the land is yours,” they declared, smiling
“Won’t you be hot?” asked Shamil in surprise. Madina was silent, sullen. Her expression betrayed a vague, ominous tension.
“Why so grouchy?” asked Shamil, trying to make light of it.
She slammed the door behind her and started down the stairs.
“What have you heard out on the streets?” Her cork soles tapped down the stairs as she answered his question with one of her own.
“You know, don’t you? Such an aria-urai ! I stumbled on two different demonstrations going on at the same time.” Shamil had a thought. “Hey, is your phone working?”
“No. They say almost all of the services have been disconnected. Some glitch in the system. Or maybe someone shut them down on purpose.”
They came out into the courtyard, cluttered with garages, but still spacious. A bench nearby was occupied by a number of young people from the building; he greeted them, clasping hands. Then he caught up to Madina and started babbling the first thing that came into his head, just to break the silence:
“Listen, I wanted to come by car, but Magomed took it. It’s all right—I’m thinking of getting an Audi. I can order this one Omargadzhi told me about, from Stavropol, only slightly used.”
Madina was barely listening. She glanced at Shamil only once, to point out the glass door of a bakery to him. A sign over it read WINDOW TO PARIS. They entered an empty, cool little room, lined with shelves of cakes and pastries.
“Let’s go to a regular restaurant,” Shamil suggested.
“No,” Madina said bluntly, sitting at a table directly under a humming air conditioner. She frowned, and her hands fiddled with a napkin she had picked up somewhere. A young waitress appeared behind the counter and sauntered lazily over to their table with a menu.
Madina was Shamil’s third cousin. Their great grandparents had been brothers who lived in the large mountain town of Cher, on one of the branches of the Great Silk Road. Cher was divided into quarters, each with several tukhums, each of these centered around its own mosque. One tukhum was military; another was made up of farmers and herdsmen. There was a tukhum of weavers who made cotton textiles and hempen cloth; one tukhum comprised merchants and boot makers of Jewish ancestry; and there was a tukhum of stonemasons and former slaves, descendants of Georgians who had been taken into captivity long ago. Their great-grandfathers had belonged to the agricultural tukhum known as Khikhulal, which was very distinguished,and which had occupied a place high up the mountain, overlooking a steep precipice.
At one point after the death of their parents, the brothers quarreled. Madina’s great-grandfather Zakir had decided to marry a beautiful girl from a noble family, who was expected to have a substantial dowry. In those days dowries consisted of land—that is, the most valuable commodity in the mountains. But if a girl married into a different free community, khanate, or kingdom, she would receive nothing at all. When he learned that his younger brother’s intended bride would come from another community, and so would not have a dowry, Shamil’s great-grandfather Zapir was livid. He forbade Zakir to appear in his house with his new wife: “You can plow on her forehead,” he raged, “and reap her eyebrows!”
So Zakir took his wife, a horse, and several friends, and set out to conquer an adjoining territory, one with fertile fields and pastures belonging to alien tribes. Numerous raids on settlements there resulted in a formal complaint in court, with all the local authorities and clerics presiding. They presented Zakir with a copy of the Koran and compelled him to swear that the land that he was attempting to occupy, and on which he was now standing, had belonged to his ancestors. “If you can swear to this, then the land is yours,” they declared, smiling
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