Dream Land (10 page)

Safi put a self-conscious hand to her several long red-brown plaits that Mama still helped her with, even though she was growing up now, and hoped they weren’t too full of dust. “It’s just mine.”

“It suits you. Was that your brother? He’s
gorgeous
.”

And then everything was just as Safi was used to. The girl was gazing dreamily after Lutfi, like girls always did. It was something about his curling reddish hair and green eyes; they couldn’t resist him, not anywhere.

“You don’t look like Tatars.”

“What do you mean?”

The girl shrugged. “I dunno. I thought you’d be really dark, or have funny eyes, like Uzbeks or Arabs or something. What’s your name? I’m Lena.”

“Safi.”

“Sophie?”

“No. It’s short for Safinar.”

“Safinar.” The girl tried it out experimentally. “It’s pretty. You should wash that grit off your hands. Want a toffee?”

“Thanks.” Lena seemed harmless. In fact she seemed quite nice, and as familiar as the giggly Uzbek and Russian girls who had hung around outside their house in Samarkand waiting for Lutfi to come out. She was a bit older than Safi, with freckles and feathery brown hair twisted up in a knot skewered with a pencil.

“Don’t you want to see if he’s all right, your brother? What’s his name?”

“Lutfi. I’m sure he’s all right.”

As she spoke, Lutfi came back into sight. “Hey! Leave her alone.”

“I’m helping,” Lena said. “Did you get those idiots? They don’t really mean anything; they’ve just got no brains and nothing better to do. Want to come to my place, and Safi can wash her hands? Are you Safi’s brother? You look really similar.”

You know he is, Safi thought crossly. And we don’t look that alike, because no one goes around gazing after me, although perhaps, one day, when I’m fifteen… She hardly allowed herself to think.

Lena was playing with her hair, letting it fall loose, pegging it up again with the pencil. “Come on. It’s just up here, and we’ve got some
zelyonka
for those cuts.”

There was no one in at Lena’s house. Lena dug out the green-dyed iodine from a cupboard, and Lutfi dabbed it onto Safi’s palms, doing the protective big brother act while Lena flirted about.

“So how come you’re living out by Mangup-Kalye? Why didn’t you buy a house in Krasniy Mak or Bakhchisaray?”

“No one wants to sell houses to Crimean Tatars,” Lutfi said, glowering. “Haven’t you heard? If we can’t buy houses we can’t get residence permits; if we can’t get residence permits we can’t go to school or get jobs; if we can’t get jobs we’re illegal; if we’re illegal…”

“I get the picture. That’s really unfair. Still, you could build a house nearer the village. I mean, there’s not much out at Mangup-Kalye. Just a load of old ruins.”

Even if no one else in Krasniy Mak wanted them, Safi thought Lena would be quite happy to have Lutfi as a neighbour. “It’s where our grandfather’s village was,” she told her. “Adym-Chokrak. There were lots of houses, and a mosque, and our Grandpa lived his whole life there until he was seventeen.”

“You’d never know,” Lena said thoughtlessly. “Seems a bit weird, going back to something that’s totally disappeared. Life’s crap here anyway. My dad says Crimea’s totally going to the dogs since perestroika. Don’t know why you wanted to come back here really.”

“Because it’s home—” Safi started to say. But Lutfi interrupted her.

“That’s because you’re Russian, and the Russians have ruined Crimea. It doesn’t mean anything to you. You’re just occupiers; you don’t know what home is.”

“Actually I’m half Ukrainian,” Lena returned coolly. “And my home’s right here, thank you very much. Isn’t it time you got out of it and went back to your amazing invisible village?”

Safi was furious. Lena might have been flirting annoyingly, but she was nice. After Lutfi had stomped out Safi lingered, feeling divided in loyalty.

“Thanks for the
zelyonka
and stuff.”

“What’s up with your flipping brother?
I
don’t mind if you’ve come back. Makes life more interesting if you ask me.”

“I don’t know what’s up with him,” Safi said honestly.

“Oh well,
you’re
all right anyway. See you on the bus tomorrow. Don’t worry about the others; I’ll look after you.” Lena’s expression was friendly and conspiratorial as she closed the door.

