The White Ship by Chingiz Aitmatov Read Free Book Online Page A

to them: "Good-bye, I'm off to Issyk-Kul, to the white ship. My father is a sailor on it." Baltek would run to follow him along the bank. But if he decided to plunge into the water to join him, he'd cry: "No, Baltek, don't, you'll drown!" And he would continue on; he'd dive under the cables of the suspension bridge, and past the coastal shrubs, and down through the roaring gorge straight into Issyk-Kul.
    Issyk-Kul is as big as a sea. He would swim across the waves, from wave to wave to wave—and then the white ship would appear before him. "Hello, white ship," he'd say to it, "it's I! I'm the one who always watched you through my binoculars." The people on the ship would come running and stare in wonder. And then he'd say to his father, the sailor: "Hello, papa, I am your son. I've come to you." "What kind of a son are you—half-man, half-fish?" "Just take me up on board, and I'll become your ordinary son." "Isn't that something! Well, let me try." And his father would cast a net and catch him, and pull him up on deck. And he would turn back into himself. And then, and then . . .
    Then the white ship would sail on. The boy would tell his father all he knew, all about his life. About the mountains where he lived, about his stones, about the river and the forest preserve, about grandpa's pond where he had learned to swim like a fish, with open eyes . . .
    He'd tell him what it was like, living with Grandpa Momun. His father mustn't think that, just because a man is nicknamed Obliging Momun, it means that he's a bad man. There is no other grandpa like him anywhere, he is the best grandpa in the world. But he isn't sly, and that's why everybody laughs at him. Because he isn't sly at all. And Uncle Orozkul shouts at him, at the old man! Sometimes before strangers, too. And grandpa, instead of standing up for himself, forgives him, and even does his work in the woods and around the house. But that's not all! When Uncle Orozkul comes home drunk, instead of spitting into his shameless eyes, grandpa runs up to him, helps him down from the horse, takes him home, and puts him to bed. He even covers him with the coat so he won't get chilled or get a headache, and then he unsaddles the horse and cleans and feeds him. And all because Aunt Bekey is childless. Why is it like this, papa? Wouldn't it be better if people had children if they wanted to, and didn't if they didn't want to? It's a pity to watch grandpa when Uncle Orozkul starts beating Aunt Bekey. It might be easier if he hit grandpa instead. He cannot bear to hear her screams. But what can he do? If he wants to rush out to help his daughter, grandma doesn't let him: "Keep out of it," she says. "They'll settle it themselves. Why should you butt in? She's not your wife. Sit still." "But she's my daughter!" And grandma: "And what if you were living somewhere far away instead of next door? You'd gallop here on horseback every time to separate them? And who'd keep your daughter as a wife after that?"
    The grandma I'm talking about isn't the one that used to be. You probably don't even know her, papa. This is another grandma. My own grandma died when I was little, then this one came. We often have queer weather—you can't make it out: one moment it's bright, then it gets cloudy, one moment it rains, the next it hails. This grandma is just like that, you never understand her. Now she's good, now angry, and now nothing at all. When she is sore, she'll nag you to death. Grandpa and I keep silent. She's always saying that a stranger, no matter how much you feed him and care for him, will bring you no good. But I'm not a stranger here, papa. I've always lived with grandpa. She's the stranger, she came afterward. And then began to call me a stranger.
    You know, papa, in wintertime the snow gets so high, it's up to m3r neck. If you want to go into the woods, you can get there only on the gray horse, Alabash. He pushes through the snowdrifts with his chest. And the winds! You can't stay on