The boolean book opens the eyes to read online. Read the book "Zuulikha opens eyes" online completely - Guzel Yakhina - Mybook Zulfia read
Zuoleha opens his eyes. Dark as in the cellar. Sleepy sigh over the fine curtain geese. Monthly foal splits lips, looking for maternal udder. Behind the window from the headboard - a deaf moan of the January snowstorm. But it does not blow from the gaps - thanks to Murtaz, Iganized the windows to the cold. Murtaza is a good owner. And a good husband. He rolling and juicy sorkens on the male half. Sleep stronger, before dawn - the deepest sleep.
It's time. Allah Almighty, let me fulfill the conceived - let no one wake up.
Zuulikha silently descends one barefoot to the floor, the second, relies on the oven and gets up. Overnight, she cooled, the heat is gone, the cold floor burns the feet. It is impossible to worry - silently go to the felt cat will not work, some flooring and creak. Nothing, Zuulech will suffer. Holding his hand for the rough side of the furnace, makes his ways to the exit from the female half. It's narrowly and closely, but she remembers every corner, every ledge - half every cells slides there and here, like a pendulum, whole days: from the boiler - on the men's half with full and hot peaked, with a male half - back with empty and cold.
How old is she married? Fifteen of your thirty? It is even more than half of life, probably. It will be necessary to ask Murthaz when he is in the mood - let it count.
Do not stumble about the Palace. Do not hit the barefoot foot about the wrought chest to the right of the wall. Expand the croaked board in the bend of the furnace. People silently start up for the Sitza Charshau, separating the female part of the men's ... Here is the door not far.
Snoring Murtaza closer. Sleep, SIP for the sake of Allah. The wife should not melt from her husband, but what can you do - you have to.
Now the main thing is not to wake animals. Usually they are sleeping in the winter hlev, but in the strong cold of Murtaza, make young and bird home. Geese do not move, and the foal knocked the hoof, shook his head - I woke up, hell. Good will be a horse, sensitive. She pulls her hand through the curtain, touches the velvet face: calm down, his own. He gratefully breathes the nostrils in the palm - acknowledged. Zuoleha wipes the wet fingers about the idle shirt and gently pushes the door shoulder. Tight, upholstered for winter felt, it is hardly served, through the gap flies a stroke frosty cloud. Makes a step, crossing the high threshold, - lacked still to step on it now and disturb the evil spirits, pah-pah! - And it turns out in the Seine. Pretends the door, relies on her back.
Glory to Allah, part of the path passed.
In the Seine, it is cold, like on the street, - the skin pluglet, the shirt does not heat. The jet of ice air beat through the floor slots in the bare feet. But it is not scary.
Scary - behind the door opposite.
Alersive carcicke - gyric. Zuulikha calls her so much. Glory to the Almighty, mother-in-law lives with them not in one hut. The Murthase house is spacious, in two horses connected by common genes. On the day, when a forty-five-year-old Murtza led to the house with a fifteen-year-old Zulechi, a gap with martyr's sorrow on the face itself shook her numerous chests, bales and dishes in the guest of the guests and took it all. "Not a trunk!" She stokenly shouted her son when he tried to help with relocation. And he did not talk to him for two months. In the same year, began to quickly and hopelessly to be blinded, and after some time it is stupid. After a couple of years, there was a blind and deaf as a stone. But now I talked a lot, do not stop.
No one knew how much she was in fact. She argued that hundred. Murtaza recently sat down, sitting for a long time - and announced: the mother of law, she is really about a hundred. He was a late child, and now he is almost an old man.
The evaporation is usually waking up before all and puts out its carefully stored treasure in the sense - the elegant night pot of milk-white porcelain with gentle-blue cornflowers on the side and a bizarre lid (Murtaza brought somehow a gift from Kazan). Zulekh is supposed to jump at the call of mother-in-law, empty and carefully wash the precious vessel - first of all, before drowning the oven, put the dough and remove the cow in the herd. Mount to her if she scraps this morning wake. For fifteen years, Zulech slept twice - and forbid himself to remember what was later.
Behind the door is still quiet. Well, Zuulikha, wet chicken, hurry. Wet chicken - Zhabagian Thausk - for the first time I called the gap. Zuulech did not notice how after a while and herself began to call himself like that.
She sneaks in the depths of Seine, to the stairs to the attic. Sprinkles smoothly left railing. Steep steps, the frozen boards are challenged a little. From above, itifies with a stall wood, frowning dust, dry herbs and barely distinguishable aroma salty housing. Zuulech rises - the noise of blizzard closer, the wind beats about the roof and howls in the corners.
According to the attic, it decides to crawl on all fours - if you go, the boards will creak directly above your head in sleeping murthasis. And she is shifted by a crawling, weight in it is nothing, Murtaza lifts with one hand as a ram. She pulls up a night shirt to his chest, so as not to dust in dust, twisted, takes the end to the teeth - and the touch sneakers between the boxes, boxes, wooden tools, gently interfers through the transverse beams. Cocks his forehead into the wall. At last.
Rimmed, looks out in a small attic window. In a dark gray pre-delight Mol, barely overlook the native Yulbash houses. Murtaza somehow thought - more than a hundred yards turned out. Big village what to say. Rustic road, smoothly flexing, the river is drowning behind the horizon. Someone in the houses have already lit the windows. Rather, Zuulikha.
She gets up and stretches up. In the palm of the palm there is something heavy, smooth, large-pitched - salty goose. The stomach immediately shudders, demanding growing. No, it is impossible to take a goose. He lets a carcass, looking further. Here! To the left of the attic window hangs big and heavy, hardened on the cold of the panels, from which there is barely audible fruit spirit. Apple grazing Carefully slapped in the oven, neatly rolled out on wide boards, carefully dried on the roof, which absorbed the hot August sun and the cool September winds. It is possible to bite on a little bit and long to absorb, rolling rough sour pieces on the roast, and you can fill the mouth and chew, chewing the elastic mass, touching the grain coming in the palm ... The mouth instantly flooded saliva.
Zuulich breaks up a couple of sheets from a rope, twists them tightly and shoves under the mouse. Holds a hand for the remaining - a lot, there is still a lot left. Murtaza should not guess.
And now - back.
She rises on her knees and crawling to the stairs. The scroll of pastes interferes from moving quickly. That's really - the wet chicken, did not gues some Tuba to take with me. The stairs descends slowly: the legs do not feel - they have crumpled, you have to put on-sided feet sideways, on the edge. When reaches the last step, the door from the side of the gap with noise is swollen, and the light, barely distinguishable silhouette occurs in black opening. Chains about the floor heavy key.
- Is there anyone? - Asks the Darkness of Low Male Voice.
Zuoleha freezes. The heart fears, the stomach is compressed by an ice room. I did not have time ... She pisses under the arm, softened.
The gap makes a step forward. For fifteen years of blindness, she learned the house by heart - moves in it confidently, freely.
Zuoleha takes off to a couple of steps up, tightly pressing the elbow softening flip.
The old woman leads the chin in one direction to another. Does not hear anything, does not see, - but feels, the old witch. One word is a gap. The keck is knocking loud - closer, closer. Eh, wakes Murtazu ...
Zulech jumps back to a few steps above, heades the railings, licks the dry lips.
White silhouette stops at the foot of the stairs. You can hear how the old woman sniffs, with noise drawing air with nostrils. Zuuleika brings palms to the face - it is so, smells with housing and apples. Suddenly, the scarishment makes a clever lunge forward and nodule beats a long key along the steps of the stairs, as if when the sword is blocked by the sword. The end of the stick whistles somewhere closely and with a ringing lies in the board in a semi-footer from the barefoot feet of the boolean. The body weakens, the dough spreads along the steps. If the old witch hit again ... the gap mourses something insensitive, pulls up to him the key. Ringly rolls in the dark night pot.
- Zulech! - Shouting a gyrony on the sonym half of the hollow.
So usually begins the morning in the house.
Zuulikha is smoothing with a dried throat lump of tight saliva. Did you really cost? Gently rearrange the feet, slides along the stairs. Lives a couple of moments.
- Zulikha-ah!
But now - it's time. For the third time, the mother-in-law does not like. Zuulech jumps to the gloor - "Ice, I'm flying, Mom!" - And takes out of her hands heavy, covered with warm adhesion of the Spray pot, as it does every day.
- appeared, wet chicken, - TA grumbling. - Only to sleep and the mountain, lazy ...
Murtaza probably woke up from noise, can go to Songy. Zuulikha squeezes under the head of her head (not to lose on the street!), Psure the feet on the floor of someone's boots and pops out into the street. The blizzard beats in the chest, takes to a dense fist, trying to rip off. The shirt climbs the bell. The porch for the night turned into a snowdrift, - Zuoleha descends down, barely guessing the legs of the steps. Falling almost on the knee, wandering to the sideline. Fights with the door, opening it against the wind. Moves the contents of the pot into the glaced hole. When it returns to the house, the gaps are no longer - went to myself.
