Spring 2004 (12.1)
Pages 94-97

Rustam Ibrahimbeyov
Music Lesson


AZERI.org features two of Rustam Ibrahimbeyov's short stories in Azeri in the Latin script: Summer House (Bagh Evi) and Music Lesson (Naghma Darsi) which is translated into English here. AZERI.org is maintained by Azerbaijan International and features Azeri language and literature - novels, short stories and poetry. Search at AZERI.org.

Rustam Ibrahimbeyov, born on February 5, 1939, currently heads the Filmmaker's Union of Azerbaijan as well as the Confederation of Filmmakers' Unions (CFU), which represents filmmakers from the former Soviet Union.

In 1962, he graduated from the Oil and Chemical Institute (now Oil Academy), and like his brother Magsud who studied engineering, Rustam soon directed his attention to literature and went on to become writer, dramatist and scriptwriter (See also Magsud Ibrahimbeyov's short stories in this issue).

Rustam has received the following awards: Honored Art Worker (1977), All-Union Award of Lenin Komsomol (1979), Azerbaijan State Award (1980), USSR State Award (1981).

He has written scripts for more than 30 films, including "Close to Eden", which was nominated for the Oscar for the "Best Foreign Language Film" in 1992. His highest international acclaim came when the film "Burnt by the Sun" (for which he wrote the screen play) was awarded the "GrandPrix" at the 47th International Cannes Film Festival (1994) and also won the Oscar for "Best Foreign Language Film" (Russian) in 1995. It was an honor rarely bestowed as European cinema and American cinema are often based on very different criteria. In 1998, Rustam was elected as a member of the American Film Academy, the first time for an Azerbaijani.

"Music Lesson" was translated by Vafa Mastanova and edited by Betty Blair.

Art: Vugar Muradov. Visit AZgallery.org for contacts.

A thin, short man in his mid-30s entered the yard of one of Baku's elementary schools. He was wearing a leather jacket - its collar made of astrakhan (Persian lamb). His pants' legs were tucked inside his calf leather boots.

He took the stairs that led up to the three-storied school building. A woman, sitting in the hallway was about to stand up when she saw him, but the man changed his mind and decided not to enter. Instead, he jumped towards the two rows of bushes that surrounded the school and started walking around the school, trudging the untouched snow.

The woman opened the door a little and watched him, as he walked briskly not paying attention to the snow that had fallen off the bushes onto his pants and boots. Occasionally, he stopped and glanced into the windows of the school. Sometimes, he tried to jump up and hold onto the ledge of the window since he wasn't tall enough to see in.

A young teacher in one of the classes - either the third or fourth grade - seemed so lovely to him. He stared at her with incredulous, cautious eyes until he got tired. Neither the teacher's confusion nor the students' laughter affected him.
When his feet were back down on the ground, he noticed that the cleaning lady was looking at him from the corner. He smiled, brushed the snow from his pants, and continued circling the school. The woman understood what he wanted and didn't stay hidden from him anymore. She came out of her corner and threatened him with her finger...

As soon as the bell rang, the doors of the school opened wide and the children ran outside excitedly, yelling and joking. The yard filled with crowded black figures: black - in contrast with the white snow. The school yard which had been so quiet just a few moments earlier, now resembled a many-celled organism with each of the cells knowing exactly what it was going to do during the five minutes of freedom.

The man leaned against the corner of the school building. There was a narrow passage leading to a stone building very close to the place where he was standing. The students who were running around in the yard didn't interest him. Rather, he kept looking at the students who were rushing out of the school building. Among them, he finally spotted the one he was interested in - a first grade student neatly dressed, plump and all buttoned up, who was wearing glasses. The man called to him.

Art: Vugar Muradov. Visit AZgallery.org for contacts.

The first grader was delighted when he saw the man. He left his two friends and walked towards the man.

The man grinned, watching the boy approach.

"What's this? Can't you run?" he asked, as the boy came nearer. "They fed you so much that you're having a hard time to walk!"

The man scrutinized the boy carefully.

"You look like a professor," he commented after a while. It wasn't clear if he were reproaching the boy or was quite satisfied with his appearance. "Don't you take off your glasses even in the yard?"

"I can't," the boy explained. "I wouldn't be able to see clearly."

