Dream Land (19 page)

“Remzi left her!” Mama shouted. Mama never shouted. “Your great heroic Tatar man left his wife and child, and Zarema stayed here because she knows this is where she belongs, and this is where Ismet belongs, and it’s where Andrei and the Russians belong too. Can’t you forget your stupid stiff-necked pride for just one minute?”

Safi exchanged appalled glances with Lutfi. Then they both turned and ran.

The tumbled tombs were hard to see in the shifting dapple of light and shade, as if they were not entirely there, ghosts themselves. It was cool and peaceful in the cemetery. Lutfi sat with his back to a tree root, angrily picking the moss from a grave. Safi looked at the path winding upwards. She’d never been to the plateau with Lutfi, not in all this time.

“Let’s go up to the top.”

“What for? It’s just a load of old ruins.”

“But it’s wonderful up there.”

She started to tell Lutfi about it. The flowers grew so thickly now, it was like brushing through a many-coloured curtain to get to some of the caves. The pale stone radiated warmth and light; on it small lizards basked, darting away at the slightest sound, swift and dry as wind-blown leaves…

She realized he wasn’t listening to a word she was saying.“Lutfi. Lutfi?”

Lutfi crumbled a handful of moss into pieces. “What?”

“What’s the matter?”

He just kept breaking the moss into smaller and smaller pieces, until it was flakes of green and brown stuck to his fingers.

“Are you missing Larissa?” she asked him timidly. She hadn’t dared mention Larissa since that argument they’d had weeks ago, about telling secrets.

“No,” Lutfi said. “Why should I miss her? She’s a bloody Russian, like all the rest.”

Safi couldn’t speak for a moment. Lutfi had spent all his time with Larissa. He’d been heartbroken at leaving her behind. He hadn’t cared what nationality she was, neither had Larissa; they’d just been in love.

“I can’t stand this!” she cried at last. “Why do they hate us so much? Why do you hate them? Back in Samarkand it never mattered. We were happy there; there was never this stupid arguing when we had a nice house and neighbours, Uzbeks and Russians and us—”

Her brother suddenly rounded on her in rage. “You know what you sound like, with your ‘Uzbekistan was so wonderful; it was so nice; everyone loved us so much’? You sound just like Grandpa going on about this place. The roses, the sheep, the bloody tobacco field. And you know what? It’s just as much rubbish. Uzbekistan was crap. It was never that great, and I bet Crimea wasn’t either. And you know what really stinks?
That this is all we’ve got
.”

Lutfi jumped up and blundered away between the graves, not even following a path, just pushing straight into the bushes and trees as if he hated them. Safi stared after him. And then she turned and ran for the second time that day, as fast as she could up the steep path to the top of Mangup-Kalye.

From the tip of the plateau, the house in the valley was a tiny box. She couldn’t see anyone around it, which was strange. But of course, Refat was in the bus taking Ibrahim to Simferopol, with Mehmed following in his car. Lutfi was off somewhere in the woods, and Mama and Papa were arguing. She wondered where Grandpa was. The whole valley was empty: no police, no locals down by the road, not even any visitors’ cars.

In the worry of Ibrahim falling, no one had really noticed that the work he’d been doing, fixing up the gutter, was almost the last thing needed to finish the house. It was more modest than Papa had planned, but it had four walls, a roof and a chimney; it had a floor and a front door and windows. It stood alone and empty and unloved, this house that had taken all their money and effort, that had made the locals hate them, and nearly killed Ibrahim.

Safi knew she should be proud, looking at it. Instead she turned her back on it and wandered along to look out over the other side of the plateau. The road from Krasniy Mak was a violet ribbon skirting the edge of Mangup-Kalye. As she watched, a faint roaring reached her ears and a yellow vehicle came into view, moving slowly along the road. It looked like a bulldozer. Then came two cars, driving behind like a convoy. She watched idly for a moment, wondering where they were going.

