Алексей Кузин. Судьба невесты

С далёких гор, где жизнь – как вязь Корана,
Где речь мужчин весома, как строфа,
Боец ОМОНа вёз на память рану,
И с ним была красавица Зифа.

Где степь и горы не сошлись краями,
Их не свести без меры и числа...
Он воевал. Он гнил, пленённый, в яме.
Он обречён. Она его спасла.

Они сбежали в ночь, в грозу, в июле,
Прошли дозоры, холод горных рек.
В её следы проклятия и пули
Послал наутро брат её, абрек.

Солдат вернулся: «Я вернулся, мама!
Привёз, как в сказке, драгоценный клад».
И всё пытался расстегнуть упрямо
Рукой в повязке номерной бушлат.
И мать смотрела, как святую фреску,
Картину плена, грозовую ночь,
И на престолы возвела невестку,
И полюбила, как родную дочь.

Живут неделю. Кухню, стол и веник
Свекровь с невесткой делят – вместе чтоб.
Когда Олегу дали долю денег,
Зифе купили полный гардероб:
И шёлк, и бархат, сочный, как помада,
И кружевами окрылённый край –
Зифе казалось, что она из ада
Неженских гор спустилась в женский рай.

Но не наряды покорили деву,
Миротворенный дали сердцу стук,
Нет, это тон спокойного напева,
Которым полон всякий русский луг.

Уже сентябрь стоял за дверью суток,
Мост на Челябу вкрест Сысерть-реки,
(Бойцы ОМОНа в мирный промежуток
Предпочитают жарить шашлыки),

Дымил мангал, и дым пьянил округу,
Олег старался в полторы руки,
Зифа бродила, нет, внимала лугу,
А луг тянулся под уклон реки.

И всё, что время, – всё одна минута,
И всё-то мятлик, мята, васильки…
Зифа кричала: «Я останусь тута!
Сюда несите ваши шашлыки!»

Пришла зима. По справке (чья там дочь ты?)
И при поддержке с милицейских круч
Зифа трудилась в отделеньи почты:
Посылки, письма, бандероль, сургуч…

Забыты битвы, заживились раны,
Но нет ни крышки у судьбы, ни дна…
Олег на сутки уходил в охрану,
Зифа ложилась в темноте одна,

Покой и нега нисходили свыше,
Но что такое, что такое… чу? …
Над изголовьем кто-то мерно дышит…
И страх как будто зажигал свечу.

Зифа привстанет, включит лампу… тихо,
Нет никого. Она погасит свет.
Нет никого, нет никого, трусиха…
Но свечка теплит негасимый свет.

Таких три ночи – и подружка с почты,
В гадальной книге посмотрев графу,
Сказала: «Странно, что не спала ночь ты…»
И к ворожее повезла Зифу.

Простоволоса, козья шаль вкруг стана,
Зифу пытала про житьё-бытьё…
«Так я ж сама сбежала с Казахстана,
А кто в России нам отдаст своё?»

Рукой лучила, пропускала в обруч,
И так сказала: «Ты – чужая кровь,
Соль – не засластишь, недобро – не сдобришь.
Тебя мечтает погубить свекровь…

Э, ты не веришь, ну, да стану врать я…
Умей, голуба, ворожбу ценить.
Тебе свекровка подарила платье?
Проверь, с изнанки – погубная нить.

Держи перо – снимает лихоедство,
Ложи в то место, где ложишься спать,
А я другое приготовлю средство.
Через неделю приходи опять…»

Зифа вернулась, улучила случай,
Достала платье, поискала нить…
И не нашла! И на мороз колючий
Перо пустила – чтобы не хранить.

Но той же ночью шевельнулась штора –
Как будто шторой протекла волна.
Зифа ладонью отсекла, как шорой,
Сомненье взгляда от игры окна,

Клубком свернулась, отключила время.
Сознанье гасло, словно уголёк…
Но кто-то рядом – кто он!? – дышит в темя,
Как будто сзади невесомо лёг.

Нет, это враки, кто Зифу обидит? –
Закрыты окна и закрыта дверь.
Зифа привстала, огляделась, видит –
Мохнатый чёрный человекозверь!

В его повадке и в глазах свирепость,
В его оскале – холод ледяной,
Он манит жестом перепрыгнуть пропасть,
Зияющую за его спиной.