On the threshold meets a sleepy murtaz, in hand - kerosene lamp. Busty eyebrows are shifted to the nose, wrinkles on the crumpled cheeks deep, as if cut out with a knife.
- Sdurla, woman? In the blizzard - Nagishom!
- I only delivered a pot of Mother - and back ...
- Again, do you want to pass the patient to fall? And the whole house should be taken on me?
- What are you, Murtaza! I did not froze at all. Look! "Zuuleikh stretches forward bright red palms, tightly pressing his elbows to the belt," under the mouse, heats grazing. Is it not visible under the shirt? The fabric of wet in the snow, lippes to the body.
But Murtaza is angry, does not even look at her. Spring to the side, a broken palm is handled by a shaved skull, combing the suspension of the beard.
- Have come on. And you delay the courtyard - take away. For firewood we will go.
Zuulikh low nods and cheaming for Charshau.
Happened! She succeeded! Ay yes Zuulikha, ah yes wet chicken! Here it is, prey: Two crumpled, twisted, merchants the rag of delicious pasteil. Will it be possible to attribute today? And where is wealth to hide? It is impossible to leave at home: in their absence, the science is digging in things. We'll have to wear with you. Dangerous, of course. But today Allah, it seems, on her side - should be lucky.
Zuulikha tight wraps her lame in a long rag and wraps around a belt. From above, lowers haunted shirt, puts the Kulmk, sharovari. Complete braids, throws a handkerchief.
Durable dusk behind the window in the headboard is becoming alone, is diluted with a terrible light cloudy winter morning. Zuulika folds the curtains - everything is better than working in the dark. Kerosinka, standing on the corner of the furnace, throws a bit of skewed light and on the female half, but the economical Murtaz swallowed the wicks so low that the light is almost not visible. Not scary, she could do everything with blindfolded eyes.
New day begins.
Even before noon, the morning blizzard styled, and the sun looked at the brightly trembling sky. We left for firewood.
Zuulech sits on the back of the latter back to Murtaz and looks at the removable at home Yulbash. Green, yellow, dark blue, they look like bright mushrooms from under the snowdrifts. High white smoke candles melt in heavenly blue. Loudly and tasty crusts under the snow. Occasionally snorts and shakes mane jerking in the cold Sunugach. Old sheep skins under zulkha warms. And the cherished rag warms on the stomach - he warms it too. Today, just to take place today ...
Hands and backs and backs - a lot of snow has a lot of snow, and Zulech has long bought a shovel into a drift, clearing wide tracks in the yard: from the porch - to the Big Ambaru, to the Small, to the Needa, to the Winter Hlev, to the backyard. After work, it is so pleasant to be wondering on the dimly swaying sleigh - sit comfortably, wrap up in the odorous Tulup, shove the peeling palms in the sleeve, put the chin on the chest and cover your eyes ...
- Wake up, a woman, came.
Gromadins of trees surrounded Sani. White snow pillows on spruce paws and splashing heads of pines. Animes on birch branches, thin and long, like female hair. Mighty shafts of snowdrifts. Silence - on many versts of the surroundings.
Murtaza accounts for felt woven snowshoes, jumps with a sleigh, throws a gun on the back, fills a large ax for the belt. Takes in the hands of the stick-stops and, without looking around, confidently trails the track into the school. Zulech - next.
The forest near Yulbash is good, rich. In the summer, feeds a rustic large strawberry and sweet grainy raspberries, in the fall - fragile mushrooms. Die a lot. From the depths of the forest flows Chishme - usually affectionate, small, full of fast fish and ridicule crayfish, and in the spring rapid, grumbling, swelling with mud and mud. In times of great hunger, only they saved - the forest and the river. Well, the grace of Allah, of course.
Today, Murtza drove far, almost until the end of the forest road. This road was laid in ancient times and led to the border of the bright part of the forest. Then he stumbled into the extreme glade, surrounded by nine crooked pines, and broke down. There was no further path. The forest ended - a dense urman, a brushful chat, a habitat of wild animals, forest perfumes, and all sorts of bad evil spirits began. Century-old black spruce with spear-like sharp vertices grew up in Urman so often that she does not pass. And bright trees - red pines, collected birches, gray oaks - there was not at all.
They said that through Urman you can come to the lands of Mariers - if you go from the sun a lot of days in a row. Yes, what kind of man in his right mind will decide on this?! Even in times of great hunger, the rustic did not dare to crime abroad from the extreme glade: there were barks from the trees, an acory turis with oaks, the mouse holes were ruined in search of grain - did not go to Urman. And who walked - they were no longer seen.
Zuulikha stops for a moment, puts a large basket for twig on the snow. Restlessly looking around - still in vain Murtaza drove so far.
- Farself, Murtaza? I have not see Snedugach through the trees.
The husband does not answer - it makes his way forward on the belt in the virgin, resting in the drifts with long sticks and the smyster cruste snow with wide snowshoes. Only the cloud of frosty steam is still rising above the head. Finally, it stops near a smooth high birch with a lush outflow of chaga, flashes on the trunk: this one.
At first they hide the snow around. Then Murtazes throws out to Tulup, sees a strongest curved axle, indicates an ax in the lumen between the trees (we will throw there) - and begins to chop.
The blade bursts in the sun and enters the birch side with a short humorous "chah". "Oh! Oh!" - Echo responds. The ax shifts the thick, bizarre Cora bizarked by black walls, then it lins in a gentle-pink woody flesh. Ships splashes like tears. Echo fills the forest.
"And in the urmann heard," Zuulech thinks anxiously. She stands just indeed, in the snow in the snow, clasped the basket, - and looks like Murtaza Rubit. Far, with a dedication, wakes up, elastically bends the mill and take the ax in a seashest white slot on the side of the tree. Strong man big. And it works skillfully. Good husband got her, sin to complain. She herself is petty, barely pulls Murtaz to the shoulder.
Soon birch begins to shudder stronger, moaning louder. The wound left in the trunk of the wound is similar to the mouth screaming in a dark. Murtaza throws the ax, shakes the knots and twigs from the shoulders, nods a zulch: help. Together, they rest in the shoulders in the rough trunk and pushing it - stronger, stronger. Shiny crackling - and birch with a loud farewell moaning stalls of semes, raising a snow dust clouds into the sky.
Husband, senedlaw, conquered wood, cuts thick branches from it. The wife is thin and collects them in the basket along with a twig. Work for a long time, silently. Losetsa Lomit, shoulders poured fatigue. Hands, though in mittens, frown.
"Murtaza, and true that your mother did you go to Urman for a few days and returned to the designer?" - Zuoleha straightens the back and strifting into the belt, resting. "I told Abstai, and she was her grandmother."
He does not respond, triauting an ax to a curve noded branch sticking out of the trunk.
"I would die of fear if it turned out there." I would have left my legs immediately, probably. Lying on the ground, the eyes snapped - and it would be prayed without ceasing, while the language moves.
Murtza hits hard, and the branch of the spring bounces to the side, buzz and fighting.
- But they say, the prayers do not work in the umman. Pray - not pray, all one thing - you will die ... What do you think ... - Zuulikh lowers the voice: - ... there is a place on earth where Allah's gaze penetrates?
Murtaza widespread and deeply drives the ax in a ring in the frost. Removes Malayhai, rubs out the palm of the painted, grooming with heat naked skull and saves spit under his feet.
Again is accepted for work.
Soon the basket for a twig is full - not to raise this, only a drainage. Birch - purified from branches and swallowed a few logs. Long branches lie with neat knitting in the snowdrifts around.
Did not notice how it became dark. When Zulech raises his eyes to the sky, the sun is already hidden behind the torn claps of clouds. It flies a strong wind, whistles and gave a gym.
- We will go home, Murtaz, again the blizzard begins.
Husband does not respond, continuing to wrap the rope of thick ligaments of firewood. When the last Khpanka is ready, the blizzard is already wolting all over the trees, long and evil.
It indicates a fur mitten on the logs: first we drag them. Four logs in the blacks of the former branches, each - longer of the zulechi. Murtza, rushing, tears one end of the thick log from the ground. Zulech is taken for the second. It is impossible to raise it right away, it is kept for a long time, having encouraged to a thick and rough wood.
- Come on! - Intireelly screams Murtaz. - Female!
Finally managed. Hugging her logs with both hands, clinging to the chest to a pinkish whiteness of fresh wood, tasted with long sharp sins. Move to sleigh. Go slowly. The hands are shaky. If only not to drop, the Most High, just not to drop. If you fall to the leg - you will stay like a lifetime. It becomes hot - hot trickles flow on the back, stomach. The cherished rag under the breast wings through - the shell will give salt. It's nothing, just to have time to take it today ...
