Catalyst by Paul Bennett

Author:Paul Bennett [Paul Bennett]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780719805677
Publisher: Robert Hale
Published: 2012-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

After what he estimated as about half an hour, Harper felt the change in the surface under the tyres as the jeep left the road and turned on to a rough track. They made slow progress for another fifteen minutes and then the vehicle finally pulled to a halt. He opened his eyes and saw the dim glow of lights in the downstairs windows of a two-storey farmhouse, and, framed in the doorway, the silhouette of a tall man, his arm waving to beckon them inside.

‘At last,’ Charly said, jumping out of the jeep and striding toward the door.

The others followed hard on her heels and they entered a large whitewashed room lit by oil lamps and with a big open fire blazing at one end. The group congregated around the fire, jockeying for that best position that is close, but not too close, to the heat. The man approached, bowed his head very slightly and spoke at length.

‘What did he say?’ Harper asked.

‘He said that his name is Rak,’ Kazam answered.

‘That was a long speech for such a short name,’ Harper said.

‘He also recited his ancestry. His father’s and mother’s names, their parents before them and so on back to times long past. In this country it is said that if a man cannot name his ancestors for seven generations, then he is no Kazakh.’

‘Tell him we are proud to meet a true Kazakh,’ said Harper, bowing at Rak.

While Kazam was translating, a short, round woman of about forty dressed in a blood-red smock and wearing a white turban on her head entered the room. At her side was a pretty young girl of sixteen or seventeen with long black hair and dark eyes. They each carried a pitcher filled to the brim with a cloudy white liquid.

‘And also to meet a true Kazakh’s daughter,’ Ned added, smiling at the girl and making her blush coyly.

Rak led them to a rectangular wooden table suitable for eight people, if they were very close friends and didn’t have any hang-ups about invasion of body space. The table was surrounded by an eclectic collection of chairs, low milking stools and packing cases. As the group sat down, Rak’s wife and daughter filled earthenware mugs with the white liquid and handed these around.

Harper sniffed warily at the drink. ‘What is this?’ he asked Kazam.

‘Koumis,’ came the unhelpful reply. ‘It is our national drink and a great source of pride among us Kazakhs. Families compete for who can make the best koumis. Rak honours you by providing koumis.’

Harper held his mug in the air and gestured politely at Rak, then at his wife and daughter. Ned followed suit – but lingered on the eyelash-fluttering daughter. The others joined in the toast. The family stood there expectantly, smiling at their guests.

Raising his mug to his lips for an experimental sip, a very strong, very sour odour entered Harper’s nostrils. Maybe, he told himself, it wouldn’t taste as bad as it smelt. He was right – in a way.

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