On that mid-May night,
not far from Manas,
which, back then,
was still Jalal-Abad,
a little marshrutka,
cranky minibus,
dropped me off,
having passed
all the way from Bishkek
through Western Tian Shan,
Asia's Celestial Mountains,
at a small travel lodge with divans,
low tables, couches in the front.
I was on my way to see
the illustrious world's largest,
oldest walnut forest
on rims round Arslanbob,
wedged into a valley
at the foot
of massive Babash-Atu Mountain.
There seated I waited for dawn,
resting, drinking tea,
at last asking
for some shashlik
before they closed the kitchen.
Before midnight, instead of ghost,
a small party came to sit close by.
They were merry, clearly
much different from other folk.
Rather quickly, I, a foreigner,
caught their shrewd, expert eye,
and soon the youngest, liveliest,
wanted to chat—to see
what kind of stranger
is out there all alone.
But presently his interest passed
and, as it turned out,
what he wanted most
was to brag, tell
a random passerby
what big wheel he became in Kyrgyzstan,
who the others are—
despite their vainly reigning hush.
They were all interior police officials,
well-tied across the state, further still,
apparently running much of grand migration
into Russia, anywhere else people wanted to be.
If I myself were to need anything,
I just ought to ask;
they would surely help
someone they'd just met.
So much the youngest,
most ambitious of that bunch,
wanted me, anonymous foreigner,
to appreciate power, wealth, contacts
he'd already won.
And for me being kind, polite,
plausibly impressed,
they left me with a stakan,
a glass of vodka,
they themselves drank
in that Muslim land.
And with that munificent gift
they vanished back
into deep, hot
mid-May night,
soon after carting off
other guests as well,
leaving just me
and the sentinel
of young waitresses—
awake still
at that tavern
by that ancient road.
And then, just like that,
with no one else to see
but nameless, incidental me,
the mien and manner
of those attending girls
suddenly changed:
no longer serving anyone else,
they began to serve each other
with strokes of gentle caress,
in extempore conference
granting each an ardent praise
they must have learned
from a thousand and one nights before,
where each can play a Grace
by rounding two to three
before reverting back to two,
indifferent to me,
lonely guest,
lingerer from far away,
of no account.
Thus, imperturbably insouciant,
to outside world defiant
in stillness of the night,
they moved to collect
best from each
who was both bee
and honeyed sap.
New Maenads of Kyrgyzstan
who, as many ages passed,
nonchalantly decided at last
that Dionysus' vacancy
is no longer any lack—
their reciprocal courteous devotion,
there by emptied divans,
found plentiful, filling,
more than merely enough,
much better even,
when it comes
to give each other
true, tender, honest heart.