Sandugach obediently stands in the same place, lazily dealing with their feet. There are few wolves this winter, Sakhan Alla, so Murtaza is not afraid to leave the horse alone.
When they dragged the log on Sani, Zuulikha falls nearby, swings off the mittens, weakens the handkerchief on the neck. It hurts painfully, as if fled, without stopping, across the village.
Murtaz, without saying a word, steps back to the wood. Zuulikh slides with a sled and dragged behind. Drag and drag the remaining logs. Then knitting from thick branches. Then from thin.
When firewood is laid on a sleigh, the forest is already covered with dense winter twilight. The stump of freshly dredged birch remains only a zulechi basket.
- The brushwood will bring himself, - throws Murtaz and is accepted to fix the firewood.
The wind spiked not at a joke, angrily throws the snow clouds in all directions, noted by the traces wounded by people. Zuoleha presses the mittens to the chest and rushes by barely noticeable path in the dark forest.
While I got to a familiar stump, the basket was already preserved. Lames the branch from the bush, it is accepted to wander around, a twitch in the snow. If he is lost - she will have to be bad. Murtaza scolds and cooled, but the gauge - she will tear out, will be out of poison, will remember this basket until death.
Yes, here she, honey, lies! Zuulech shakes a heavy basket from under the thickness of the snowdrift and exhales it easier. You can return. But where to go? A blizzard dancing around the blizzard. White snow streams rapidly carry up the air up and down, enveloping zulechu, waving, entangling. The sky with a huge gray wool has led themselves between sharp vertices of fir trees. The trees have flooded with darkness and become similar to each other as shadows.
Paths - no.
- Murtaza! - shouts of Zulech, in his mouth throws snow. - Murtaza-Aa! ..
The blizzard sings, rings, scrolls in response.
The body weakens, legs become friable, as if themselves from the snow. Zuoleha settlers on the stump back to the wind, holding the basket with one hand, and the other gate of Tuluup. It is impossible to go away - he will donate. It is better to wait here. Can Murtaz leave her in the forest? That's how the gap was delighted ... But what about the extracted paste? Is it really in vain? ..
- Murtaza-Aa!
From a snowy cloud is a big dark figure in Malahai. Tightly grabbed his wife for the sleeve, Murtaza is catching her over the buran.
It does not allow sitting on Sani - a lot of firewood, the horse will not extend. So go: Murtaz in front, leading Sandugach under the coziness, and Zuulich followed, holding back and barely going through the brave legs. Snow snapped in the boots, but there is no strength to shake out. Now you need to go to walk. Rearrange your legs: right, left, right, left ... Well, let's, zulikha, wet chicken. You know myself: if you fall behind Sanya, you will not notice the end, Murtaza. So freeze in the forest.
Still, what a good person he is - returned for her. Could and leave there, in more often, - to whom it is, she is alive or not. I would say: I was lost in the forest, I did not find it - in a day no one would remember it ...
It turns out, you can walk with closed eyes. So even better - the legs work, and the eyes rest. The main thing is to hold onto the sleigh, do not squeeze your fingers ...
Snow hurts in the face, clogs into the nose and mouth. Zuoleha lifts his head, shakes off. Itself - lies on Earth, ahead - a removable sled's rear, around - white swing blizzard. It gets up, catchies Sani, joined stronger. Decides not to close the eyes to the house.
Entered the yard is already dim. Lugged firewood at the lunite (Murtaza Podkolt tomorrow), straighten Sunugach, cover the sleigh.
Used with dense yellow glasses on the side of the gaps, but Zulech knows: mother-in-law feels their arrival. It is now in front of the window and listens to the movements of the genital board: waiting for them first shudder from the blow of the entrance door, and after the spring begroitable under the heavy steps of the host. Murtaza can be divided, it will be free from the road - and passes on half of the mother. He calls it Talk in the evening. What can be accepted with a deaf old woman? Zulech does not understand. But these conversations were long, sometimes lasted for hours. Murtaza came out calm, peaceful, could even smile or joke.
Today is the evening date of Zulech in your hand. As soon as the husband, putting a clean shirt, goes to the gap, Zuuleika pits on the shoulders not ashamed of Tulup and pops out of the hut.
Buran notes Yulbash with large rigid snow. Zuoleha wanders down the street against the wind, leaning forward low, as in prayer. Little houses of houses glowing with a cozy yellow light of keroseinals, barely overlook in darkness.
Here is the gossip. Here, under the fence of the last house, the nose to the field, the tail to Yulbash, lives the bass of Kappa Siaja - the Spirit of the Golitis. Zulech did not see him, but they say, angry very, grimy. How else? He has such a job: evil spirits from the village to drive off, do not let across the sidelice, and if the rustic request, what a forest spirit will appear - to help, become an intermediary. Serious work is not so fun.
Zuulikha swallows Tulup, for a long time poking in the folds of the Kulmk, unwinding the wet rag on the belt.
"Sorry, which is often disturbing," she says in a blizzard. - You're already this time - help, do not refuse.
To please the Spirit is not easy. It is necessary to know what spirit he loves. Living in the Seine Beachur, for example, is unpretentious. I will put her a couple of unwashed plates with the remains of the porridge or soup - she must sleep at night, and satisfied. Bannaya Beachura - Xrech, her nuts or seeds give. The Spirit of the Kleva loves the flour, the spirit of the gate is the scratched eggshell. But the Spirit of Golube is sweet. So my mother taught.
When Zuuleika first came to ask the bass of Kapka I say about favoring - to talk to Zirat Iyasha, the spirit of the cemetery, to looked after the graves of her daughters, covered them with snow warmed, drove the evil mischievous Shuraly, - brought candy. Then lasted nuts in honey, crumbly kosh-body, dried berries. Paxtil brought for the first time. Do you like?
It rakes the fucking sheets and one by one throws itself. The wind picks up them and takes away somewhere in the field - twist-turn-turn, and he will bring to the hole to the bass of Kapka I say.
No Sheet returned back to Zulech - the Spirit of the Ocean took a treat. So - I will fulfill the request: it will clarify the cemetery with the spirit of the cemetery, it will persuade it. There will be daughters in warmth, in peace to the very spring. Speaking directly with the Spirit of the Zulech cemetery was afraid - it's still a simple woman, not a scraper.
She thanks bass Kapka Iyasha - low ones in darkness - and hurries home, rather, until Murtaz from the gaps did not come out. When runs in Song, the husband is still at the mother. She thanks the Most High - caught his face with his palms - yes, today he is really on the side of Zulechi.
In warmth, immediately covers fatigue. Hands and feet are cast-iron, the head is cotton. The body asks one - rest. She quickly hits the stove cooled in the morning. Shelves on Xiaka Taba for Murthase, silent on it. Runs in winter hlev, hends the oven and there. Specifies animals, removes them. Wars the foal to Santugach for evening feeding. Drit cubell, turns milk. It takes from high kishta male pillows, whipped (Murtaza loves to sleep high). Finally you can go to yourself in bake.
Typically, children are sleeping on the chests, and adult women relies a small part of Xieca, separated from the male half of a dense Chsybybydyk. But the fifteen-year-old Zuulikha was such a little growth when Murthase came to the house that the gap to the first day she said, sticking into the daughter-in-law. Then still brightly brick-brown eyes: "This little one and the chest will not fall out." And Zuleuhu was settled on a large old chest, inshance of tin plates and brilliant convex nails. Since then, she has no longer grew - it was no need to move somewhere. And Xiaka completely took Murtaz.
Zuoleha lays a mattress on the chest, a blanket, tightens through the head of Kulmk and begins to break the braids. Fingers do not obey, the head falls on the chest. Through the semide hears - the door chloats: Murtaz returns.
- Are you here, woman? - asks with the male half. - Fasting a bath. Mom wants to wash.
Zuoleha stuck his face in the palm of palm. You need a lot of time on the bath. Yes, and soak the glory ... where to get forces? Would just just sit like a couple of moments, not moving. And the forces will come ... And she will rise ... and floods ...
- Sleep up to sleep?! You sleep on the cart, sleep at home. Mom rights: Lazy!
Zuulech jumps.
Murtaza stands in front of her chest, in one hand - Kerosinka with an uneven light inside, wide chin with a deep straw in the middle of angrily tense. A trembling shadow of her husband closes sticks.
"Run, run, Murtaz," says a hoarse voice.
At first, to clear the path in the snow to the bath (I did not clean it in the morning - I did not know that you would have to drown). Then to ride the water from the well - twenty buckets, the girlfriend likes to splash. Melt oven. Bulk nuts Bichure for the bench, so as not to Shalil, did not quit the oven, did not let us down, did not interfere with steam. Wash the floors. Soak brooms. Bring from the attic of dried herbs: a series - for the ablution of female and male secret places, mint - for a tasty couple; brew Disseminate the pure palace in the pre-tribades. Bring clean linen - for the gap, for Murthase, for yourself. Do not forget pillows and jug with cold drinking water.
