Juanna Artmane - Test-&-mend

Sitting at the foot of the table, Hannah was looking up at her dwelling Dad in the opposite end. What struck her most in his speech was his denomination of a man. Whenever Abdul talked, he used the word “human”. “What is it – a human?” – Hannah thought to herself.

The kerosene lamp, placed in the middle of the table, was dimly illuminating Abdul’s face. It was glistening with pleasure, reflected on his oil skin. The poorly lit table seemed an abyss, separating Hannah from her father. She was not close enough to him to say, how much she was in favor of the ideas, directed to her brother. Although Hannah knew that she was not included into Abdul’s philosophical calculations, she still sympathized with everything said on that evening at table.

This situation was not unusual for her. On the contrary, it was very much familiar. Hannah was accustomed to the type of setting, when she, being “an uninvited visitor’, was exposed to the witty conversation. In fact, not only these situations put her in the position of an “unwelcomed” guest. Actually, she was repeatedly treated as one. The very idea of “not belonging to this family” was firmly fixed in her mind by her mother, whose intention was far from evil. Leila was doing her best to prepare Hannah for the family of her would-be-husband; in that way she was trying to mold Hannah’s yet unshaped, dependent mind into the psychological state of appreciating the fact, that her genuine family was the family of the man, she was betrothed to.

Now it gave Hannah the feeling that, despite her sharing the table with native people, she was an outsider for them. Actually, this feeling had become a part of Hannah’s identity, which was skillfully molded by her beloved mother over years.

And there she was, her mom, sitting beside Abdul. In a melancholy mood, she was staring at the ripped flesh of the dark meat, served in a porcelain plate right in front of her. With her eyes fixed on one spot, she was like an ancient sculpture – elegant and graceful, speechless and lifeless. In the dark, the whiteness of her skin was shining like marble, making a striking contrast to the blackness of her gown. Her raven hair was neatly adjusted in a bun, revealing her delicate beauty in an artistic way. At that very moment, she was placid and tranquil, while deep down she was really running with hatred and loath towards her husband, who was sitting above the table and mercilessly putting the silly ideas of education of a human into their son’s brain.

“Bakhtulov!” – came the husky male voice from the iron gate, which was the main entrance to the house. Everyone turned to the gate. Due to the lack of light, it was difficult to see, to whom the voice belonged. A beam of faint light, cast in the direction of the stranger, outlined his tall bulky figure.

“Here is a letter for you!” – said the man again. Obviously, this was a postman, bringing the long-expected message.

Abdul, jumping from his seat, took the lamp and hastily approached the porch. The whole family flew up after him, anxiously waiting for the mail to be opened. Abdul, placing the lamp into Ali’s hands, tore the envelope open. Those few seconds, when he was intently peering into the paper, seemed eternity for everyone around. After a while, a smile lit his face.

“This is, what should have been expected! Expected from MY son! My genes! My blood!” – he exclaimed the words with a solemn accent, patting Ali on the shoulder. Look! Look at your scores!” – he handed the letter to Ali, who was in a state of physical shock – holding the results and not believing his eyes.

Hannah took his brother’s cold clenched hands in hers: “Ali, congratulations!”. She embraced him affectionately, landing kisses on both cheeks.

Observing all the happening as a nightmare, Leila stood petrified. She could not move, she could not speak, she could do nothing – but stare blankly into the darkness. She felt as if the foundation was shattered, leaving her head-to-head with her fears. Turning away, Leila let scalding tears out.

Seeing his mum’s shuddering shoulders, Ali came up to her. “Poor little mama,” – Ali wrapped his arms around her fragile body, – “please, don’t cry. Everything will be fine, I will be fine!”. These words meant to console her, but had the opposite effect: Leila burst into floods tears. Now both of them were standing at the entrance, clinging to each other and crying. Her tears were because of the upcoming grief of separation, his were – because of happiness.

It did not take the neighbors long to appear one by one at Abdul’s house, since they learnt the news of Ali’s admission to university without delay. Soon the whole garden was filled with full-mouth laughs, clapping hands and crying eyes – all of them were congratulating and complimenting on Ali’s success.

This was a tradition among the locals: whatever happened – no matter good or bad – neighbors were always there at the scene. This might seem a powerful community spirit for a stranger. It always looks like that from aside. But let the myth be dispelled: gathering up, the people would cheer each other or give their condolence in public, but later, safely housed, these very people turned everything witnessed into a topic of heated discussion to amuse and entertain themselves. It is not necessary to get entangled in anything scandalous or indecent to become an object for word of mouth. It is enough to cast a glance at the opposite sex, or comment on anything in a more cheerful way than others, or even attain something, which others failed – then God help you! They would put a mask of sorrow or joy, depending on what condition you are in, only to laugh behind your back or begrudge your success later. They would gossip about anything and everything, because gossiping was the only available entertainment in that grey gruesome “N”.

Shortly on the reception of the long-awaited news of Ali’s admission to University, Abdul decided to throw a bash. Talking big about the success of his son, Abdul could not miss an opportunity to feed his boastful nature by showing off his financial superiority. The inferior position, which common people held, was partly the fault of those Abdul-like, working for the Regime. Their inequality was aggravated by the historical events of the time.

After the downfall of the Evil Empire, the country was swept with poverty. Rebuilding of economy required years and years of conscientious work. It could have been possible, if the power had belonged to a goodman, acting in the best interests of the state. Shamefully, rich oil-deposits of the country did not let it acquire the appropriate status on the global scale, because a Mr. X successfully managed to build a pipeline in 1999 and since then he was exporting the raw material to the external market – rather than improving the inner one. Huge profits, which were used to strengthen the authoritarian system, came in – due to high demands in the product. The governance undertook exceptional care of every single bolt in the System and oiled every detail in the Machine of Power. They did their utmost, so that it could work smoothly and flawlessly, i. e. to be constantly palm-greased to run affairs on wheels.

Ordinary people remained poor, witnessing speedy enrichment of the System. Commoners had nothing better to do – than to look up to the Abdul-like. Traditionally, governors were to be respected and even feared, but in reality, they were heartily despised. The burning hatred did not prevent citizens, however, from trying to enter the System themselves. With dubious success, they grabbed at the illusory chance to somehow ensure their existence – at least in the eyes of the similar. Well, after all who could blame them? It was only wise to follow the common sense and take the advice: “If you can’t beat them, join them!”. Citizens, who had no chance of being part of the Machine, felt their way in the corrupted society through befriending those in authority.