RACHMANINOV’S SONATA
Nilufar was overjoyed.
Finally, sitting in front of the piano she was able to play the sonata of her
favourite composer without a score and without making a mistake anywhere. This
situation was extremely exciting news for her. Because she had not been able to
do it for weeks, and no matter how hard she tried, her efforts were in vain. In
the end, her relentless and hard work paid off, lo and behold.
Now she can easily perform Rachmaninov’s
famous “re-minor” sonata in a long-waited first concert program without a
score. According to this sonata, she no longer needs a score. Thinking of this,
she was extremely happy and excited. Sometimes she would go to her red piano,
sometimes she would stare at the picture of composers hanging on the walls of
the room and she would walk back and forth. She even wanted to dance on tiptoe
like a ballerina. But she was ashamed and changed her mind. If her twins had been there, no doubt
she would have embraced them, kissed their faces, and shared her joy with them.
Unfortunately, they are in a football boarding school. They arrive on the
weekend. She regretted it. She wanted to share her joy with someone while she
was preparing dinner. She could not contain it. That’s probably why she often
glanced at the black telephone set on the shelf in the hallway. After a while
she came to the phone. She picked up it and dialed the required numbers. Then
the connection was restored and a familiar voice was heard from the receiver.
“I’m in a meeting.”
“Are you coming home early
today? “ she said, overjoyed, not caring that her husband is at the meeting.
“What's up? “ her husband
asked in surprise.
“Everything is good,” she continued, trying to calm him dawn. “ If
you come, I will tell you. A wonderful event happened.”
“Okay, I will come.”
Her husband’s voice stopped
ringing. She assumed the connection was lost. Although she was a little upset
by that situation and put the phone back on in frustration, she remembered her
success again and was in a good mood. She smiled contentedly as she looked in
the hanging mirror in the hallway.
Nothing and no one could hurt
her at the moment. Because she had achieved a huge success for herself. To that
day, she could only perform Beethoven’s sonata dedicated to Eliza, Brahms’ waltzes,
and two or three of Chopin’s small nocturnes without score. But they were short
musical compositions that any amateur pianist could perform. They did not
require extra training or talent. Rachmaninov’s sonata, on the other hand, was
longer in length and more complex in structure, and if the attention to these
two elements was neglected, it would confuse the performer and force her to
make a mistake. Even when performed with a score.
“What’s the matter?” her
husband said.
He had fulfilled his promise
and returned early from work. Nilufar saw him and applauded with joy. She
imagined that on the day of the concert she would come in the same way -
beautifully dressed and with a bouquet in her hands. And she was overjoyed to
think that this dream would soon come true. With such thoughts, she gently took
her husband's hand and walked towards the room where the piano was standing.
She entered the room and pushed the brown chair there close to the piano. She
asked her husband to sit on it. Her husband, who didn't understand anything,
sat helplessly in the chair. She stopped in front of the piano.
“I will play Rachmaninov’s
"re-minor" sonata without score,” she said, sitting in a chair.
“Listen carefully!”
She pointed her index finger at her husband like
a child, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Then she put her finger in front
of her nose and jokingly said "tss" to her husband. Then she began to
play the sonata without a score. The mystery of music, which for centuries has
shaken the human heart, comforted her and made her happy, embodied her pure
love and painful hatred, spread quietly throughout the room with the help of
the piano. This time the melody embodied the memories of the past in the human
heart. The sonata always reminded her of her childhood. When she was a student at the
conservatory, when she was included in her personal program in various
competitions, whenever and wherever she performed, she remembered her
childhood. It was the same a while ago and yesterday. It is the same now. She would
move her long and slender fingers over the black and white keys and play it
flat. And sweet memories of a distant carefree and happy childhood came to mind
one after another. Wrapping a white handkerchief around her mother's forehead
and baking hot bread in the oven, her heart sank for a moment as a prelude to
memories. As a child, her mother always baked bread in the oven on Sundays. She
was carrying a basket that was bigger than she was, and she couldn't move
anywhere near it. After the loaves were toasted and swelled, her mother would
cut them up and throw them in the basket. And she would spread them out to make
the bread cool faster. In the meantime, she would put the dwarf's milk-soaked
poignants in the pocket of her jacket, both warmly and secretly. After that,
she would suffocate the poignants in the water of the stream flowing through
the streets and enjoy eating the cakes leaning on the apricot tree. When the
sonata reached halfway, the memory of her childhood came to life even more
vividly. Lo and behold, she is tapping on the rotten wire in the street and
returning the numbers. She's small, like a squirrel. Her hair is blonde. Even
then, everyone called her "blonde". She was counting numbers
non-stop, and her comrades were hiding in different places at this time. After
a while, she was looking for them everywhere. "Berkinmachoq,"* she sighed, her hands, which were constantly
moving on the keys, suddenly weaken.
