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– "Parties need fighters, not specialists. And if specialists, then special: 'specialists in life's collisions.' Don't bother recalling, I don't even know the meaning of that word… Did you learn to shoot in the army?"
– "Arif's marksman… badge in my pocket."
– "Wear it proudly. You've earned it."
– "Boss, maybe it's better for me to go to the villa in the province? I'll be your coachman: box of grenades, box of peaches, box of grapes, figs… your kids can have their 'milk'…"
– "Coachman—it's not dignified. No, driver in rye, Mr. Mauser on the side… And the car has more space; I allow myself a few things too… There are enough coachmen in the area. Let everyone think you're high-ranking; people will assume you can take down the district chief and come to you with complaints. Support them, and then we'll 'nail' these complainers, promising something serious might open up, or else 'every stitch in line'… Remember: 'the first pancake is a lump,'—you'll remain a 'lump' all your life… On guard… And if you do well, I have high hopes for you… Dismissed!"
Aman-Jalil vanished. Ahmed remained alone. Heavy thoughts weighed on him: the underground struggle in the mountains of Serra had bonded him with Iosif Besarionis, then a humble and compassionate fighter known as Sucker. Thanks to this friendship, Ahmed stood firm, but how to 'dig'? One could easily collapse; so many former friends of Sucker had already perished—from stomach ulcer surgeries, colds with blue spots appearing on their bodies, to fatal accidents—corpses' ropes removed later, doctors losing sight, health fading, and sudden death, never ill… So the whole province had to be taken over quickly, then thrown to the feet of the great Iosif Besarionis, lest replacements arrive faster than one could pray to Allah in the mosque…
Wind whipped dust along the street, forming diverse outfits and annoying those unlucky pedestrians who ventured out in the midday heat. Hot sand polished their skin like sandpaper, irritated their eyes to inflammation, and made breathing difficult. From the heat, people moved like sleepy flies, while flies crawled like drunken people, and amidst them walked Aman-Jalil, bewildered by heat, with a needle, matches, and his beloved rubber band… A swat struck a fly's wing, causing it to circle slowly in place. Aman-Jalil expertly caught it by one whole wing, impaled it on the needle, lit a match, and began slowly roasting it until it charred or the match burned his fingers. Then Aman-Jalil tossed the remaining match to the ground, flicked off the tiny ember from the needle's point, and started again. Endless auto-da-fе, always with enough material…
A few years ago, Aman-Jalil found Dilber sitting on the stairs, crying with an open book.
– "Did someone hit you?" asked Aman-Jalil, who himself was struck three or four times a day.
– "No, no one ever hits me!" sobbed Dilber.
– "Then why cry, dummy?" Aman-Jalil was disappointed.
– "I feel sorry for the little monkey," complained Dilber, pointing at the book.
Aman-Jalil took the open book and slowly read aloud how little Philip burned a monkey on a homemade bonfire in the palace. – "Royal pleasure," sighed Aman-Jalil to himself, and ever since, he experienced and satisfied it daily, burning flies…
Wazir stepped onto the veranda from his room, heading to the bathroom. In the hot midday sun, his consciousness nearly shut down, granting him a brief respite: the dusty, straight, sun-drenched road, the pole to which he was tied, and his young wife Anush, whose torn body Wazir carried through life like a heavy cross.
– "Boy, what grade are you in?" asked Wazir, as if seeing Aman-Jalil for the first time.
– "Sixth," Aman-Jalil replied dismissively, expecting another insult.
– "Want me to take you to a concert at the philharmonic? Have you ever been to a concert?"
– "Don't want to!"
– "You'll meet Mozart, Beethoven…"
– "Don't need your friends…"
From the kitchen, Aman-Jalil's grandmother shouted:
– "Stop bothering the boy again, shameless, I'll report you to the police for your Turkish tricks, wretched Sunni…"
The grandmother peered out from the kitchen, casting an experienced gaze at Aman-Jalil, and yelled at him:
– "Ruining needles again? I see why needles are spoiling—this son of a whore is amusing himself, instead of setting an example like his heroic father…"
Aman-Jalil's father, a small shopkeeper and secret addict, was shot by the rotten Renka regime for harboring insurgents, led by Iosif Besarionis, without his knowledge, hiding in his shop all night from pursuing gendarmes. Aman-Jalil's mother worked as an assistant to a prominent management figure, Ismail-pasha, who in gratitude for her help came to her house twice a week, ostensibly to assist with household chores, locking themselves in a separate room…
The best time of year in the mountains of Serra was early autumn. Gardens and vineyards delighted the eye. A fertile land, generous earth. But there was no peace on it. When one takes more than he needs, more than he can eat, another lacks even the necessary… Nature balances everything. Violence begets violence, and he who digs a pit for another often falls into it himself…
Kalanvale district-vilayat head sardar Kareem believed in revolutionary justice in his own way: an idiot received as many benefits as a genius, because a genius finds solace in his own brilliance, while a poor idiot did not even realize his idiocy.