But her cave drew her. The way to it was so familiar now, she could almost trace it with her eyes closed. There, inside the sunny solitary roundness of Safi’s house, she wished she could stay for ever. She lay on the seat, her cheek to the warm stone, looking out at all of Crimea, from the mountains to the sea, laid below her like a gift. Grandpa called Crimea this almost-island, this green diamond, and said it belonged to her. It had belonged to her before she was born, but she didn’t want it. All she wanted was this cave.

A few visitors were ambling around at the top of Mangup. Some of them had looked oddly at Safi, and one woman had asked if she was alone and if she was all right. Someone had even been in this cave not long ago. There was an apple core and a greasy scrap of paper on the floor, and a candle stub in one of the alcoves. Safi tossed the core out into the valley far below, and crossly put the paper in her pocket to throw away later. She hated to think of anyone else being here. This was the only place in the whole wide world where she felt at home, and she didn’t see why she should share it with anyone.

She could still hear the roaring from the road below. It was getting louder. In fact, she thought she could hear shouting as well. It was odd that they were driving this way; there was nothing much along the road after their valley until you got to Bakhchisaray.

And then suddenly Safi knew, as surely as she had ever known anything, where they were going. With a shriek she leapt up from the seat, pulled herself up out of the entrance of her house, and ran.

“Papa! Mama!”

She never knew how she got down the path. It was a blur of green and dark and treacherous stones and panic that she would be too late.

“Lutfi, come quickly!”

But no one came except the bulldozer. There were about five men hanging out the sides of the cab, shouting drunkenly. Behind, the cars came to a halt and more men got out. Safi recognized many of them from the crowd that had gathered by the pond. Laughing, they walked over to the two tents and with boots and sticks began smashing them to the ground.

“Stop!” Safi screamed from the edge of the woods. “Papa! Grandpa!” Her voice was lost in the cheer that went up from the bulldozer’s cab. “Help! Police!” Then she remembered, the police had disappeared that morning.

Three men went up to Mama’s
chaykhana
and casually leant against it. They leant and leant. The
chaykhana
creaked. One of the posts holding it up gave way with a sharp crack.

The bulldozer came on towards the house. The men whooped and yelled over its grinding roar.

“Papa!” Safi shrieked. She ran from the woods and out in front of the bulldozer, waving her arms. They wouldn’t run her over; they would have to stop. “Stop, oh please stop! Go away!”

The bulldozer came on. The men driving it were drunk and wild; too late, she realized they probably hadn’t even seen her. The blade of the bulldozer was right upon her. They weren’t going to stop.

Safi screamed and closed her eyes. And then there were arms around her and she was snatched off her feet and the bulldozer had not touched her. She looked up and it was Papa, his face whiter and more terrible than she’d ever seen it. His arms round her were shaking. He was saying something, or perhaps he was shouting, but she couldn’t hear because of the roar of the bulldozer and the splintering crash as it drove into their house. The walls cracked and split. The roof sagged.

For a moment, it was a struggle between the bulldozer and the house. Then the bulldozer won, and in a crumble of stone and cement the house collapsed.

I
t felt like days later but it was that evening, when it was getting too dark to pick any more through the rubble, that a car engine broke the silence. At first they thought it was the drunk locals come back; then they hoped it was Mehmed returning from Simferopol. But Lena’s fat, freckled father got out of the car. He gazed in embarrassed silence at the ruins of their house.

“Thought you might want a lift,” he said at last. “My wife’s made hot sweet tea. For the shock.”

“Will you take us to Bakhchisaray, to our people?” Grandpa ground out.

“If that’s what you want.” Lena’s father chewed his nail nervously. “But Krasniy Mak’s nearer. For the little girl. My Lena’s very worried about her.”

“We have to go to Bakhchisaray.” Papa couldn’t bring himself to even look at Lena’s father. “To get help. To search for Lutfi.”

“Search for—”

“You destroyed our house,” Papa shouted. “You nearly killed my daughter. Do you hear? You nearly killed her. And now my son is missing, and you want to give us hot sweet tea.”

“I’m really very sorry.” Lena’s father took a deep breath. He was finding it hard to look them in the eye as well, but he managed. “Tell me what I can do to help, and I’ll do it.”