Зифа вскочила, побежала к двери,
Но не отстал, а в ней остался рок.
И не хватило сил у юной пери,
Чтоб невысокий одолеть порог…

Её лечили все: Олег, как лектор,
Читал часами о причудах сна,
А легендарный доктор Шлёма Спектор
Сказал: «Девчонку догнала война…»

И в день весны, томимый ветром юга,
Когда родится от любви трава,
Олег оставил караул на друга –
Ему сказали, что Зифа мертва.

Он стал как пьяный: у такси рвал дверцу,
Вбегал в палату и в холодный морг…
Она погибла от разрыва сердца.
Иди к Харону – там уместен торг,

И он пошёл бы – далеко ли близко –
И пел, и плакал и крушил мосты…
Но врач Олегу передал записку,
Зифа писала: «МОЙ ЛЮБИМЫЙ, ТЫ
ПРОЧТЁШЬ ЗАПИСКУ, ЕСЛИ Я ПОГИБНУ
ЗВЕРЬ НЕ ОТСТАНЕТ, Я РЕШУСЬ И ПРЫГНУ
СОЕДИНЮ ВАШ СЕВЕР С НАШИМ ЮГОМ
СУДЬБА ГОТОВИТ МНЕ ОДНО ИЗ ДВУХ
Я НЕ СМОГЛА
РАЗВЕЙ МОЙ ПРАХ НАД ЛУГОМ».
И луг стелился, как зелёный пух.

20.12.1998 – 03.01.1999 г.


The Destiny of a Fiancee

From mountains far, where life is a script Koranic,
Where words of men, like stanzas, carry weight,
The riot squad private brought a wound, like a relic,
The belle Zifa was with him, his bright fate.

Where steppe and mountains have not met with first lines,
They cannot meet without number and extent...
He was at war and rotted in a pit vile.
Then he was doomed. She saved him in the end.

They ran at night, July’s wild stormy weather,
They went through the patrols, cold rivers of the rocks,
And in the morning one abrek, her brother,
Has thrown curses trailing her to mock.

The soldier has returned, «See, Mom, I am back and
I’ve brought a fairy-tale precious hoard».
And he tried to unbutton his pea jacket
So stubbornly, with his hand, bandaged, sore.

And mother looked, like at a holy mural,
A scene of the captivity, storm, night;
Her daughter-in-law she has indebted truly
And loved her like a daughter, in delight.
They have been living for a week. A kitchen,
A table, a broom they share to be as one.
And when Oleg was paid part of his wages,
A wardrobe full was bought to Zifa. A gown,

Silk, velvet, succulent like lipstick,
And edges decorated with fine lace –
And it seemed to Zifa: she, from hell mystic
Of masculine mountains came to girls’ blithe place.

It wasn’t attire that won the youthful lady,
And gave her soul a peaceful, calm heartbeat.
No, it’s the tone of the tranquil melody,
That does imbue each green pure Russian mead:

September stood behind the door of daytime,
Bridge to Chelyaba thwarts the river Sysert.
(The riot squad privates, in peaceful stretches of time
Prefer to fry shashlik on a brochette).

A brazier smoked, excited all around,
Oleg with one and a half hands did cope,
Zifa was prowling, nay, was heeding the mead’s sound.
The mead extended to the river’s slope.

And all the time was like a minute’s count,
And all those were mint, cornflowers, blue grass…
Zifa was shouting, «I will stick around!
Bring your shashlik to me, come on, and be fast!»

The winter came. And with a chit
(you are whose daughter?)
And with support of the police’s pull
Zifa toiled as a post-office worker:
Small parcels, letters, sealing wax as well.

The battles are forgotten, wounds are healed thus,
But fate has neither bottom, nor a cover instead.
Oleg left for the night to work as a guard thus,
Zifa laid in the darkness in her bed.

Peace and contentment from above descended,
But what is it? What is it? Dear, hark?
Someone is breathing over the bed’s high head
And fear lit a candle in the dark.

Zifa half-rises, lights a lamp… It’s quiet,
There is no one. And then she blows out the light.
There is no one. No one, o coward shiest…
A candle glimmers like a burning light.

Three nights have passed; her friend from the post-office
Has searched in a section of a fortune-telling book.
And said, «It’s strange you didn’t sleep, my sweetie».
And took her to a lady, who speaks sooth.

With head uncovered, a goat shawl round her stature,
She asked Zifa about the way she lived…
«See, I myself escaped from Kazakhstan, true.
Who in this Russia will of their own give?»

She speared with hands and let through the hoop round
And told her, «You’re of alien kindred,
Salt can’t be sweetened, evil can’t be kind,
Your mother-in-law wants to see you dead.

