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– Look at these pictures, no, just look at them, – he suggested to Aman-Jalil, as if to an outsider. – Titian, Renoir… Listen, did you forge them?
– What do you mean, boss?
– They take a picture of a hooker with a pimp, then paste the faces of the ones they need onto them, and shoot a second exposure?
– I haven't dealt with that yet, boss, sorry, I'm young, I'll learn, but the photos are fresh and real, like those peaches you received, like those grenades, figs, and grapes…
– I believe you've paid honestly.
– Don't worry, chief, everything's by the book officially, but of course, a gift from your admirers, more so from admirers of your talent, from those who follow your path and are happy that it's you leading them.
– Did you get anything for yourself?
– Just a little: a small crate of peaches, an even smaller crate of grapes, a very tiny crate of grenades, and figs, it's embarrassing to say, a tiny one, the driver took a bit too, because of his broad shoulders, hardly noticeable…
Well, you couldn’t say the car wasn't seen. But Ahmed already knew everything anyway. They brought him information about all his supporters who held important positions, too… And now his assistant came in and laid out a summary of reports in front of Ahmed. Ahmed glanced over it briefly, making marks as he went, and suddenly went pale.
– Jigit, it's all over, Sardar Kareem went to the emir's palace. If Nadir is there, he'll definitely arrange a meeting with Iosif Besarionis out of spite. You wanted to become the chief inquisitor of the region, didn't you?
Aman-Jalil understood everything.
– He went by train?
– By train.
– Don't worry, boss, give me your personal plane, and I'll be in the capital before Sardar Ali… I swear on my father, he won't return alive: two gangs, a hundred coins, a lump of sugar, and the case is closed. Don't fret, boss, worrying gives you wrinkles on your forehead.
Every night, Ahmed had the same dream: he was chasing some neighbor girl around a bright sunlit construction site, they were both fourteen, and Ahmed, catching up with Ika, grabbed her breast, tight like an unripe peach, and Ika squirmed, evaded, and it all started again… The same thing. A sweet and painful dream… Ahmed never actually grabbed Ika's breast in real life, the neighbor girl died of diphtheria at eight years old, she never reached fourteen in life, and in the dream she never was older than fourteen, the same happy age. And this dream, the same one, never left Ahmed throughout all the years, it came to Ahmed in the mountains of the Sierra and here, at the peak of glory and honor, power and wealth. No matter how many women Ahmed had, not one of the most beautiful, passionate, loving women appeared in his dreams, Ahmed never saw his children in his dreams, or his parents, whom he vaguely remembered in reality. Ahmed had gotten used to this dream and loved it, and would be surprised and saddened, if not frightened, if he didn't see the expected dream.
Aman-Jalil had never been to the capital. It surprised him with its senseless bustle, but upon closer inspection, he realized that most of those running around were visitors, eager to hit ten spots at once.
With Aman-Jalil came two gangs, and in Aman-Jalil's safe were the evidence: both boys had participated in the robbery and murder of the carpet merchant Jumshid. The boys willingly agreed to serve in the government instead of going to prison and to follow Aman-Jalil's orders without question.
All three went to the railway station to meet the arriving train carrying Sardar Kareem, who was going to the capital to seek protection and justice from Iosif Besarionis with the help of his friend Nadir.
The train arrived remarkably on time, without being shot at or robbed along the way, without plunging into a ravine, without any bridges collapsing under it, which Aman-Jalil secretly hoped for.
Sardar Kareem went straight from the train to Nadir, and Aman-Jalil followed him with the gangs. To Aman-Jalil's relief, Nadir was away and expected back the next day; one of the boys "eavesdropped" and skillfully overheard a conversation between Sardar Ali and Nadir's wife. She invited her husband's friend to stay at their home and wait for Nadir, but Sardar Kareem flatly refused, saying he had somewhere to stay, and leaving a basket of peaches as a gift for his friend's wife, he left. As he passed the criminal, he heard Sardar Kareem mutter clearly:
– It's not right to stay under the same roof as your friend's wife when he's not home. The laws of the mountains still exist on Earth…
And Sardar Kareem went to the ancient "Inter" hotel, and Aman-Jalil followed him with his helpers.