Safi trailed back to their valley behind Lutfi, who quickened his pace every time she tried to catch up until they were both almost running.

“Stop!” she called at last. “Please! I’m getting a stitch. I want to talk to you.”

“I want to get away from that dump of a village,” Lutfi growled. “I never even got to post my letter because of those scumbags.”

“They aren’t all like that. Lena’s nice.”

Lutfi just snorted contemptuously.

“Please don’t tell Papa about today, Lutfi. I want to keep going to school.”

That made her brother stop. He turned round to face her, a light in his green eyes. “What did you say?”

“I want to keep going to school. It isn’t that bad.” Safi wanted to joke about enjoying lessons, like Mama had, but she didn’t recognize the look in Lutfi’s eyes. “It’s nice being with other kids, even if a few of them are idiots. There are some Tatar children there,” she added, wheedlingly. “You’re all so busy building the house, and it’s so quiet. And Mama wants me to go…”

“You’re unbelievable. You’d let Russian kids beat you up, slag you off for being a Tatar. They stole our land from us and you’d let them treat you like that.”

“They don’t all treat me like that. Lena—”

“That patronizing cow?”

“She’s not patronizing! Lutfi!” Safi could see that he was going to tell Papa, even though she couldn’t believe it. And if that happened, the growing tension between their parents would blow up in yet another argument. Papa was already unhappy with Mama for insisting on the school; he thought she wasn’t trying hard enough to build their home at Mangup-Kalye. Safi hated them quarrelling.

She looked at the fierce, angry light she’d never seen before in Lutfi’s eyes. She and her brother had always been best friends. He’d told her his secrets, and she’d kept every one of them. “Lutfi. If you tell Papa about today, I’ll tell about you and Larissa.”

Lutfi’s face went shocked. Then he turned his back on her. Safi couldn’t catch up with him again all the way to the valley; but anyway, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

“…S
o here I am all on my own, one woman living with twenty-six men, and I didn’t even know half of them beforehand! Oh, of course people are talking. The men are nothing but kind and respectful to me, though.”

“But they don’t know about Andrei.”

“No, not yet…”

There was someone in the house with Mama, huddled by the stove warming her hands in the dim light of the paraffin lamp. She turned round as Safi dropped her school bag in the corner, holding out her arms with a big smile.

“Safi,
balam
! How’s my favourite girl?”

“Zarema
Tata
?”

Safi returned the hug, astonished and delighted.

“The very same. Oh, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.”

Zarema had changed amazingly. Instead of the pretty, plump figure Safi remembered in its flowered frock, she was thin and gaunt, dressed like Mama in old trousers and coat. Her smooth, creamy coffee-coloured face was all hollows and cheekbones.

Zarema saw Safi’s startled gaze and laughed wryly. “I know, you’d hardly recognize me, would you? I always did think I was a bit too fat; at least I can’t complain about that any more.”

It was wonderful to see her. Zarema and her husband, Remzi, had been close family friends in Samarkand. Zarema was several years younger than Mama, and to Safi she’d felt almost like a big sister. When she got married she’d had a proper, huge Crimean Tatar wedding, with a feast of whole roast sheep stuffed with rice and nuts, piles of
lyepushki
nearly reaching the roof, and dancing till dawn. Then two years ago she and Remzi had left with their baby, Ismet, for Crimea. Safi and Mama and a whole crowd of Tatar activists had waved them off at the station with promises to write and phone and meet again in the homeland before too long.

“We said the next time we’d see each other would be here in Crimea, didn’t we?” Zarema seemed to read Safi’s thoughts. “I didn’t expect it to be quite like this, though, did you? I never thought I’d be all alone with Ismet, no house, no husband.” Zarema’s eyes were bright with unshed tears.

Mama glanced at Safi. It was the look that said,
Go into the other room; we’ve things to discuss
. Safi, bursting with questions, looked back crossly. Where was she supposed to go? The other rooms were dark and cold and full of building materials, while outside it was mistily damp.

After a moment, Mama sighed and patted the stool beside her. She rubbed Safi’s cheek briefly when she sat down, before turning again to the Primus stove. It gave a pop and a blue flame shot up before vanishing with a hideous stink of paraffin. “Oh, curse the thing!” Mama exclaimed.

