Hemingway and my mother-Short Story by Sherzod Artikov

Hemingway and my mother

I slept soundly on Sunday. Other days I was not able to get enough sleep. The thought of not being late for work was preventing me from sleeping. On the other hand, breakfast  was not going as planned. I hurried to my office in the center of the district with a briefcase in hand, sipping a cup of milky coffee and hanging a tie around my neck. On Sundays, I was able to breathe freely, lying in bed for a long time, and having breakfast with my family quietly.

The same thing happened this weekend. When I woke up, I didn't get up immediately. I lay on the couch looking out of  the window, leaning against  a fluff pillow. Outside, the yellow leaves of the trees were rustling in  the cold autumn breeze, and the pleasant chirping of birds applauding autumn was being heard.

My wife, Nozima had  already gotten up and gone out into the yard. It occurred to me that for some reason she  couldn’t sleep  all night. She  lay from side to side as if she couldn't fit in my hug. When I got up and came to the window thinking so, I saw her  in the yard. She was sweeping the yard barely with a big belly…

Watching her, I involuntarily remembered yesterday's events, which were related to Hemingway's book. When I came home from work yesterday, my mother was not in her room (when I came home from work, I used to visit my mother’s firstly). The lights were on and the door was ajar. I couldn't find my mother when I went in, so for a while I didn't know what to do in the middle of the room. In the meantime, the thought came to me that I should go to her bedroom and knock on her  door a couple of times. I knocked. No one answered. After a while, footsteps were heard from the yard.

“Mother is in the library,” said Nozima, nodding through the door.

When I entered my personal library, my mother was sitting there, wearing brown-rimmed glasses and reading diligently on a chair near the desk. Seeing me, showed the book in  her hand.

“Hemingway!” she said proudly. The book in her hand was a novel, " A Farewell to Arms” by Hemingway.

“All right,”  I said, smiling at her and sitting down on a chair in front of the table.  

My mother took her eyes off the book and asked me how I was and how I worked. Looking at my face she said that I was worn out. It was now her constant habit.   

“I have recently read a book by this author, “ she said,  taking the book in her hand again. “It's about an old man who went to the sea and fished.  I liked that book.”

She tried so hard to remember "The Old Man and the Sea," and when she recalled, her beautiful face suddenly lit up.

“The name was "The Old Man and the Sea". You’ve  read that book, have you?”

“Sure,” I said, rubbing my sunken  eyes and wearing a smile again. “ When the story in that book went on for a while, I would push the old man into the sea.”

“You shouldn't joke about books like that,” said my mother, looking at me through her glasses as if giving  me reproof.  At that moment Nozima entered the room.

“I served the meal. Will you eat before it gets cold? “ she asked me.

Each time I returned home late from work, I often had dinner alone. This time I had to eat alone, too.

“Bring it here,” said my mother frowning,  answered instead of me. “ Move  quickly. Your husband is hungry.”

“Don't do that, mummy, “ I said when she left. “You've been arguing with her since she was pregnant. Look, she's only just walking.”

“You don't know, “ she said, taking off her spectacles. “ Ever since she got pregnant, your  “Ph.D. student” (my mother always said like this behind Nozima’s back) has been working more slowly.”

“She's pregnant, “ I told her, giving a reason to calm down. “That's why she's having difficulty  with housework.”

My mother stared at me as if she didn't understand.

“Don't  be on her side. I was more agile than her when I carried you in my womb.”

Nozima came in, cleared a table with stacked books, laid an ivory-colored tablecloth on it, and brought meal  from the kitchen in a bowl with bread, as well as hot tea in a teapot. My mother ignored her and continued reading the book from where it came from.

“I'm very interested in this book, “ she said, shaking her head.

She was halfway through the book. I had dinner quietly. Mastava* was delicious. I ate it with gusto glancing  at the colorful cover books on the table. Sipping my hot black tea, my mother stood up.

“Tell your wife if you need anything, -“ she said, carrying the book under her arm. “ I don’t marvel at  your  “Ph. D student” at all. She doesn’t   sit next to you when you come home. I used to sit in front of your father when he came home from work. I stared at his mouth, wondering if he wanted anything else, by providing what he asks for.

“Nozima has no experience yet,” I said, eating  mastava, holding the spoon in the air.”

“You're overindulgent. You keep smiling at everything like that.”

My mother left disagreeing. By the time Nozima came in, I had already eaten. Meditating I drank my tea overmuch.

“How is your health? “ I said, turning my attention to her. She stood by me and began to tidy up the table.

“Thank you, it's tolerable. I can scarcely  do the house chores.”