– "'From each according to his ability, to each according to his need'!" This slogan adorned Sardar Ali everywhere possible to hang a multicolored rag with white letters, even on public toilets cleaned and washed once a month, where asthma or heart disease patients died from miasma, but large signs hung: "no smoking here!"
Aman-Jalil shook in the car, tearing through the mountainous terrain on a dusty road full of ruts. There was less and less time left for fly-hunting, and more and more important assignments were being entrusted to him, but the one he was currently on was the most crucial of all. Another man in his place might have enjoyed the rare respite that only came while traveling, but Aman-Jalil didn't care for such pleasures. What he did enjoy was the sight of children running in packs behind his car, shouting, "Sardar, the sardar has arrived!" He relished feeling like a god in this godforsaken hole. In the villages, they brought him flatbreads with salt, offered the best house for his stay, and Aman-Jalil organized rallies for them, delivering the same speech every time, showering them with a torrent of words he barely understood himself, reading from the paper given to him by his secretary Ahmed. – "…The People's Government cares for you, thinks only of the people… in general, of the masses. You have already felt this keen care, and if not, you will bloom and flourish in the next hundred years. Everything is given to you, but you must give more in return to show how much you love your People's Government. You are obligated to give your government all your strength, all your wealth, everything you have – what belongs to the people is state-owned, and what is state-owned is governmental. We will not allow anyone to plunder the commonwealth, no matter how high they sit. Our father-eagle soars above us all, his powerful wings shielding us, his sharp falcon eye spotting every enemy before they even think of it. Identify these people, list them, let them not yet know they are enemies, but you must know. Be vigilant…"
The gray-bearded elders nodded in agreement, not understanding a word of what was said but not daring to admit it to themselves or others.
The chauffeur, dressed in a black, shiny leather jacket with a Mauser at his side, snapped photos "for memory" on behalf of the special department of the Commission for controlling the moods of the happy and the free, while also causing envy among the poorly educated with the creak of his leather, the gleam of his camera, and his unflinching significance.
In the evenings, Aman-Jalil entertained solitary-minded idiots who thought they were being unfairly equated with geniuses: – "They do nothing but think, even a donkey thinks with its big head, but we work, build—whatever we build doesn't matter, the main thing is that we build. We don't think, we work. They think, but don't work. They all get the same, unfair. The district sardar thinks those who think mean something, we don't need thinkers, we need workers. If they don't work, they don't make mistakes. If we make mistakes, it means we work. Those who think don't make mistakes, but they also don't work. It's clear that if anyone doesn't work on building the new society, they are a rotten shard left by the windswept overturn of Renka's despotic regime. When there was only the base freedom to leave the country and return, choose something tasty to satisfy their belly from an abundance of food, but there was not a gram of freedom to build a new bright building, for the construction of which it is mandatory to forcibly drive under guard everyone capable of working. Only those who cannot, who have no strength, have the right not to work, but they have no right to demand food from us. 'Those who work—live, those who don't—die.' The bright building must be built faster, give all your strength to construction, even if there is no strength left to live in this bright building. But others will say, 'Well done, thank you!'"
However, despite Sardar Ali's dissatisfaction, Aman-Jalil did not find the compromising material that Ahmed expected from him.
– "There's nothing easier than fabricating the truth," Aman-Jalil recalled his math teacher saying when asked, "what is seven times two?" He answered, "eighteen." "But your fabrication is closer to the truth than if you had said, 'twenty-five.' In mathematics, truth matters, not personal truth, so I give you a 'two'."
– "And if there's nothing easier than fabricating something, then you have to concoct something more absurd yet convincing… A photograph, one that could serve as evidence, but a photograph of what?"
The district center was a larger, dirtier village. Aman-Jalil pulled up to the largest building, confident it was Sardar Ali's house. To his surprise, the house turned out to be a place of meetings and decision-making. A large ship bell hung in front of the house, somehow finding its way into this dry province, very far from the sea, clearly serving as the town bell.
– "Which country did they bring this thing from? Some Ottoman must have thought it golden, see how it sparkles. They use rough brick to clean it, no different from a corporal in the military making you polish buttons with pounded red brick," Aman-Jalil thought enviously.
Sardar Kareem lived nearby in a small adobe house with his wife and a bunch of children. The serenity on his blissful face made him resemble ancient Byzantine icons.