“Never mind, the water’s hot enough.”

“I’m sorry; there’s no coffee, and we’ve run out of sugar,” Mama said apologetically.

“And I’ve turned up empty-handed – what kind of a guest is that?”

“Don’t be silly, Zarema.”

Safi thought of the gleaming coffee pot and grinder, still wrapped up snugly in the box in their cellar. In Samarkand the pot had been out on the table almost every day, because the house had always been full of guests: Safi’s and Lutfi’s friends, clever laughing women from Mama’s work, Papa’s comrades in the national movement, old Tatars reminiscing about Crimea with Grandpa. Coffee was the proper Tatar drink for guests, but now they couldn’t afford it. And anyway, no one came to visit them.

Smoke poured out of the wood stove. The Primus stank; the lamp stank. The tea was lukewarm, and there were no sweets or biscuits to go with it. There was a sudden
tappety-tap
and all three of them jumped, automatically looking round for buckets and bowls and plastic sheeting. They’d forgotten that the kitchen finally had a roof of sorts. It wasn’t the rain anyway; it was only the tap of nails where Mehmed was up a ladder working on the beams. He was shouting to Papa, working on the other side, “Lutfi needs to understand: violence is never the answer.”

“We have to achieve this by peaceful means. We need Tatars in parliament!”

“Oh, parliament!” Zarema snorted with laughter. “How things have changed! You, Elmira, running the Samarkand health department. Me, a city librarian. And look at us now. Do you remember learning at school about the Siege of Leningrad? How the Russians sat starving while the city was surrounded, no bread, no sugar, no light, burning their own furniture to keep warm? What do you think we’re doing now? We burned Ismet’s cot yesterday, the one Remzi made him. It’s the Siege of Leningrad all over again!”

Mama began to laugh too. The smoke made their eyes water, and the joke made even Safi laugh, although she couldn’t really see why it was funny, and anyone coming in would have thought they weren’t laughing at all but crying.

“The blessed Siege of Leningrad.” Zarema wiped her eyes. “I wasn’t sorry to see the cot go. Ismet’s too big for it now, and it made a fine blaze.” She was twisting her wedding ring round and round on her finger. “I must listen out for the bus. Andrei’ll sound the horn when he comes back to collect me. He asked me today if I was married. I told him … I told him my husband was dead. Was that really wicked of me?”

Safi watched Mama all over again give her the look that meant,
Go into the other room
, and then remember she couldn’t, and sigh resignedly. “I don’t know, Zarema.”

Zarema smiled crookedly at Safi. “My husband’s gone back to Uzbekistan. He couldn’t stand it here any longer: the waiting for land, the police, everyone hating us, no one giving him a job. And our money ran out. He went back and left me with Ismet.”

“I’m sorry.” Safi couldn’t think of what else to say. She was shocked. Remzi had been a close ally of Papa’s in the national movement. He was a singer, and had gone all round Uzbekistan collecting the old Tatar folk songs. He’d always talked about going home to Crimea, and had taken his family before Ismet was even a year old.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Zarema said. “If he couldn’t cope with the hardship, he’s not the man I thought he was. But you’re not to tell any of this to your father, Safi.”

“All right.” Safi bit back her questions.

“You’re lucky with Asim, with your father. He wouldn’t go running.”

That was true, Safi was sure. But she wondered if Remzi and Zarema had argued before Remzi had left, the way her parents argued now. She felt very grown up sitting here with the two women complaining about menfolk, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. Back in Uzbekistan she’d have chatted to them about clothes and friends and school, and then she would have run off with Jemile and left them to their women’s talk.

Zarema was looking around the kitchen, at the buckets of water, the jumbled pans and packages of rice, pasta and flour. There were far fewer packages than when the container had arrived. “Do you remember my wedding, Elmira? We cooked for six hundred guests, and there was still so much left over we were feeding the homeless of Samarkand for a week afterwards. Now I’m cooking for twenty-six, and there aren’t enough supplies for six. Twenty-six hungry men squatting on the land, and me! But what else was I supposed to do? Remzi went off and left me with four pegs and a piece of string marking my land, and not a brick to my name. So I’m cooking for the others, and when we finally get the permission they’ll help me build my house. They’re good to me.”