"Take off your glasses for a minute."

The boy took off his glasses. The man took a few steps back.

"How many fingers?" he asked, holding up two of his fingers.

"Two."

"What about now?"

"Three."

"Your vision is just great!" the man replied with satisfaction. "Don't spoil your vision by wearing glasses."

"I'm far-sighted," the boy explained.

"Being far-sighted is OK, but being near-sighted is not good," the man assured him.

"So, what are they saying about me? Do they swear at me?"

"No."

"Yes, they do," the man said with confidence. "What does he say? How do you call him?"

"Uncle Husein."

"What does he say?"

"He wants me to be serious about my studies."

"He's right," the man had to agree. "You need to be serious about your studies."

He wanted to add something but remained silent because the bell rang for the lessons to resume.

The fuss in the schoolyard suddenly ended just like it had started.

"Which lesson do you have now?"

"Music lesson."

The man glanced at the kids who were all trying to slip through the school door at the same time.

"Come with me," he said to the boy with glasses as they walked toward the schoolyard behind the school.

"The bell rang," the boy mumbled, following the man obediently.

They passed through a narrow passage between the building and fence and came out on the sports field, which was under
construction.

"Sit down," the man pointed to the two piles of bricks at the side of the sports field. The boy looked dubiously at the snow, which covered the bricks.

"What is it?" the man asked.

"You can't sit on the snow," the boy explained.

"Are you afraid that your butt will freeze?" the man said, sarcastically. "Sit."

The boy looked at his velveteen pants but didn't say anything. He sat.

"Bravo!" the man said. "A real man shouldn't be afraid of anything."

The man approached the fence, glanced off to the street, came back to the boy and sat near him.

The boy looked at the man with admiration, though a little cautiously. Usually a clever adult gives such a look to his friend who he knows can trick him at any minute.

"Your shirt isn't tucked into your pants," the boy said. He pointed to the hem of striped shirt, which could be seen under the man's coat.

"I know," the man said. "It came out while I was looking for you," he tucked his shirt inside his pants.

Since they were busy chatting, they didn't see the cleaning lady approaching them from behind.

"Oh, here you are!" the lady said, taking hold of the man's arm and announcing triumphantly. "What are you doing here with the kid?"

The man wanted to free his arm, but the lady held on tightly.

"Let's go to the principal's office," the lady said with determination. "I've been following you for a long time."

"Let's go wherever you want," the man tugged again at his arm. The lady almost fell to the ground, but she didn't free his arm.

"Why aren't you in class?" the lady asked the boy.

"This is my father," the boy said. "Let him alone."

The lady got surprised and, finally, the man pulled his arm free.

"Lady, don't get involved with me," he said scowling. "People like you should be strangled when you were swaddled,1 so that other people can be left in peace.

"You're the one who should be strangled," the lady shot back, but she understood that it was useless to get involved with
him and she retreated a few steps.

"Go, go," the man told the woman. "Go and jingle your bell. This is my son and don't go poking your nose into our business."

The lady took his advice and left.

The boy's eyes started to water.

"Don't pay any attention," his father calmed him. "Such things happen so often in life. Look, what I've brought to you," he suddenly remembered. He reached into his jacket and brought out a little puppy whose hair had been neatly combed.

"Take it and play with it."

The boy got so happy when he saw the puppy.

"Do you want to have it?" his father asked. "You can take it and play with it in your free time.

"Mom won't let me have it," said the boy, patting the puppy.

"Yes, she will."

"But the puppy will make the floor dirty."

"That's OK. You can clean it up."

"What about when I'm at school?"

"You can leave the puppy in the backyard."

The boy looked at his father in disbelief but didn't say anything. It became clear to him that his father didn't understand anything about daily problems, but he didn't want to argue with his father.

"I don't like little puppies," said the father, watching his son playing with it. "It's a worthless animal! It can't stand guard. You can't go hunting with it."

The children's choir could be heard in the yard. The music lesson had begun.

"The teacher is going to fuss at me," said the boy.

"That's OK," his father calmed him. "Missing class one time is OK. Tell her that I came."

They remained silent for a while.

"They don't hurt you, do they?" his father asked.

"No," the boy said convincingly.

"Don't fight," his father said seriously, "but if they rush at you, beat them up right away. Do you understand?"