As the fetus grew older, it began to squeeze the liver. The doctor who diagnosed  her told me about it, so I was worried about her every day. She had become tired of physical labor quickly, had difficulty with breathing, and at times writhed  grabbing her right flank.

“It would be better if you rest more, “ I said hugging her around the waist and cradling closer to me.

“It will pass if I bear two months , “ she said , pressing my head to her bosom. Then I embraced  her tightly.

“Don't be upset with my mother.”

She lowered her head.

“I'm used to it.”

“Do not write your dissertation for a while.”

“I have to write...”

… I had  breakfast a bit late.  In the dining room, my mother was reading Hemingway's book just like yesterday. For some reason this time she was reading the book with tears welling up on her face through her glasses. This bothered me. I wondered something must had happened to her. 

“Poor Catherine! “ she said ( I couldn’t differentiate whether she was talking to me or not). “Poor Catherine! She passed away . She died, poor girl. My daughter died. She gave birth to a child and perished.”

At first I wondered what my mother was saying. I realized after a while. She was still impressed by Hemingway’s novel. From her words, it was noticeable that she was approaching the end of the book.

“The war destroyed her,” my mother continued crying. “Lack of care, negligence ruined her life.”

Instead of wiping her tears, she was crying one moment looking at the book in her hand, the next at the table. Soon she calmed down and began to stroke the book. Anon she wiped away her tears, straightened up, and put a piece of bread on the table in her mouth.

“Your wife doesn't even bring hot tea on time,” she said, turning her face to me chewing  on the bread.

I remembered Nozima setting fire to the kumgon*  to boil water when I’m getting here.

“Mum, “ I said, leaning my hand on the table and addressing my mother woefully. “What would we do if  Nozima died like Catherine?”

My mother stopped chewing bread and her face paled.

“What do you mean by that?  God forbid!”

“Just saying that Nozima is pregnant like Catherine , too.”

“The events in the book happened during the war, “ she protested. “ That's why the poor girl wasn't taken care of.”

I got up and came closer to the window not caring her finish. In front of the    uchog *, Nozima was still waiting for the water in the kumgon to boil in cold outside.

“As the fetus grows, it’s crushing Nozima’s liver, “ I said, turning to my mother and giving my face a serious look. “That's what the doctor said. She needs to do less housework and rest more.”

When my mother heard the real condition of her daughter-in-law, she involuntarily bit her lip and fell silent. Neither she said a word, nor asked a question.

“Now is not wartime, “ I carried on . “So we can give her a little care and affection.”

When Nozima brought the tea, she was still keeping silent, her face was changed, she was in a bad mood, and the book in her hand was on the edge of the table. When she saw Nozima coming in the room with a teapot and a sigh, she suddenly raised her head and looked at her with a heavy heart. I saw inner sorrow  in her eyes for her. She looked at me and whispered softly:

“You are right, now is not wartime .”

 

Definition:

*Kumgon ( qumg'on in uzbek language) – is a kettle used in the past to boil water by setting fire.

*Mastava–soup with rice and meat

* Uchag ( o'choq in Uzbek language,  очаг) – a place on the ground to boil or cook a meal.

Translated into English by Sitora Shomurodova

Sherzod Artikov was born in 1985 in the city of Marghilan of Uzbekistan. He graduated from  Fergana Polytechnic institute in 2005. He was one of the winners of the national literary contest “ My Pearl Region “ in the direction of prose in 2019. In 2020, his first authorship book “ The Autumn's Symphony “  was published in Uzbekistan by publishing house “Yangi Asr Avlodi” . In 2021, his works were published in the anthology books called “ World Writers “ in Bangladesh,  “Asia  sings" and “ Mediterranean Waves “ in Egypt in English language.  In 2021, he participated in “ International Writers Congress “ which was organized in Argentina , in the international literature conference under the name “ Mundial insurgencial cultural “ dedicated to Federico Garcia Lorca's life and work , in “ International Poetry Festival “ in Tunisia, in “ International Poetry  Carnival “ in Singapoore and in the First International Proze Festival in Chile which was held under the name “La senda del perdedor”.  This year he’s awarded “ Global Peace Ambassador “ by Iqra Foundation,  “ International Peace Ambassador “ by World Literary Forum for Peace and Human Rights,  “ Certificate of friendship “ and other certifications by “Revista Cardenal" in Mexico.  Currently,  he is the literary consultant  of the cultural website of Pakistan “ Sindh courier “, the representative and delegate in Uzbekistan of the literature magazine of Mexico ” Revista Cardenal “ and the literature and art magazine of Chile “ Casa Bukowski “.

His works have been  published  in translation in numerous magazines and newspapers worldwide.