The bath of Murtaza put in the corner of the courtyard, behind the barn and chill. Stove clan According to the modern method: Long hung with the drawings in the magazine brought from Kazan, silently moved his lips, driving a wide nail on the yellow pages; Several days laid bricks, it turns around with a picture. At the Kazan Plant of the Prussian manufacturer, Diza ordered a steel tank in size - and put it exactly to the intended ledge, smoothly linked clay. Such a stove and a bath of the rope, and the water was warm quickly, just have time to fill, - a look, and not a stove. Mullah-Khazrate himself came to see, then ordered the same for himself.
While he was managed with affairs, the fatigue hidden somewhere deeply, plucked, twisted the ball - not in the back of the head, not that in the spine. Soon gets out - she will cover a dense wave, heats up, drowns. But it will be more. In the meantime: the bath warmed up - you can call the science to wash.
Murtza entered the mother without a knock, and Zulech was supposed to long and loudly knock her legs about the floor in front of the door so that the old woman was ready for her arrival. If the gum was awake, then felt the shake of the genital boards and met a bride in a harsh look of blindbackies. If I slept, Zulech was to go out immediately and go later.
"Maybe he fell asleep?" - hopes Zulikha, diligently thoroughly at the entrance to the beck of the mother-in-law. Pushes the door, squints his head in the gap.
Three large kerosene lamps in openwork metal supports brightly illuminate the spacious room (the gap always lights them towards the evening arrival of Murthase). Lobbed by a thin knife and grained with river sand to honey shine floors (zulikha in summer all the skin on the fingers struck, beginning); Snesh-white lace on the windows - starched so hard that you can cut; In common - elegant red-green tastmal and an oval mirror, such a huge thing that if Zulyukha got up in front of him, he reflected everything from the top of the heels. Large outdoor clock sparkles amber varnish, brass pendulum retreats time slowly and inexorably. Slightly crashes yellow fire in a high, covered in the stove (her Murtaza rushed himself, the zuleche was not allowed to be triggered). Cobin-thin silk casha under the ceiling frames the room as expensive frame.
In the honorary corner - tour - on a mighty iron bed with a cast patterned back, drowning in the hills of whipped pillows, seats the old woman. Her legs in the dairy color of soft cat, embroidered with color braid, stand on the floor. The head tied by a long white handkerchief of the old women, according to the most ridden eyebrows, it stands on a sausage bag neck directly and firmly. High and wide cheekbones pin the narrow eye gaps, triangular from cosos hanging from the sides of the flabby age.
"So you can die, waiting for you to melt the bath," mother-in-law says.
Her mouth fell and wrinkled, like an old goosehouse, there is almost no teeth, but he says clearly, intelligible.
"How, you will die," Zulech thinks, leaking into the room. "You will tell you on my funeral about my funeral."
"But do not hope, I'm going to live for a long time," she continues. Sheets in the direction of the Yashmovy rosary, gripping the key with a row near time. - We will survive all of you with Murtaz, we are a strong root and grow from a good tree.
"Now about my rotten root will say," Zulech sighs doomed, bringing the old woman a long dog Yagu The rod of the fur coats, Toulup of the negligence., fur cap and felt boots.
- Not that you, Liquid Covenant. - The old woman pulls forward a bony foot, Zuulikha cautiously removes it soft, like a fluff, cat and puts on a tall rigid felt boat. - No growth, no face came out. Maybe, of course, there was namazano in my youth in my youth, but because this place was not painful, it turned out to be healthy, but? Some girls brought on the light - and then no one has survived.
Zuoleha is too much pulls for the second cat, and the old woman screams from pain.
- Lightly, Girl! I tell the truth, you know myself. Ends your genus, hoodokosta, degenerate. It is right: rotten root - rot, and healthy - live.
The girlfriend relies on the key, rises from the bed and immediately becomes above the zulechi on the whole head. There is a wide, similar to hoof chin, rushes white eyes to the ceiling:
- Most High sent me a dream about it.
Zuulikha throws Yagu as a gap on the shoulders, puts on a fur cap, covered the neck with a soft shawl.
Allah Almighty, again sleep! Svetrov rarely saw dreams, but those that came to her turned out to be things: strange, sometimes terrible, complete hints and disabilities of the vision, in which the coming reflected vague and distorted, as in a muddy mirror curve. Even in the very gaps, it was not always possible to solve their meaning. After a couple of weeks or months, mystery was definitely revealed - something, more often - bad, less often - good, but always - important, with perverted accuracy repeatedly by the picture half-time for the time of sleep.
The old witch was never mistaken. In nine hundred and fifteenth, immediately after the wedding of the Son, Murtaz was given to her, wagging between red flowers. I failed to solve sleep, but soon a fire happened in the farm, the barn burned down the barn and the old bath - and the deposit was found. After a couple of months, the old woman saw at night by the mountain of yellow skulls with large horns and predicted the epidemic of the pitch, which twisted all cattle in Yulbash. The following ten years of dreams came completely sad and scary: children's shirts, lonely floating along the river; split dead crashes; Chickens, drowning in the blood ... During this time, Zulech gave birth and immediately buried four daughters. The vision of the big hunger in twenty-first were terrible: the mother-in-law came the air, black, like soot, - people swam in it, as in the water, and slowly dissolved, gradually losing their hands, legs, heads.
- How long will we sweat here? - The old woman is impatiently knocking the key and the first goes to the door. - Do you want to break me in front of the street and stand up?!
Zuulikha hurriedly screws the wicks of keroseinals and hurries next.
On the porch of the gap stops - one does not come out on the street. Zuoleha picks up the mother-in-law for the elbow - she hurts the long jetty fingers in her hand, - and leads to the bath. Go slowly, carefully rearrangement of the legs in the snow, - the blizzard did not subside, and the track is again visible.
"Are you, what kind of snow in the courtyard cleaned?" - grinning half the mouth of the glory in the pre-tribades, allowing you to remove the snow-covered Yagu. - It is noticeable.
Mothes his head, throws off the cap (Zuuleika rushes to pick up), grips the door and itself enters the dressing room.
It smells with swollen birch leaves, a turn and fresh wet tree. The evaporate sits on a wide long shop at the wall and freezes in silence: it allows you to sit. At first, Zuulikha removes a white handkerchief from her in heavy beads heavy beads. Then a spacious velvet vest with a patterned clasp. Beads - coral thread, pearl thread, glass thread, darkened by time. Upper dense Kulmk. Lower thin Kulmk. Felt boots. Sharovari - Some, second. Punchy socks. Woolen socks. Nature socks. Wants to remove large earrings cresvers from the thick folded rods, but she shouts: "Do not touch! You will lose more ... or you say that I lost ... "Personal yellow metal on uneven wrinkled fingers of the old women of Zulech decides not to touch.
The clothes of the gaps, neatly unfolded in a strictly defined order, occupies the entire shop - from the wall and to the wall. The mother-in-law carefully feels with his hands all the items - the lips are displeasure, it corrects something, smoothes. Zuulikh quickly discovers its belongings on the basket with dirty linen at the entrance and leads an old woman in a steam room.
Barely open the door - they are capable of hot air, the aroma of hot stones and a spark-alcohol. In the face and back, moisture begins to flow.
- lazy to flood normally, the bath is barely warm ... - Tsing the old woman, scraper sides. Climbing the highest Lace, falls on it face in the ceiling, closes his eyes, - to mock.
Zuoleha is sitting in harvested pelvis and begins to knead the messy brooms.
"I mean bad," the gap continues to grumble. - Although I do not see, but I know: bad. You will be engaged in the pelvis there, here, as a spoon, soup are stirred, and it is necessary to place, as the dough ... And for that only Murtaza you, the unradited, chose? With one honey between the legs all life will not be fed ...
Zuulikha, putting on his knees, takes place brooms. The body immediately becomes hot, face and chest swell.
- The same, - the creaking voice bears from above. - I wanted to beat me with unprofitable brooms, the idleness. And I will not give myself offense. And my Murtaza is also not let. Allah I was in order to protect such a long life to protect him ... besides me - who will come to my boy? You do not love him, do not honor - just do it look. The pretender, cold and soulless, are who you. I feel you, oh how I feel ...
And about a dream - not a word. Harmful old woman will be tomorrow. He knows that Zulech does not tolerate hear. Tormented.
Zuoleha takes two teaching greenish-water broom and rises to the gap on Lace. The head enters the dense layer of burning air under the ceiling, begins to buzz. In the eyes flashes multicolored grain sands, fly, float the waves.