Don’t you believe me? I will not lie to you…
Be good, my darling, value witchcraft, friend.
Your mother-in-law gave you a gown, true?
Check the inside, it has a fatal thread.

See, take this feather, it’ll remove evildoing,
Lay it in the place, where you lay your head,
And I’ll prepare another cure, brewing.
Come in a week again, my dear friend»…

Zifa returned and seized a moment, a-slither
And took a gown of hers, looked for a thread…
But did not find one! And she left the feather
To the frosty night, not to be kept in the bed.
The same night the curtain stirred scarcely –
As if a wave flowed through this curtain bleak.
Zifa severed all her doubts deathly,
As with a blinder, from the window’s trick.
She rolled herself into a ball and switched off time,
Her consciousness died out like a smoldering piece.
But someone’s here – who is he!? – respires,
As if someone laid weightlessly with ease.

Oh, no, that’s nonsense, who’ll offend Zifa? Who?
The door and windows are closed tightly, and
Zifa half-rose, looked around and viewed
A black and hairy beast, who looked like a man!

There is ferocity in his eyes, in his behavior,
And in his grin there is an icy cold.
He beckons her to jump the chasm over.
It gapes behind his back like a deep hole.

Zifa jumped up and went to the door near,
He didn’t fall behind, the doom remained with her.
And was unable, such a youthful peri,
To overcome the doorstep that disturbed.

And everyone cured her: Oleg, like a lector,
Read of the vagaries of dreams to aid;
A legendary doctor, Shlema Spector
Said, «It was war that overtook the maid».

And on the day of spring, worn with the wind of South,
When grass is born of love and pure light,
Oleg left the guard on his friend’s account,
He was informed that his Zifa had died.

He was like a drunk, a-pulling the taxi’s door
Running to the ward and to the heatless morgue,
She died of painful cardiac rupture, so
Go to Charon, by bartering you’ll afford.

And he would go – a short or remote way,
He sang and cried and shattered bridges through…
A doctor gave Oleg a final say,
Zifa wrote to him, «OH, MY DEAR, YOU
WILL READ THIS NOTE WHEN I HAVE DIED
FOREVER,
THE BEAST WON’T FALL BEHIND, I’LL JUMP,
I’LL ENDEAVOR,
AND I’LL UNITE YOUR NORTH WITH OUR
SOUTH,
THE DESTINY HAS CHOSEN ONE OF TWO
AND I HAVE FAILED
DISPERSE MY ASHES OVER THE MEAD
SOOTHED».
The mead was spreading like a greenish down.

December 20th, 1998 –
January 3rd, 1999


TRANSLATOR’S COMMENTS

This longer poem has never been translated into English before,
so this is the very first attempt to present this, no exaggeration to say,
work of art to the English-speaking readers.
The longer poem itself gives an account of an armed conflict
which took place in the Chechen Republic, the Republic of Dagestan,
the Ingush Republic, and some others in the region of the Northern
Caucasus of Russia at the end of the 20th and beginning of the 21st
century. At those days many military units of the army, militia, and riot
squads took part in the settlement of this North Caucasian conflict.
Some words and phrases from this poem may be unfamiliar to
English-speakers, for they reflect very specific features of life in Russia
of that time. It also includes some ethno-specific terms, names and so
on, which will be explained below:
Zifa – The feminine first name of Greek, Arabic, Tartar or Persian
origin, which means «stately» or «aristocratic».
Abrek – a man, who went to the mountains and lives outside of
control of law. Originally, a mountain dwelling man, from the Caucasus,
who has been exiled from his family for murder or another crime.
Chelyaba – an informal name of Chelyabinsk – a city in the
Ural region of Russia.
The River Sysert – a river in the Sverdlovsk Region of Russia.
Shashlik – the traditional Caucasus dish of lamb shish kebabs.
See, I myself escaped from Kazakhstan, true – after the collapse
of the Soviet Union, many people from the former Soviet republics,
other than Russia (especially Central Asia, where the Republic of
Kazakhstan is situated) fled to Russia, because the economy of this
region collapsed. Famine, unemployment, corruption, bribery, and
embezzlement of state property were common at that time.
Peri – originally an evil spirit in Persian mythology; later, a kind
fairy, or an angel. In the longer poem it is used to mean a beautiful girl.
And I’ll unite your North with our South – the words of the
lead character, Zifa, meaning that she, being a native of the southern
region of Caucasus, married a Russian militiaman, who was a northerner,
against the will of her relatives, therefore performing a symbolic
unification of the two opposing elements: the North and the South.

Eugene Kiselev