He took Safi and Grandpa to Bakhchisaray. Papa wanted Mama to go too, but she refused to let him stay alone in the valley. Safi clung to her parents. She was afraid to leave them in case they weren’t there when she came back. In the end Papa had to pick her up and actually put her in the car next to Grandpa. “We’ll be here. Remember, we never give up.”

But Safi couldn’t see how they could not give up now. She stared at Lena’s father’s face in the driver’s mirror, and caught his abashed, curious eyes looking back.

“Did you know about today, what they were going to do?” she asked. “Did Lena know?”

His shoulders drooped. “Lena didn’t know. She’s worried to death about you. Listen, er, Ismailaga…” He stumbled over Grandpa’s name. “I admit, I didn’t agree with you Tatars coming back. Life in Crimea is hard enough as it is since the end of the Soviet Union: no wages, no jobs, water shortages. But I don’t support what happened today. It’s criminal, hooliganism, and I’ve told the chairman of the Krasniy Mak council so.”

Grandpa said nothing. His big hand stroked Safi’s head soothingly.

At the Bakhchisaray camp the Crimean Tatars met them with more than sweet tea. Within half an hour of their arrival they had mobilized. Those with cars took a big group to Mangup to guard what was left of the house and look for Lutfi. Others went to the squatters’ camps and towns around Crimea to spread the news of what had happened, bringing reinforcements and warning them to be ready for trouble. The Tatars were angry. They took with them sticks and hammers and spades: everything they used for building that could also be used as a weapon.

They left Grandpa and Safi in a tent with a woman she did not know, but a little later the tent flap opened and Zarema appeared. “I came as soon as I could. Safi,
balam
, praise Allah you’re all right.”

“But Lutfi’s gone. And the house, and everything.” Safi leant against Zarema and felt the tears trickle down her face.

“Have you any idea where your brother might be, love?”

“I don’t know! He went off into the forest on Mangup, and he didn’t come back. Maybe he got lost, or the locals found him, or he just … he just…” Safi couldn’t finish the sentence. That he had just gone away.

“He’ll be all right, a big clever boy like Lutfi. Don’t worry.” Zarema rocked her gently. “I’ve come from the hospital. Ibrahim’s fine; he’s much better.”

“Does he know what’s happened to his gutter?”

“Oh, Safi…”

“It was all for nothing. All that building and cooking and that horrible stove and it being like the Siege of Leningrad. It was a complete waste.”

“Well, at least you’ve got rid of the stove.”

“Don’t try and cheer me up!” Safi shouted. “It’s all over, and I’m tired of it. I want to go home!”

But what did she mean by home? Their house in Samarkand had been sold now, and someone else was living there. Most of the Crimean Tatars, Mama and Papa’s friends like Zarema, had gone from Uzbekistan, and the rest talked only of leaving. Home was in the box where the coffee pot and grinder lay swaddled in wool and silk, and now it was buried beneath a pile of rubble.

“Safinar.” Grandpa was unpacking the bundle of things they’d salvaged from the wreckage of the house. It was pathetically small. He took from it a roll of faded cloth. “Safi. It’s never all over, and we carry our homes with us. Come and look.”

He unrolled the cloth, setting aside a tangle of old metal that had been wrapped in it, and spread out the scarf that was tucked inside. It was embroidered with dull gold thread in a stylized, curling pattern of leaves and fruit.

“It’s a
marama
,” Zarema said, leaning over to look. “A girl’s headscarf. And I think it’s wrapped inside this other cloth because it’s a betrothal gift. Is that right?” She looked at Grandpa, but he did not reply. “It’s old. People have forgotten these symbols now, how to embroider them and what they mean.”

“Here is the
nar
, with the sweet seeds inside.” Grandpa took Safi’s unwilling hand and guided it to touch the round-bellied pomegranate design with its chequered heart. “The
nar
is a talisman of the family. Everyone has a family, and the
nar
is the pod enclosing the seeds, the people in the family, in health and harmony. See how it’s divided into squares, to show that the family flourishes.”