Here it is, the gap, very close: stretches from the wall and to the wall, like a wide field. Bugister senile bones stick out up, a countercalous body crumbled between them bizarre hills, the skin hangs with frozen landslides. And throughout this uneven, then cut-off ravines, then the magnificent rabble valley flows, shiny sweatshops are silent ...
Falling the glory relies with two hands and necessarily starting from the abdomen. Zuulikha first gently leads a broom, preparing the skin, then begins to beat two brooms alternately. On the body, the old women immediately appear red spots, black birch leaves sprinkle in all directions.
- And you can't soar. How many years we are learning ... - the ghoul increases the voice to shut down a long honest slap. - Stronger! Come on, come on, wet chicken! Heat my old bones! .. Evil Work, Loading! Accelerate your liquid blood, may thicken! .. How do you like your husband at night, if so weak, eh? It will take, will leave Murtaz to another, which is stronger and beat, and will love! .. I can also hit the stronger. The pair is better - and not that you hit! Grab by hair and show how you need! I am not Murtaz, I will not give the descent! .. Where is your power, chicken? You haven't died yet! Or died?! "The old woman is already shouting into all the throat, lifting a face distorted by anger to the ceiling.
Zuulech is waving that there are strength and chopping with both brooms, like an ax, on a flickering in a trembling a body. Bars scatter, cutting air, - the old woman sworshes, through the stomach and breasts are running wide scarlet stripes, in which blood is getting dark grains.
- Finally, - the gap will exhale hoarse, folding his head back to the bench.
In the eyes darkens, and the zulech is slipping along the steps of Laces down, on a slippery cool floor. Breathing shot, hands tremble.
"Perhaps a couple more - and take at my back," the commander commander calmly and delusito.
Glory to Allah, the old woman wants to wash below. It sits in a huge, to the edges filled with water wooden pelvis, gently lowers long and flat bags of breasts, hanging up to Pup, and begins graciously stretching the boolean on one hand and legs. That tip them with a sparkling rod rolling and washes off the long ridges of dirt on the floor.
It comes a turn of the head. Two thin gray braid, stretching to the hips, you need to dissolve, lay and rinse, do not hurt big hanging crescent earrings and without pouring the blind eye.
Racing in several buckets of cold water, the gaming is ready. Zulech takes her to the dressing room and begins to wipe off the towels, guessing whether the old woman will open her mysterious sleep. In the fact that she has already told his son today today, Zulech does not doubt.
Suddenly, the gap will hurt her in the side stretched forward with a coronary finger. Zuulikha is rejected. The old woman is repeated. Three times, fourth ... What is it with her? Didn't they smash? Zuoleha bounces to the wall.
After a couple of moments, the mother-in-law calms down. The usual gesture is demandingly pulls the hand, impatiently leads his fingers, - Zulyha puts in them cooked a jug with drinking water. The old woman is seals greedily, droplets run through deep folds from the corners of the mouth to the chin. Then swinging and with force throws the vessel into the wall. Clay is ringingly Dzinket, sprinkling on pieces, a dark water stain crawled on the logs.
Zuolekhe shoves lips in a brief silent prayer. What is it today with the gap, Allah Almighty?! That is spiked. Did the mind be moved from age? Zuoleha is experiencing a bit. Then carefully approaching and continues to wear mother-in-law.
"Silence-and-and-sch," the old woman says condemningly, allowing you to put on my own silent shirt and sharovar. "Always silent, not a little ... If anyone with me like that, I would kill."
Zulech stops.
- And you can't. Neither to hit or kill or love. Your anger is sleeping deeply and will not wake up already, but without anger - what life? No, you never really live to you. One word: chicken ...
... and your life is chicken, "the gap continues, with a blissful sigh, leaning around to the wall. - Here I was - real. I already blinded, and Rylochla - and still live, and I like it. And you do not live. Therefore, you do not feel sorry for you.
Zuulech stands and listens, pressing the boots of old women to the chest.
- You will die soon, I saw in a dream. We will stay in the house in the house, and three Fiery Farchette will arrive at you and take straight to hell. Everything seemed to see: and as they grab you under your arms, and how they throw on the chariot, and how they are taken into the abyss. I stand on the porch, I look. And then you are silent - only you might, like cubells, and glazes have gone up your green, stalling at me like insane. Farishte laughs, keep you firmly. Clicking the ground - and the land is expanded, from the slot - smoke with sparks. Click - and flew all there, and disappeared in this smoke ...
The legs weaken, and the boolean releases from the hands of the boots, leaning against the wall, slowly flows on her thin palace, barely covered the floor of the floor.
"Maybe it will not come true soon," the gap is wide and sweetly yawns. - You know: what dreams are quickly executed, and what - in months, I already start to forget them ...
Zuulikha is put on the old woman - hands do not obey. The gibble does notice this, grins unkind. Then he sits on the bench, relies decisively on the key:
- I will not go with you today from the bath. Maybe you have a closed mind from the heard. Who knows what will come to your mind. And I still live for a long time. So Zovi Murtazu, let him keep me home and puts to sleep.
Zuulikha, smearing the swords of Tulupe on a skewed bare body, wanders in the house, leads her husband. That runs to the dressing without a hat, without having shook off the felt of the snow.
- What happened, Eni? - runs up to the mother, worst her hands.
- What?! What?! - Murtaza falls on his knees and is accepted to feel her head, neck, shoulders.
The old woman's shaking hand shakes ribbons to the chest and pulls behind the gate. In the opening opening, on the bright, the skin triangle darkens the crimson spot with large black grains of a wrinkled blood. Blooding reaches behind the opening of the shirt, down, to the stomach.
- For what? - the gap bends the mouth with a steep rocker, two large shiny tears roll out of her eyes and are lost somewhere in finely trembling wrinkles on the cheeks; She falls to his son and shakes silently. - I didn't do anything to her ...
Murtaza throws up on his feet.
- You?! "He growls deep, rushing the eyes of Zulechu and feeling his hand with his hand near him."
Under the arm there are bundles of dried herbs, ligaments of the washcloths - tears, eats. Finally, a heavy handle of brooms fall into the palm - he grasped stronger and wakes up.
- I did not beat her! - Supported junks, bouncing to the window. - Never, never a finger touched! She asked her herself ...
"Murtaza, a son, do not bay her, spare," the trembling voice of the gaps are heard from the corner. - She did not regret me, and you - pozh ...
Murtza throws a broom. The stalk hurts to burst into the shoulder, Tulup falls on the floor. Wovenka drops herself and jrokets in a pair. The door behind her is indulging with a crash, racing the goards, - the husband locks it outside.
Putting a hot face to a small dove of the window, Zuulikh through a dancing snowy snow looks like husband and mother-in-law two high shadows float into the house. How the windows on the side of the gaps are lit and go out. Like Murtaza heavier steps back to the bath.
Zuulikha grabs a big drawak and dip in the stoves on the furnace pelvis with water, from which the magnificent clubs of a couple are rising.
Again, I rare the Casov: Murtaza stands in the doorway door in one yight, in hand - all the same broom. Makes a step forward and closes the door behind him.
Through it in boiling water! Right now, do not wait!
Zuoleha, often breathing and holding a scope on the elongated hands, walks back and rests on his back into the wall, feeling the blades a cool bulge of logs.
Murtaza makes one more step and a stalk knocks the scoop from the hands of the Zuolea. Suitable, the jerk thumps her on the lower Laecay - Zuulech hurts his knees and stretches on the shelf.
"We are sleepy, a woman," he says.
And begins to beat.
The broom on the back is not hurt. Almost like a broom. Zuulikh lies snifferly, as the husband ordered, only shudders and scratches Lache's nails at every blow, "so he hits for a short time. Quickly cool down. Still, a good husband got her.
Then she soars him and washes. When Murtaza goes to the dressing room to overall, laundries underwear. It is no longer no strength to wash up - the fatigue woke up, poured the weight of the eyelids, muddied his head, - somehow leads the hair on the sides and rinsing her hair. It remains only to wash the floors in the bath - and sleep, sleep ...
Wash the floors was taken from childhood on the knees. "Bending in a belt or squatting only lazy work," the mother taught. Zuulikha does not consider himself a lazy - and now the squalus dark flooring, gliding on them a lizard: turning the stomach and breasts to the sex itself, low tilt the cast-iron head and raising the ass. It shakes.
Soon the pair of washed, and the zulich moves into the dressing room: hangs wet palaces on the ceiling of KISTE - let it dry, collects the shards of a broken jug, it is accepted to drag the floors.
Murtaza still lies on the bench - the ambulance, wrapped in a white sheet, rests. The husband's view always makes the Zulech work better, more diligently, faster, - let him see that she is a good wife, at least he has come. So now, having gathered the remnants of the strength and splashing on the floor, she sacrifically takes a cloth on clean boards - here, there, there and here; Wet embarrassed strands dangle in the beat, the naked breasts are choking on the floorboard.