The boy nodded his head.

"When you're the first one to hit, half of the problem is solved," explained his father. "Most people come to their senses after they've been beaten. But don't forget to take off your glasses. Always take off your glasses when you fight.

"I don't understand why you're having problems with your sight?" the father shrugged his shoulders regretfully. "No one ever wore glasses in our family. Your grandfather is 85 years old, but he still goes hunting."

"Grandma Nigar wears glasses," the boy observed.

"Yes, many people from your mother's family wear glasses," the father agreed. "You aren't cold, are you?"

"No."

The man again stood up, approached the fence and glanced toward the street. There was a GAS-512 parked at the other end of the block filled with pipes. At the other side of the street, a guy selling pastries was dragging his box behind him. There was a big oil stain on the front of his white jacket.

"Hey," the man called out.

"What is it?" asked the seller.

"Do you have any pastries?"

"Yes."

"Bring me 10 of them."

The man bought some pastries and went back to the boy.

"Feed the dog," he said and put the pastries that were wrapped in newspaper down in the snow. "Have some yourself," he took a bite out of one.

"But Mom says I can't fight," said the boy, eating the pastry.

"She's a woman. Women don't understand such things. But what about...Who was he? Yes, Uncle Husein. What does he say?"

"He says that I should be serious about my studies."

"He's right," the father agreed again.

"Now, there's a flu epidemic in town," said the boy carefully articulating the words.

"Why do you like to talk about illnesses so much?!" said the father, surprised. "What does this epidemic have to do with you? When I was your age, I used to walk barefoot during the winter; I didn't know what flu was. There was a war going on at that time. Do you know what war is?"

"Yes, I do."

"When the war started, I was the same age as you are. Your grandfather went to the frontline. We stayed with your grandmother - eight children. We did everything possible just to have enough food. We were selling newspapers in the bazaar, loading on coal at the bridge, pushing the merry-go-round, selling our places in line. We used to stand in line in front of a store at night and then sell our turn to somebody in the morning.

"Yes, we used to do lots of stuff, everything except steal," the father suddenly gave a serious look to his son. "We never earned money that way. I've always been against stealing. I've never stolen anything in my whole life. When my father - your grandfather - left for the frontline, he said: "If I ever hear of any of my children taking the wrong path in life, I won't come back. Hajibala's children can't be thieves."

"Neither me, nor your uncles, ever stole anything, even when we were starving. Everybody knew it. One time an accident happened. Someone got into the car of Ramiz, our neighbor (he was driving a truck back then). The person stole everything from the glove compartment. Do you know what a 'glove compartment' is?"

The boy didn't know.

"It's a small box," the father explained. "You put your driver's license and other necessary stuff in it."
The boy asked what a driver's license was. His father explained.

"So, they stole everything in Ramiz' glove compartment. Ramiz wasn't the kind of person who could stand such things. He could kill somebody for nothing (poor Ramiz, he later got killed at the front himself). The man left the truck near his house and had gone to eat. One of his people stole some things from the truck...He got out of the house and asked: "Who got into my truck"? He was livid with anger. I was your age back then. I couldn't stand it and I admitted doing it. "It was me who got in your truck," I said.

"Oh, it was you? Come here," he said. And I went.

"Lie down," he ordered. I laid down.

He got into the car, turned on the engine and started driving straight for me. He was holding the wheel with one hand, and with the other, he held the door open to see how many meters were still left between the truck and me. I was lying there. Where could I run? He would have chased me and caught, anyway. I was lying down and he was saying: "It's better if you tell me who took the stuff from my glove compartment, otherwise, I'm going to run over you."

"I don't know," I said. "How can I know? It's true that I got into your truck, but I don't know who stole the stuff."

"You don't know?! Then you're going to die," he kept driving towards me. It was a good thing that they let his mother know. If his mother hadn't come, he would have run over me. He used to listen only to his mother.

His mother was a thin, short, quick woman. Sometimes he used to get drunk and run over people who were passing by. Some people were able to run away and survive; otherwise, he would have run over them. Nobody was able to keep him from doing such stuff - except his mother. They used to send someone after his mother. She used to come, box his ears and take him home. As soon as he saw his mother, he used to go directly home without putting up any resistance. He loved his mother so much. How could it be otherwise? You must always love your mother. Who else is closer to you than your mother? Aren't I right?"

