Who in this land is the fairest of all? This question is unambiguously answered by every woman not devoid of self-esteem, but in the brutal men’s world it often becomes the subject of hot polemics and prolonged philosophical dicta.
I remember one of those uncompromising dispute of ardent youth, which took place on the top of the sweet-smelling haystack at the collective farm in unforgettable time of the developed socialism. Four school-leavers (including the author himself) were happily waiting for their classmates to finish collecting their next harvest and having a discussion. The issue on where these heavenly ladies with all their merits should be searched for (the time, place and opponents’ age taken into consideration) emerged very naturally and easily.
“The prettiest women are those of Rio-de-Janeiro,” exclaimed Amadu’s admirer.
“And to my mind, Italian women are the prettiest,” our westernizer smirked at him implacably.
“No, dudes, the best women are those from the West Bank of the River Jordan,” dreamily and gravely said the most refined of all of us and, to be more persuasive, added: “I bet!”
“And how about American women? I say American?” here a naïve admirer of the US movies (what’s-his-name) jumped into action.
…So much water has flowed under the bridges since then, that it is hard to realize. I’ve been to Brazil, and Palestine (at the West Bank), and Italy, and a lot of other places (but I haven’t been to USA, because I didn’t want to anymore). And now I can declare with the absolute certainty that the most perfect and beautiful women on this planet are a unique product of Alma-Ata!
Just ‘Alma-Ata’, but not ‘Almaty’; the city with its castrated name is still due to prove its consistency because up to now it still reaps the glorious fruit of its melodious predecessor. Just for this reason I cherish so much the moment of my coming home from some distant place, into the streets of my home town, because to stroll along those streets means to enjoy an eternal festival for every expert and connoisseur of the feminine beauty.
What an immodest eye of a modest observant sees during the golden summer evenings or warm days of autumn, or sunny springtime, or… any time of the year at our place he cannot see in any other corner of the earth. It is like a permanent-and-exclusive catwalk of top models on the runway expanded to size of a real city. With only one difference: here they show not just the dressed-up emptiness, but some meaning, too. That is the reason why in this street catwalk there is so little from camel’s pompousness of professional models, and so much from the exciting display of the living essence, of the eternal feminine nature, which irresistibly and modestly tends to extinguish everything that comes into its line-of-sight.
And, what is surprising, this unconquerable charm of my compatriots still has its magnetic power over me, despite the long years of my admiring them. It rather becomes just the opposite. Sure, we could find the reason of it in these ‘long years’, but only provided I spent all these years in my hometown and did not have any opportunity to compare and juxtapose. But I have a mass of opportunities and examples! So, I think, the answer lies somewhere else. It is right in that subtle, live and constantly transforming quality of the feminine charisma phenomenon itself. We do change. But as for them, our enchanting female partners, they change just a half-step faster.
We can argue about the reasons of ‘Alma-Ata phenomenon’ ravishingly long, examining it from the point of view of all the thinkable factors of space and time. But let us not be like that old German professorate, which left behind thick volumes of research work on woman’s nature, applying purely scientific methods. Who did not discuss the ‘ethnic kettle’, which gave us this mishmash of bloods and cultures? A much lesser number of authors is familiar with ideas that existed in times of Vernyi city: that here, at the northern foot of Tien Shan, there was some magic zone where “everything from apples to opium poppy gets extraordinarily big and incredibly strong”.
But this is not the thing. To understand that the science is incapable here, it is enough just to cast a glance at the body proportions and lines of our contemporaries and compare those with grannies’ ones, who were of the same age of blooming youth just as lately as fifty years ago. It is a far cry! Hey, Darwin! You cannot but think that some supreme powers chipped in here.
Our women do not need any epithets. A woman of Alma-Ata! It is a magnificent definition per se. A title. A level. A degree… When someone talks about the highest accomplishments of our country, ‘a delicate image’ occurs to me by itself, and nothing compares to it. Nothing and nobody, thus there is so much of cosmic tragedy and poet’s sadness in it, in this lovely amazing image.
Alas! Very few representatives of our male sex can rise up to the simple comprehension of the profound essence of this wonderful and utmost beauty of our female friends. The majority of them can do nothing more than react in their humiliating and down-to earth manner of a purchaser: to take her out to a restaurant, send her a bouquet of odourless foreign roses, buy a big foreign-brand car, a beauty parlour, or a travel agency for her. And as for them, they wish otherwise: to speak about poetry, look at the stars and breathe in simple fragrance of wild flowers. If we go on being unaware of this, very soon we will have everything in what the feminized West, which has done with its womanhood, is drowning now: greedy and scornful glances, legal contracts for emotions, nervous indifference towards our gender, and furthermore… female bottoms as big as cars. But we don’t really want that!