"Zuulikha," Low utters Murtaz, looking at a naked wife.
She is broken down in the belt, standing on his knees and not releaseing a rag out of her hands, but does not manage sleepy eyes. The husband wars her behind and throws the stomach to the bench, pumped up with all the body from above, breathes hard, scrolls, begins to put down, rub into tight boards. He wants to love his wife. But he does not want his body - he had to obey his desires ... Finally, Murtza gets up with her and begins to dress. "Even my flesh does not want you," it throws without looking and coming out of the bath.
Zuoleha slowly rises from the bench, in hand - all the same rag. Houses floor. Wipes wet underwear and towels. Dress up and wanders home. To be upset because of what happened to Murtaz no strength. The terrible prophecy of the gaps - that's what she will think about, but tomorrow, tomorrow ... when it wakes up ...
The house has already burned the light. Murtaza is not sleeping yet - breathes on his half loudly and cheerfully, the boards of Xyak shake under it.
Zuulikha to the touch makes his way into his corner, leading to a warm rough side of the oven, falls on the chest not undressing.
She wants to get up - and can not. The body of the kissel spreads the chest.
- Zulech!
She slides on the floor, knees in front of the chest, but it's impossible to tear off his head.
- Zuulikha, wet chicken, rather!
She slowly rises and, staggering, wanders on the call of her husband. Cocks on Xieca.
Murtaza is impatient hands with her balls with her (annoyingly chasing - that's the lazy thing, I haven't undressed yet!), Stakes on the back, Bullets Kulmk. His torn breathing is approaching. Zuoleha feels like a face covers a long, still smelling a bath and frost of a husband's beard, and the recent beatings on the back of a hatch under his weight. The body of Murthaz finally responded to his desires, and he is in a hurry to fulfill them - greedily, strongly, long, triumphantly ...
During the execution of a marital debt, Zuulika usually mentally compares himself with a woolly, in which the hostess with strong hands whips oil with thick and hard penet. But today this usual thought does not make way through severe fatigue blanket. Through the sleepy sleep, she barely distinguishes the sorms of her husband. Incessant shocks of his body sleep, as a measly swaying cart ...
Murtza gets off his wife, otiuya with a palm of a wet head and soothing his breathing; Blowing is tired and pretty.
"Go to yourself, a woman," his motionless body pushes.
He does not like when she sleeps next to him on Syak.
Zulech, without opening the eye, splits on his chest, but does not notice this - she is already tightly sleeping.
Guzel Yahina
Zuoleha opens his eyes
The book is published by agreement with the literary Agency Elkost Intl.
© Yakhina G. Sh.
© AST Publishing House LLC
Love and tenderness in hell
This novel belongs to the kind of literature, which would seem to be completely lost since the collapse of the USSR. We had a beautiful dwarf writers, who belonged to one of the ethnic groups inhabiting the empire, but wrote in Russian. Fazil Iskander, Yuri Ryrtheu, Anatoly Kim, Ollas Suleimenov, Chingiz Aitmatov ... Traditions of this school - Deep knowledge of national material, love for their people, fulfilled advantage and respect for people of other nationalities, delicate touch towards folklore. It would seem that there will be no continuation of this, disappeared by the mainland. But a rare and joyful event happened - a new prose, the young Tatar woman Gusel Jahina and easily got into a number of these masters.
The novel "Zuulikha opens his eyes" - a great debut. He has the main quality of this literature - gets straight in the heart. The story about the fate of the main character, the Tatar peasantry of the derailization times, breathes such authenticity, reliability and charm, which are not so often found in recent decades in a huge stream of modern prose.
Several cinematic style of the narrative strengthens the drama of the action and brightness of images, and publicism not only does not destroy the narrative, but, on the contrary, it turns out to be the dignity of the novel. The author returns the reader to the literature of accurate observation, subtle psychology and, most significant, to the love, without which even the most talented writers turn into cold registrars of time disease. The phrase "female literature" carries a dismissive tint in itself - to a large extent in the grace of men's criticism. Meanwhile, women only in the twentieth century mastered the professions, which were considered for men: doctors, teachers, scientists, writers. Bad novels during the existence of the genre by men are written hundreds of times more than women, and it is difficult to argue with this fact. Roman Guzel Yakhina - no doubt - female. About the feminine strength and female weakness, about the sacred motherhood is not against the background of English children's, but against the background of the Labor Camp, the hellish reserve, invented by one of the greatest villains of mankind. And for me, it remains a mystery, as the young author managed to create such a powerful work, glorifying love and tenderness in hell ... I congratulate the author from the soul with a beautiful premiere, and readers with a great prose. This is a brilliant start.
Lyudmila Ulitskaya
Part one
Wet chicken
One day
Zuoleha opens his eyes. Dark as in the cellar. Sleepy sigh over the fine curtain geese. Monthly foal splits lips, looking for maternal udder. Behind the window from the headboard - a deaf moan of the January snowstorm. But it does not blow from the gaps - thanks to Murtaz, Iganized the windows to the cold. Murtaza is a good owner. And a good husband. He rolling and juicy sorkens on the male half. Sleep stronger, before dawn - the deepest sleep.
It's time. Allah Almighty, let me fulfill the conceived - let no one wake up.
Zuulikha silently descends one barefoot to the floor, the second, relies on the oven and gets up. Overnight, she cooled, the heat is gone, the cold floor burns the feet. It is impossible to worry - silently go to the felt cat will not work, some flooring and creak. Nothing, Zuulech will suffer. Holding his hand for the rough side of the furnace, makes his ways to the exit from the female half. It's narrowly and closely, but she remembers every corner, every ledge - half every cells slides there and here, like a pendulum, whole days: from the boiler - on the men's half with full and hot peaked, with a male half - back with empty and cold.
How old is she married? Fifteen of your thirty? It is even more than half of life, probably. It will be necessary to ask Murthaz when he is in the mood - let it count.
Do not stumble about the Palace. Do not hit the barefoot foot about the wrought chest to the right of the wall. Expand the croaked board in the bend of the furnace. People silently start up for the Sitza Charshau, separating the female part of the men's ... Here is the door not far.
Snoring Murtaza closer. Sleep, SIP for the sake of Allah. The wife should not melt from her husband, but what can you do - you have to.
Now the main thing is not to wake animals. Usually they are sleeping in the winter hlev, but in the strong cold of Murtaza, make young and bird home. Geese do not move, and the foal knocked the hoof, shook his head - I woke up, hell. Good will be a horse, sensitive. She pulls her hand through the curtain, touches the velvet face: calm down, his own. He gratefully breathes the nostrils in the palm - acknowledged. Zuoleha wipes the wet fingers about the idle shirt and gently pushes the door shoulder. Tight, upholstered for winter felt, it is hardly served, through the gap flies a stroke frosty cloud. Makes a step, crossing the high threshold, - lacked still to step on it now and disturb the evil spirits, pah-pah! - And it turns out in the Seine. Pretends the door, relies on her back.
Glory to Allah, part of the path passed.
In the Seine, it is cold, like on the street, - the skin pluglet, the shirt does not heat. The jet of ice air beat through the floor slots in the bare feet. But it is not scary.
Scary - behind the door opposite.
Alersions of Carchek - Gain. Zuulikha calls her so much. Glory to the Almighty, mother-in-law lives with them not in one hut. The Murthase house is spacious, in two horses connected by common genes. On the day, when a forty-five-year-old Murtza led to the house with a fifteen-year-old Zulechi, a gap with martyr's sorrow on the face itself shook her numerous chests, bales and dishes in the guest of the guests and took it all. "Not a trunk!" She stokenly shouted her son when he tried to help with relocation. And he did not talk to him for two months. In the same year, began to quickly and hopelessly to be blinded, and after some time it is stupid. After a couple of years, there was a blind and deaf as a stone. But now I talked a lot, do not stop.
No one knew how much she was in fact. She argued that hundred. Murtaza recently sat down, sitting for a long time - and announced: the mother of law, she is really about a hundred. He was a late child, and now he is almost an old man.
The evaporation is usually waking up before all and puts out its carefully stored treasure in the sense - the elegant night pot of milk-white porcelain with gentle-blue cornflowers on the side and a bizarre lid (Murtaza brought somehow a gift from Kazan). Zulekh is supposed to jump at the call of mother-in-law, empty and carefully wash the precious vessel - first of all, before drowning the oven, put the dough and remove the cow in the herd. Mount to her if she scraps this morning wake. For fifteen years, Zulech slept twice - and forbid himself to remember what was later.
Behind the door is still quiet. Well, Zuulikha, wet chicken, hurry. Wet chicken - jeesebiagan Thavuck - Her first called the gap. Zuulech did not notice how after a while and herself began to call himself like that.