The boy answered, nodding his head. "Bravo!" his father praised him and continued his story. "Yes, thanks to his mother; she saved my life. Because I couldn't say who stole the stuff from Ramiz' truck."

"Did you know who it was?"

"Of course, I knew it. Everybody knew," the man gave an ironic smile, while remaining silent and trying to poke some pastry into the puppy's mouth.

"Just look at this puppy!" he said with surprise. "He doesn't want to eat a pastry with meat inside. If he doesn't eat pastry, then what does his owner eat?! Why aren't you eating it?"

"I am eating," said the boy. Indeed, he had already eaten a couple pastries. His appetite was good, he liked eating pastries with his father.

"I should bring you home some time. You'll stay with us. It would make your grandmother and grandfather so happy. I'll show you the places, the streets, our yard where I used to play. There are lots of kids living in those streets now. You can play with them."

"Will Mom let me?"

"Yes, sure she will. What's so bad about that? Do you want to stay with me?"

"Yes, I do," the boy looked kindly at his father. Then he glanced towards the school windows and got confused. The voices of children's chorus could not be heard any more. Suddenly, the bell rang. That meant that the Music Lesson was over.

"Was that the last lesson?" his father asked, breaking the silence.

"Yes," said the boy, expressing regret.

"Where's your bag?"

"I left it in class."

"Go, get it then."

They remained silent and walked to the other side of the yard along the narrow path. Again, many kids were running out of the school door. All of them had their bags this time. The man nudged the boy. The boy rubbed his face against his shoulder and ran, pushing his way through the kids, for his bag. When he reached the door, he turned back. His father was standing in the middle of the yard with the puppy in his hands. The boy entered the school building.

After five minutes, he returned with his bag in his hand. But he didn't see his father. He saw his mother standing near the school gate. As usual, his stepfather was standing beside her.

The man, wearing the coat saw them, too. (He wasn't hiding, just standing at the corner of the school where no one would see him.) The boy's mother wore a black fur coat. His stepfather, who was tall and had glasses, was wearing a hat.
After they left with the boy, who kept looking around, the man started walking to the middle of the empty schoolyard. The puppy was running in front of him.

The man had no appetite, but he munched on a pastry.

Soon after he left the schoolyard, he reached the truck that he had left at the other end of the block. The back of the truck was open and there were six drilling pipes hanging out.

The man opened the door of the truck, sat down on the seat covered with a carpet. Before starting the engine, he placed the puppy on the knees of a young boy with a mustache who was wearing a cap and sleeping in the cab.

"Why were you so late?" he asked, not opening his eyes.

"We were chatting."

"So, how's your son?"

"He's OK."

"Why didn't he take the puppy?"

"What does he need it for?"

"So, where should we take the puppy now?"

"Take it back to the place where you got it from."

The man started the engine, drove a little bit and passed the school, with pipes swinging in his truck...

End Notes:

1 Swaddled: Traditionally, infants are swaddled at birth, wrapped tightly in a blanket so that they cannot move their hands and feet.

2 GAS 51 was a popular car model during Soviet times.

More Works:

Rustam Ibrahimbeyov (Alternative spelling - Ibragimbekov - via Russian) has been featured in Azerbaijan International Magazine on several occasions. Actually, he is more closely associated with film making than with the genre of short story.

(1) Rustam wrote the screenplay for Russian director Nikita Mikhalkov's "Burnt by the Sun" that won the 1995 Oscar for Best Foreign Film. See "The Scorching Sun and the Nature of Totalitarian Systems," an Interview with Rustam Ibrahimbeyov by Betty Blair, AI 3.2 (Summer 1995).

(2) Rustam was Guest Editor for our Cinema issue - AI 5.3 (Autumn 1997). See his Editorial, "An Age - Old Tree," in that issue, as well as "Cinema and Censorship: A Glimpse of the Former Soviet Union: A Conversation with Screenwriter Rustam Ibrahimbeyov," by Betty Blair.

(3) He was also featured in our magazine: "Famous People: Then and Now", AI 7.4 (Winter 1999).
All articles published in Azerbaijan International are available on the Web. Search at AZER.com.


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