Grandfather was oiling the wheels of the bullock cart in the yard.
«Give me a hand, grandson,» he beckoned to me.
I found out what was happening from him.
«We are being evicted,» he replied morosely.
«But, where to, why?» I said in amazement, secretly rejoicing at the unexpected turn of event – I, a seven-year-old, was tired of spending the summer holidays in the village, tending the hateful sheep. I had by that time read Mark Twain and yearned for new experiences with my whole being. I longed to travel and was ready to seek adventure even at the ends of the earth.
«To the town,» answered grandfather, reluctantly.
«Then, why are you preparing the bullock cart, if we are moving to town?» I said in surprise, and this suddenly utterly irritated grandfather.
«The town, the town,» he mimicked someone. «They’ve all pricked up their ears, repeating like parrots, ‘the town, the town’. But what are we supposed to do with the livestock? We can’t take them to the town, can we? Personally, I’m going to the hills. And you, what have you decided to do – are you coming with me or are you going with your mother?» Grandfather grilled me with his eyes and I looked away, without answering. I wanted so much to go to town! Auapa, my grandmother on my mother’s side, lived there. Strict and imperious, she loved me and talked to me as if I was an adult. Thirty-five years have passed but I still can distinctly recall how, in the evenings, we used to sit on a city bench and engage in simple conversations. She spoke about everyone with wisdom – about her daughter, my mother, and her son-in-law, my father. Strangely enough, it seemed to me that she loved her son-in-law more than her daughter. She loved my father and she loved me.
And I did not raise my head, not knowing what to say to grandfather.
«So, it means that you’re going to town, eh?»
It was difficult to judge by grandfather’s voice whether he was really asking or jeering at me.
I blushed and tried to evade his question.
«Let’s wait and see what dad says…»
«What’s there to see? It’s plain enough. You’re no golden eagle, no, no golden eagle,» grandfather cut me short. «Very well, off you go, I’ll get by without you.»
I shuffled about awkwardly near him and then returned home. Mother and grandmother were tying up bundles; there was a real pogrom taking place in the house. My younger brother, hanging on to grandmother’s skirt hem, was hovering under foot, whimpering. My one-year-old little sister was asleep.