– "It's a pity I can't accommodate you in my house, it's too small, but I'll settle you next door, there's a widow with a daughter living there, plenty of room, very cozy," he sadly sang, and the gray in his beard and temples shimmered with pure silver, while tenderness and affection stood in his eyes. – "I'll visit you there, have tea, talk, you must have a lot of news, I've never left the district, they still shoot in the mountains, those overthrown seek revenge, kill from around the corner, one infiltrated the police, bringing much evil. When those who are supposed to protect fail, they also rob and kill, it's scary. robbers are now lawmakers. Then lies will become truth, truth lies, black white, and white will be canceled by decree: 'what looks white is only gray in reality'…"
– "Individual cases, sardar, we won't allow former enemies to take our place. Even executioners have their own…"
– "There should be no executioners in our society, we fought for a long time to eliminate them…"
– "Executioners have always been, are, and will be, executioners are more necessary than science, science can be forbidden, various astrology can be canceled, but executioners, like bread, are necessary. You can't live without bread, sardar!.."
Sardar Kareem escorted Aman-Jalil and the chauffeur into the widow's house. Aman-Jalil surreptitiously scrutinized the widow's face, trying to read the true nature of Sardar Ali's relationship with her, but her eyes were empty, her face covered in the ashes of sorrow. Later in conversation, Aman-Jalil would learn that the widow's husband had been recently killed by the bandits who had infiltrated the police. They brutally burned him alive in a barn with two friends.
– "No, you won't find compromising material in their relationship. As the saying goes, 'a friend of a deceased husband and nothing more'… Aman-Jalil was starting to despair. He remembered Ahmed's words well: 'you're stuck with compromising material for life'… And the tone in which these words were spoken left no doubt that this would indeed be the case."
The widow's daughter, Gulshan, entered the room, and Aman-Jalil was taken aback, struck by a decision that came to him instantly, at first glance at her… The girl's beauty could captivate any man: a young doe couldn't match her elegance and grace, a panther her flexibility and resilience. Eyes like Gulshan's had been praised by poets and lovers for thousands of years… Aman-Jalil was conquered by her appearance, but he had no intention of canceling his plans. He liked what he had planned very much, and it would be doubly foolish to cancel it. Pity briefly touched his heart and flew away, frightened by the cold.
Softly and somewhat timidly, Aman-Jalil asked Sardar Ali to acquaint him with the necessary documents for which he had come on inspection from such a distance.
– "You understand, respected one, that besides your vilayat, I have two more, and I would like to return to the city as soon as possible… Duty to fulfill."
– "Of course, my dear, such zeal in work is rare these days. You deserve recognition…"
Surprised by such zeal, Sardar Kareem invited Aman-Jalil to follow him. As he left, Aman-Jalil turned at the door and cast such a submissive look at Gulshan, this delicate gazelle, that even a large, fat green fly didn't make him want to snatch a rubber band from his pocket and deal with it…
There were few papers, and those that interested Aman-Jalil were nonexistent, but he timed it so that he could finish with them only late in the evening. And then he immediately expressed a desire to leave for another vilayat.
– "Such perfect order, I swear by my father. I could have stayed away. But you understand, sardar, orders are not discussed. They are only executed. Quickly executed… Forgive me for bothering you, respected one…"
But Sardar Kareem, as willingly as we fall into a trap set for us, insisted that Aman-Jalil and his companion spend the night:
—"I won't let you go. It's dangerous at night in the mountains, I warned you, they shoot… You are our honored guest, can we allow anything to happen to you… And they haven't told you the news yet…
—What news?.. Just rumors: 'The Beard' has split from his old wife, the battle companion who went through all the underground in the Serra mountains with him…
—It can't be… 'The Beard'… Married a young one?
—He didn't marry. He lives with two young cousins. Loose women with such improper surnames that even to repeat them would dirty the tongue… Nadir – your friend?..
—The only one! – Sardar Kareem's smile broadened.
—Nika is highly esteemed by Iosif Besarionis… It's amazing that Sardar Kareem is so modest. Think about it, huh, why not move to the Emir's palace? The capital is not a district center…
—Which palace? – Sardar Kareem laughed happily. – My scoundrels would overrun any palace…
—They have marble toilets with golden toilets…
—What is that?