She sneaks in the depths of Seine, to the stairs to the attic. Sprinkles smoothly left railing. Steep steps, the frozen boards are challenged a little. From above, itifies with a stall wood, frowning dust, dry herbs and barely distinguishable aroma salty housing. Zuulech rises - the noise of blizzard closer, the wind beats about the roof and howls in the corners.
According to the attic, it decides to crawl on all fours - if you go, the boards will creak directly above your head in sleeping murthasis. And she is shifted by a crawling, weight in it is nothing, Murtaza lifts with one hand as a ram. She pulls up a night shirt to his chest, so as not to dust in dust, twisted, takes the end to the teeth - and the touch sneakers between the boxes, boxes, wooden tools, gently interfers through the transverse beams. Cocks his forehead into the wall. At last.
Rimmed, looks out in a small attic window. In a dark gray pre-delight Mol, barely overlook the native Yulbash houses. Murtaza somehow thought - more than a hundred yards turned out. Big village what to say. Rustic road, smoothly flexing, the river is drowning behind the horizon. Someone in the houses have already lit the windows. Rather, Zuulikha.
She gets up and stretches up. In the palm of the palm there is something heavy, smooth, large-pitched - salty goose. The stomach immediately shudders, demanding growing. No, it is impossible to take a goose. He lets a carcass, looking further. Here! To the left of the attic window hangs big and heavy, hardened on the cold of the panels, from which there is barely audible fruit spirit. Apple grazing Carefully slapped in the oven, neatly rolled out on wide boards, carefully dried on the roof, which absorbed the hot August sun and the cool September winds. It is possible to bite on a little bit and long to absorb, rolling rough sour pieces on the roast, and you can fill the mouth and chew, chewing the elastic mass, touching the grain coming in the palm ... The mouth instantly flooded saliva.
Rates a book
You know this feeling when you open the book, read the first lines, and you feel: "Everything, I disappeared, I'm conquered and definitely not disappointed!"?
"Zuulech opens his eyes" made me that effect. Written by a beautiful language, the book Guzel Yakhina lives and breathes. It is impossible to break away from it, it absorbs the reader entirely, takes his capt. Probably, not every book will lead to such a delight, but in the fact that it will like it very much, I have no doubt. For me, she became one of the favorite.
"Zuuleika opens his eyes" - the story of a small and fragile, but strong and bright women, on whose share there was so many tests that not everyone will endure, will not be broken. And she was able. She did not just be broken, but passed through all the sorrows, deprivation and loss with dignity, not looking. Adapted, accepted completely wild, unacceptable and sinful conditions for her living condition.
"Zuuleika opens his eyes" - the history of suffering, humiliation, degradation, repression, the cattle relationship of people to the same people. The history of the path of one state into a bright socialist future. The paths laid out by the corpses of innocent people, broken by hopes, tears, sweat and blood.
Zulech opens his eyes, and the first thing rushes to his tirant-sparking, to wonder its night pot. I did not have time to wake up, how to her beautiful head swallowed, humiliation, insults. Husband and petties do not put it in penny, they beat with words and fist. Zulech does not know peace. She is constantly in matters, others on the blisters. No one sees a person in it. The kitchen, the maid, the man's nurse, and the vessel in which the mother-in-law merges his mental pus and poison.
Zulech does not know happiness. She and life does not know the real, complete. Does not know the caress and warmth, a good word. Zuulech knows only grave labor, beatings, insults, around the clock service husband and mother-in-law. And anyway, she believes that she was lucky that her husband got good. Everything humbly tolerates, accepts, does not re-read and does not rebell. It is incomprehensible for me. But such she, Zuulikha. Such a person is so raised.
But this is not all that fell to the share of fragile Tatar. Zulech, at his thirty years, never left the limits of his native village (if not to consider trips to the forest for firewood, and in the cemetery), dreamed of seeing Kazan at least once in life. And accused. And not only Kazan. Together with hundreds and thousands of other the same unfortunate - "Cut" and "former people" (Mom dear ... How these words are terrible, drenches and inhuman even simply in appearance and on the sound) - Zuoleha will do a long way through the whole country, the end of the world. In the deaf taiga. They will be lucky on trains, in livestock wagons. And I will recalculate how cattle - on the heads, and relate to appropriately. After all, they are enemies, anti-Soviet elements, semi-shortly shortcoming. Months on the way, long, hungry, painful, for someone deadly. And ahead is a frightening unknown.
Bright images, exciting and touching narration. Scary, very scary.
And this is a dumb and history of my family, for which the word "repression", unfortunately, is not an empty sound. I read, and recalled grandmother's stories. For this reason, it took so much for the soul.
Rates a book
You never guess with LL that you can read on the Haip wave: there may be an excellent little book, which will change your aggregate state and smear along the walls of the internal well-established canons or makes fade into the heavenly sphere, and maybe the bore nonsense to get caught or a meeting of stereotypes. "Zuuleikh ..." in this plan is very interesting, because she perfectly coped with the task of lubrication even without all numerous mentions in the media, on the sites of the reviews and everywhere, where only you can. The first part of the book (very insignificant, somewhere one fifth in the aftertaste a month after reading) Read very interesting, although they are sometimes doubtful, and not the author too much was enough through the edge with all these horrors, somehow they almost do not do the caricature It looks smoothly sometimes. On the other hand, think that it was all that was, and somewhere there is everything, soothing. (I'll say in brackets, because I don't know how it would be in a straight text to put in gender: it seems to me that it is sometimes better to create a terrible or tense effect, on the contrary, to catch up with passion and horror smaller. Roughly speaking, twentieth killed kitten (braces Inside the brackets with a comment negotiating to the case - this is a request for a victory, let them be noted, it should be noted that this is an example of nowhere, no kittens in the text touches in the artistic text much less than the first couple, although on the fact of this very poor kitten in It would be just as a pity as the rest of the rest.) In this first tiny part of Guseli, Yakhina managed to create a special suffocating atmosphere of slave non-free, hopelessness, unbearable, which, however, should be taken, not to fill. Accordingly, around this situation, even by name, if you do not catch the mentioned casual facts from numerous reviews, it becomes clear that the eye will open the eye! Something will change! Something will be! It should hardly be hoped for the feministic manifesto, it would be too unnatural and comic for a good book in this, so to speak, setting, it is under such conditions. However, there is a zinch, he teases, he promises, he pays a multitude of opportunities, and ...
And then four more fifths of books, where all these opportunities are profudukany. There are separate successful characters and scenes, there are some good ideas, for example, an "egg" around the professor, the appearance of the "ghost" and the image of the main pokcach of the Allian Book. There is a nice eye and hearing discharged scenes, paintings, characters. But in general, an empty incollective rubbish, gathered a bunch of stamps, where moral torments, fir-chokes, heavy conditions, drama drama and like-how-struggle prevent themselves in different proportions, from somewhere eternally floating the coincidences attracted And all this is happening against the background of a robinsonadny-torn out of the reality of a robinsonade with a poorly thought out historical background. I just recently "the abode" of Prilepina read, from which not that is delighted, but it should be paid tribute that the author of everyone tried to give the accuracy of all. There is even no effort here, everything looks conventional against the background of a banal love kneading.
Outcome: a love affair with a promising start and merged to all the rest, which, unlike cheap shit, is written in a truly good language and with good moments. You can read for a relaxer, but above the level of mediocre fiction, it was not necessary to climb. But it is immediately clear why he discouraged so many readers: the reader's audience missed the literature to restrain the brain, from the general quality and the syllable of which I do not want to play. Rare product.
Rates a book
Talking about the most important books of the year, it is impossible to go around the debut novel "Zuuleika opens the eyes of a young author from Kazan Guzel Yakhina for a minimum for two reasons: we, Baikaltsy, may be flattering that the main events occur on the banks of the hangars, and everything else can be interesting For which the literary awards of 2-3 million ("Clear Polyana", "Big Book") are obtained for now.
The story of Tatarka Zulech, smoked and exiled to Siberia, I want to be called a family saga, since it was written on the history of the author's family, who just refer to the Soviet times of ancestors from Tataria on the banks of the Angara. The first in the family is described the most terrible and despotic character of the book - the centenary of the science, which has a real prototype - the author's great-grandbank. The following two generations - the thirty-year-old at the beginning of the book of Zulech and her son Yuzuf, - artistic fiction, and the fourth generation goes again quite a real person - author. It arises with the spacer text when briefly voiced the nearest fate of the heroes from the text. Approximately in such a voice in the "seventeen moments of spring" said "Stirlitz slept, but he knew that in exactly 20 minutes he would be wagon."