On summer days, she would not
come from the street, ignoring the cherries hung by her father on her ears, and
waving her hair, which was braided like willow twigs by her mother. She was
much more playful. If it snows in the winter, it would be a holiday for her.
She would make a Father Christmas with
the kids in the middle of the street or play snowballs with endless fun. Until
evening, she would lead the sledge her father had brought.
Not long after, she went to an
uncle's pot, where he was selling nisholda*
at the beginning of the street. As a child, during the months of
Ramadan, that uncle would always fill her cup with nisholda . By the time she
got home, she was licking the top of the nisholda with her finger. She would
have a dirty doll in her arms and shoes with water on her feet. “It would have
been so sweet the nisholda,” she said casually. Then she recalled the days when
she would go into every house with the children on the streets on the evenings
of the holy month and sing the song of Ramadan.
We have come
to your home saying Ramadan,
May God give
you a son in your cradle...
They would sing that song.
Here, she remembered. The song was long. Unfortunately, she only remembers the
beginning. That's how it would start. They would say it together with the
children. Boys and girls sang Ramadan songs in unison, spreading a long table
-cloth in their hands. On the doorstep of every home... Screaming... Neighbors
sometimes gave money, sometimes sweets, fruits, and the table-cloth was soon
filled with what they had given. Then, sitting on a rock at the beginning of
the street, the children would evenly distribute the items gathered at it. She
often got apple and chocolate chip cookies. The coins were taken by boys.
Tears welled up in her eyes as
the sonata was ending. She realized that she was a child left behind and that
she missed her dead parents so much. It hasn’t been long since her parents
died. In fact, what taught her to memorize the sonata was not her ability, but
her childhood nostalgia. She thought so. She had been performing this sonata a
lot lately and with passion because she missed her childhood. This was also the
reason why she decided to give a concert as a freelance artist. Probably,
Sergei Rachmaninov also missed his childhood in the United States during his
years in exile. This is why he has performed this sonata many times on tours in
American cities and has received applause. He deserved recognition. She looked
at her husband questioningly after playing the sonata. There was a question in
her eyes. The question was not "Did I perform well ?!" but
the question was "Did you remember your childhood, too?". She
also wanted to tell him about her first concert next week at the city’s House
of Culture. Her husband was ignoring her. There was no interest in his eyes.
Either the sonata reminded him of his memories, or his head was occupied with
anxious thoughts.
“ I play the sonata without a
score,” she said with an open face because her husband didn't speak. “ I wanted
to tell you that. I also wanted to say that next week will be my first concert.
In the House of Culture. “
Hearing her words, her husband
stood up like a man in dispair . He came to
her, scratching his forehead and loosening his tie.
"I hate that habit,"
he said, pressing the piano keys once or twice as if for amusement. “You always
bother me for trivial things. Here it is today. Because of this work, I will
not be able to attend the presentation of our new product tonight. I'm missing
such an event, unfortunately.!”
Nilufar sighed and bit her lips
hard. She whispered as “I wish they were bleeding”, she didn't want to let go of her lips between her teeth.
Then she laughed sarcastically in her head and closed the piano indifferently.
Her hands and bloodshot lips trembled. Her husband shook his head when he saw
that she was silent and walked towards the door.
"By the way," he
said walking out the door. “I have to go in the morning. There will be a
wedding at our general manager’s house. So iron my grey suit. It has been on
the shelf for a long time without being worn. It may be wrinkled.”
Involuntarily, Nilufar looked
at her husband sadly. There was no trace of the joy that filled her heart. She
did not want to get up, she could not move them at all, as if a stone were tied
to her legs.
"I'll iron it until
you're done eating," she said in a broken voice.
So she closed her ears
tightly. With that she tried not to hear the sounds ringing in her ears. But it
was useless. The happy, spotless, and carefree voices of herself and the
children, which had remained under her ear as a child, did not go away.
We have
come to your home saying Ramadan,
May God
give you a son in your cradle...
Definition:
*Berkinmachoq - is a game that children hide and a
child has to look for them.
*Nisholda- is a
sweet that made in the month of Ramadan
2020, Jule
Sherzod Artikov
Translated into English by Nigora Mukhammad
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 , the international literature conference under the name “ Mundial insurgencialcultural “ dedicated to Federica Garcia Lorca's work , “ International Poetry Festival “ in Tunisia, “ International Poetry Carnival “ in Singapore. 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 “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 called “ Revista Cardenal “ and the literature and art magazine of Chile named “ Casa Bukowski “.