– What's this, I don't even know, heard it around town: seems like it's a toilet, but one you'd want to live in…
– Wow, what a life is coming. In two years it'll reach us too, we'll live like people…
Sardar Kareem had no desire to rush to the capital, even though his friend Nadir held an honorary position in the palace and invited him over. Nadir owed him his life; during a battle, Ali shielded Nadir from a point-blank shot, and now the bullet-scarred bone ached in damp weather. Kareem felt he belonged where he was, the most content man alive, yet the war with Ahmed drained him of strength and health: Ali couldn't stand by as Ahmed plundered the entire region and replaced old seasoned fighters, whom Sardar Kareem had fought alongside in the mountains, with his sycophants and freeloaders… Ali's naive soul saw goodness and loyalty in everyone, ideals they had fought for over the years in the harsh conditions of the Serra mountains, where their leader, the brave hero Kareem, had supported everyone with his courage in the darkest hour, when Renka's forces tried to storm the main rebel base. Kareem painted pictures of a bright future: justice and love would reign in the land, once they expelled the exploiters (a word Ali had been practicing for a week, still pronouncing it syllable by syllable), turning all wastelands into gardens, draining swamps, demolishing prisons to build palaces in their place "…with golden toilets. The boy told the truth. Ahmed sent it mockingly, checking to humiliate his enemy, undoubtedly."
After Kareem's death from a brain fever, power unexpectedly passed to Iosif Besarionis. "The struggle continues!" he declared firmly. He needed the struggle, he hadn't yet held the entire country in his chubby little hands… The diminutive men filled ministries, flooded party and administrative apparatuses; the shorter the stature, the greater the ambition. They began inventing enemies, a bottomless barrel: no matter how much you pour in, it never fills; one enemy begets another, and merely proclaiming "enemy!" demands proof, such frightful times.
Recently, they announced illiteracy had been eradicated in the country; everyone could read and write, and there was paper enough. And they were already starting to write.
Just yesterday, Sardar Ali read such a composition on a free topic: "Arvad—enemy, chased my hens from his garden with a stick, one of them has been limping for two days now, all because Arvad served in Renka's forces; everyone says he killed the main rebel Karmas, sentence him to the northern island of Bibir for the rest of his life, maybe they'll cure him of cruelty"…
This letter had been sent to Sardar Ali from the city, urgently advising him to take measures and arrest the murderer… Ali had known Arvad his whole life; he had never served in Renka's forces or killed anyone, never leaving his village even once, so he couldn't have killed the main rebel Karmas, who had lived in another country eighty years ago… Ali also knew who had written this letter, Arvad's neighbor: before he learned to read and write, vanity had slumbered in him, literacy had opened up the world to him, but in a distorted light, as if through some monstrous prism, feeling his own importance, he now inflated any quarrel into the dimensions of a global conflagration, whereas before he had been just an ordinary person, not very good, not very bad, just different…
Over tea at Widow Aman-Jalil's, he willingly shared various amusing stories, all sorts of small-town gossip that forever fluttered around the city, then offered to make tea from his ancient Indian country, the way only he could brew it. "I'm sure none of you have ever tasted such tea," Aman-Jalil smirked to himself. The widow led him to the kitchen.
– I won't offend you if I stay alone to "do magic"…
For the first time since her husband's death, the widow smiled; she had never seen a man in the kitchen before, and she left, deciding she was embarrassing the boy. Aman-Jalil took out a flat box from a hidden pocket, opened it, poured powder into the teapot, generously added the rare tea, and brewed this diabolical mixture…
…Husayn, Aman-Jalil's neighbor in the house, though three years older, looked younger, being skinny and small, no one would guess he was nineteen. And Aman-Jalil, who had worked for Ismail Pasha as a runner for two years already, was easily taken for an adult, so solidly built and looking mature.
Husayn approached Aman-Jalil, relaxing on his day off after a successful fly hunt.
– Listen, I want to marry Dilber.
– Marry her! – Aman-Jalil threw indifferently.
– But she doesn't love me, – Husayn exclaimed in desperation.
– Spit and find another one," Aman-Jalil echoed someone else's words in a grown-up manner. "Isn't there enough of them running around?"
– But I love her," Husayn sobbed.
– Then marry her!" Aman-Jalil graciously allowed.
– How? " Husayn asked. "Give me advice."
– Please, advice is everywhere. If you want, as a friend, I'll help you with action.
– Of course I want," Husayn replied.
– Do you have money?..
– No! " Husayn sighed.
Aman-Jalil pondered.
– Alright, I've come up with something else," he lit up. "Is your mother a doctor?"
– A physician.
– Same thing, a doctor. Get some sleeping powder from her, a lot of it, then I'll call you.
– When?
– You can do it now, Dilber is alone, she's doing something, some session… distract her, her parents are at work, they'll come home late in the evening… Do you have the powder?
– I do, and it's very strong. Mom prepared five packs for her friend who has nightmares at night and doesn't want to see them…
– Send me two packs.
– Why two?
– I need them!
– Well, if you say so…
Husayn ran for the powder, while Aman-Jalil knocked on Dilber's door.
– Tufyak, come out, I have business.
The angry plump woman flew out of the room.
– Calling names again, hooligan?
– Shut it, there's business…