There are other coincidences in the book: someone says that Chairman of the village council of Denisov - tracing with Sholokhovsky Semyon Davydov, someone who is crazy about the minds of Labez, a big specialist in gynecology, reminds Professor Pavel Alekseevich Kukotsky. And the Green-eyed Zulech itself is like that at all, it is at the Scarlett O'Hara, the times of hunger and sawmills, then on Angelica in Quebec, when round days had to gut the game and harvest the firewood into an endless harsh winter. These three women are also united by the mandatory "pillow" of women's novels: an attraction that does not leave a single man indifferent. What are the unexpected turns of the plot, when in every new circumstances there will be the one who saves and protect. In this story about the help of exact "piano in the bushes" appears too often, and successful coincidences too much. As the magic will be at the right time, the necessary doctor, a long wintering without warm clothes and food will be survived almost everything, and fake documents for Yuzuf arise into the only true and fast passing point. And everything is written so folding that it does not take away from the text until you read.
The very strongest is the first of the four parts of the novel: where about Domostroy, Superstition, the challenge of a woman, life in constant fear, hunger, horrifying the stories of the glory ("And you hear my son? We did not eat them. We buried them. Ourselves, without Mullah , at night. You just had a little and forgot everything. And that there is no grave, so I already have a language to explain to you, that in the summer everyone buried - without graves). Life through the eyes of the victim is that it turned out well. And then the glow of passions falls, and it turns out that it is easy to work on the forestry, it is easy to dig up the dugout on 30 people with sticks and spoons per day - easy, survive in dampness and cold - easy, living with reform with Soviet power - easy. Absurd! Never pronounce the word "workload", but it is said that Zulech was able to start earning and even accumulated any money. In the settlement of exiles, in the war. Against the background of such things, you can skip an interesting fact that spoons in Siberia are made from seashells, and a bear (and moose) can be killed from one shot, for the first time taking a gun in the hands and even if the fuse is there, the trigger and where to aim.
If the "Zuuleika opens the eyes" does not like a historic novel, but as a sample of female prose, then much can be written off for an artistic exaggeration and "so necessary for the plan", even a happi-end. Because the idea of \u200b\u200bthe whole of good and humane: from scored and submissive "wet chicken" the main character will become a label and a cold-blooded hunter who can stand up for itself, and the main villain will turn into a virtue and a beautiful prince. Well, again, the description of something reminds. Sinopsis "Beauty and Monsters" and "Cinderella". Such is a fairy tale.
The novel "Zuulikha opens his eyes" - a great debut. He has the main quality of this literature - gets straight in the heart. The story about the fate of the main character, the Tatar peasantry of the derailization times, breathes such authenticity, reliability and charm, which are not so often found in recent decades in a huge stream of modern prose.
Several cinematic style of the narrative strengthens the drama of the action and brightness of images, and publicism not only does not destroy the narrative, but, on the contrary, it turns out to be the dignity of the novel. The author returns the reader to the literature of accurate observation, subtle psychology and, most significant, to the love, without which even the most talented writers turn into cold registrars of time disease. The phrase "female literature" carries a dismissive tint in itself - to a large extent in the grace of men's criticism. Meanwhile, women only in the twentieth century mastered the professions, which were considered for men: doctors, teachers, scientists, writers. Bad novels during the existence of the genre by men are written hundreds of times more than women, and it is difficult to argue with this fact. Roman Guzel Yakhina - no doubt - female. About the feminine strength and female weakness, about the sacred motherhood is not against the background of English children's, but against the background of the Labor Camp, the hellish reserve, invented by one of the greatest villains of mankind. And for me, it remains a mystery, as the young author managed to create such a powerful work, glorifying love and tenderness in hell ... I congratulate the author from the soul with a beautiful premiere, and readers with a great prose. This is a brilliant start.
Wet chicken
It's time. Allah Almighty, let me fulfill the conceived - let no one wake up.
Zuulikha silently descends one barefoot to the floor, the second, relies on the oven and gets up. Overnight, she cooled, the heat is gone, the cold floor burns the feet. It is impossible to worry - silently go to the felt cat will not work, some flooring and creak. Nothing, Zuulech will suffer. Holding his hand for the rough side of the furnace, makes his ways to the exit from the female half. It's narrowly and closely, but she remembers every corner, every ledge - half every cells slides there and here, like a pendulum, whole days: from the boiler - on the men's half with full and hot peaked, with a male half - back with empty and cold.
How old is she married? Fifteen of your thirty? It is even more than half of life, probably. It will be necessary to ask Murthaz when he is in the mood - let it count.
Do not stumble about the Palace. Do not hit the barefoot foot about the wrought chest to the right of the wall. Expand the croaked board in the bend of the furnace. People silently start up for the Sitza Charshau, separating the female part of the men's ... Here is the door not far.
Snoring Murtaza closer. Sleep, SIP for the sake of Allah. The wife should not melt from her husband, but what can you do - you have to.
Now the main thing is not to wake animals. Usually they are sleeping in the winter hlev, but in the strong cold of Murtaza, make young and bird home. Geese do not move, and the foal knocked the hoof, shook his head - I woke up, hell. Good will be a horse, sensitive. She pulls her hand through the curtain, touches the velvet face: calm down, his own. He gratefully breathes the nostrils in the palm - acknowledged. Zuoleha wipes the wet fingers about the idle shirt and gently pushes the door shoulder. Tight, upholstered for winter felt, it is hardly served, through the gap flies a stroke frosty cloud. Makes a step, crossing the high threshold, - lacked still to step on it now and disturb the evil spirits, pah-pah! - And it turns out in the Seine. Pretends the door, relies on her back.
Glory to Allah, part of the path passed.
In the Seine, it is cold, like on the street, - the skin pluglet, the shirt does not heat.
Jahina's Guzelie's book quickly became popular and found their readers. It rarely happens that the first book of the writer is as interesting as readers and critics, but this is exactly the case.
Download or read Zuoleha opens eyes FB2
On our portal you can download books in FB2 or RTF format. Either use our reader to read online, which is adjusted to the screen and resolution of your device.
About book
It is especially worth highlighting the first chapter in the book, which is called "one day" this chapter describes the usual day of the main character - a woman of thirty years of Zuulei. Zuulikh come from a small Tatar village, she is married to a man named Murtaz.
The described day is filled with emotions to the edges. Zuulech feels fear, it feels slave labor, in every way pleases the harsh husband and his mother, it feels pathological fatigue, but understands that it is not possible to rest.
Zuulikha first steals her lame in his own house, then rides with her husband to the forest and colitis of firewood, after which he brings a pollen to a sacrifice to the sacrifice, for what he would talk to the cemetery spirit and he took care of her daughters. Daughters Zuulihi is its only joy, but they are already dead. After the ritual, she tramples the bath, my mother-in-law washes her mother-in-law, submissively takes the beatings from his husband himself and then he chews.
Gusel Yahina flawlessly handed over tolets, read the despair of this woman with each body cell.
In the book, the most striking is that Zulech does not understand that physical and moral violence occurs over it. She lives like that because it is accustomed, and does not even suspect what happens differently.
In the development of the plot, Geepiersnik Ignatov kills the husband of Zuulei, when it becomes violently against collectivization. After that, Zuleuhu is evicted to Siberia, along with other smoked. Paradoxically, but Zulech misses the past life, yes she was incredibly difficult, but clear, and did not require any decisions from it. But already on the road to Siberia, the heroine meets Constantine Arnoldovich, scientists from Leningrad, and his wife named Isabella, as well as with the iconnikov, working as a manist, with a crazy scientist, from Kazan and burner, a person who has already departed the term in Places are not so remote. Zuoleha begins to understand how much the world is huge, and that he is spinning only around her husband and mother-in-law, in this world you need to take responsibility for your life, to think on your own, and not just submissively obey and perform instructions.
The book of "Zuulikha opens his eyes" brought her to the author, Guseli Yakhina Prize "Big Book", as already mentioned above, for the first book it is a big rarity.
The work describes in detail the history of the delegation of Tatarstan, the history of Siberian camps, stories about the lives of people who committed a political crime and their supervisors. The work tells the story, the history of life, it found its readers, which means that the work is written not in vain.
It is worth paying attention to the fact that this book won in many literary contests and projects in Russia. The plot of books is not so conceived, it simply shows a difficult life of an ordinary Tatar woman out of the village, but this story is life, it shows that you should not be afraid to change your life for the better.
Russian critics unexpectedly accepted the work of a beginner writer, but there are those who criticize the work. Only one thing is clear, the opinion about the novel is ambiguous, but he does not leave indifferent or readers, nor even critics, the romance forces.
A simple man of Zuulech hooked his sincerity, the novel keeps in tension and worthy of attention. The book, while reading it, makes you think only about Zulech. Roman encourages mentally asking questions to the main heroine, and to search for answers themselves. Especially sentimental readers, there are a lot of tears, after reading the first chapter of the book.