Suleyman was a philosopher: "When you stand behind the counter for so many years, giving out keys to visitors, and dozens of people pass in front of you every day, you involuntarily start studying them," he thought, "often I turn out to be right. Studying becomes a second profession, interesting, captivating, like everything else you love, and the main interrogators from the main administration have something to tell… When this mountain man came in, stubborn and proud, I recognized him immediately; I love to read the memories of the strong of this world, while reading, you live his life, and the 'great standing' behind the counter doesn't seem so burdensome. Nadir wrote about him in his book, his portrait, one to one, probably, and they took a picture of him in this costume, not another, they're all poor honest, only such a person can put his chest under a bullet, covering someone else with it. I would buy him a jacket in gratitude, but he won't cover me from a bullet, but his boss for a good soul. I would not have covered my boss for any rugs, and he would not have covered someone else's boss… He took the cheapest room, a pantry, not a room under the very roof, a former attic, one narrow window, and that's the yard, not the room, and he carried the fibrous, cheap suitcase upstairs, very light, probably half-empty… Three more similar, clearly compatriots, entered with this mountain man, and one immediately sat in a chair, covered himself with a newspaper like an inexperienced spy, who recently went in pea coats, and from under the newspaper was examining the legs of the women passing by him. Such a small one, but with such a big nose… The other two, more like wrestlers from the circus than civil servants, as they are in their documents, demanded rooms next to the hero. Oddly enough, they don't look like paupers at all, especially the one who covered himself with a newspaper, what is he hiding, I will recognize you from the first presentation even through a hundred years, if the nose does not fall through. I tried to explain to them that even criminals are not kept in such cages with us, one of the gangs, snorting, said: "You understand a lot in which cages we keep criminals," and I was confused. And they stubbornly stood their ground. The inexperienced spy finished reading the newspaper and came up to us, looked at me with the eyes of a killer, listened attentively, and then ordered to give them the requested rooms. There were only two free ones, but they took them, and when I wanted to register them, the big-nosed man sternly looked at me and said, "We'll settle up in the morning, then you'll register"… They didn't have any luggage, just a small briefcase and that's all… When I hinted that I wanted some tea, the big-nosed man counted out three groschen to me one by one and said, "This is for your tea with sugar, you didn't ask for sugar, this is so you remember my generosity"… Either a straightforward idiot or a cheeky one, like the world has never seen…”
Until late at night Sardar Kareem was transcribing Ahmed's sins onto paper, describing in detail each case, providing dates, facts, and the names of witnesses. Only once did he interrupt his comforting work: he ate a piece of stale churek with cheese and drank water from the tap. And then he wrote again, trying not to miss anything and to facilitate the subsequent work of Iosif Besarionis's inquisition. Sardar Kareem did not miss a single detail, his hand grew tired, groaned, so much he wrote, there was never so much in his life. But as soon as he wrote it down, he fell asleep with a sense of duty fulfilled and instantly slept soundly, the heavy sleep of a very tired person…
All the time Sardar Kareem was writing in his room, in the adjacent room Aman-Jalil was with his gangsters, bored, gnawing on chocolate tiles with nuts, a fine product from the shores of Columbus, washing down the delicacy with raw water from the tap, emitting an unpleasant smell of chlorine… One of the gangsters sat on the bedside table, pressing an empty glass against the thin partition, serving as a wall and separating the two rooms, listening to what Sardar Kareem was doing, another sat on a chair by the door, from time to time stretching, and the third was sitting in the wide, unloved bed, and with the usual thoughts, he inspected the girls from the front.
In the early hours, one of the henchmen picked the lock on Sardar Ali's door, and all three silently entered the room. Sardar Kareem was fast asleep, worn out by the road and his worries. Aman-Jalil poured chloroform from a flask onto a handkerchief and, nodding to the henchmen, pressed it to Sardar Ali's face. Meanwhile, the henchmen held Sardar Ali's arms and legs. After a few struggles, Sardar Kareem went still. Aman-Jalil surveyed the room and, seeing papers on the table, approached and started reading.
– He wrote quite a lot! – the henchman who had quietly come up to the table remarked.
Aman-Jalil quickly hid the papers in his briefcase, took out some photos—ones where Gulshan's face wasn't visible, only her naked body, yet anyone would recognize Sardar Ali in the naked man—and tossed them onto the table. He then retrieved a blank sheet of white paper from his briefcase and instructed the henchman:
– Write in Farsi: "Flip a coin, or else these photos will end up with the Great Iosif Besarionis. One day to decide."
The henchman reached for the pen Sardar Kareem had been using, but Aman-Jalil slapped his forehead.
– Forgot about your own fingerprints, fool? – he reminded the henchman. – They're on file in many databases.
He handed him a pencil… Once the note was written, Aman-Jalil quietly opened the window, gave a signal, and two henchmen lifted Sardar Ali from the bed and threw him into the courtyard. The dull thud of impact was barely audible. Leaving the window open, Aman-Jalil quickly left the room, ensuring it was empty and left no traces. The henchmen followed him…
At the reception, Aman-Jalil lingered, took a bottle of French cognac from his briefcase, and demonstratively poured himself a drink using a small glass that screwed onto the bottle. The concierge and henchmen watched enviously.
– Want some too? – Aman-Jalil asked affectionately.
– Of course, yeah! – the henchmen mumbled, swallowing saliva, while the concierge promptly fetched three glasses from under the counter.
Aman-Jalil poured them full.
– Drink up, you've earned it!
They eagerly gulped down the cognac and… collapsed dead on the floor in unison. Aman-Jalil carefully poured the cognac from his glass back into the bottle, tightly closed it, stashed it in his briefcase, and left the hotel. His car was already waiting, and Ahmed's private plane awaited at the airfield… The newspapers, briefly reporting a mysterious poisoning in the hotel lobby, said nothing of Sardar Ali's death. Nadir had tried to protect his friend's name from slander. The naive man, believing in people's better qualities, had been asked to display their worst.
"Where did he stash his comrades?.. They flew to the capital together, but only one returns. He must've exposed his henchmen to gunfire, while he remains unscathed. Look at that nose, like a parrot's beak, all the growth must've gone into his nose… The inquisitors have it easy, see what cognac he drinks, French, and won't even share. No matter, our mountain 'Navesh' is just as good, one guy told me: the Saka chief only drinks that, two crates fly out every month, he drinks it all himself… And this tough chief enjoys Ahmed's complete trust, otherwise the plane wouldn't be at his disposal… But where did he stash his comrades?.. Maybe he left someone behind to keep watch? Ha! Watch! Even a child could figure out these henchmen, they're so obvious from a mile away. And why fly a plane to keep watch? Isn't there anyone in the capital to do that? More than enough. But if there's no one to watch, then why?.. Forget about others' business. Better keep an eye on the helm, avoid falling into a pit. Generally, the less you know, the longer you live… Gurg was talking about the annotations, where did he disappear to, who knows? Not even his wife knows… 'Without the right to correspondence'… For everyone else, the man is dead. Maybe he's alive somewhere, but is that living? No wine, no kebabs, no khachapuri, no Sudanese chicken, no women… A-ra, what is there?.. No one knows what there is or if there's anything. Like the afterlife: everyone knows it exists, but no one knows what's there. You won't know until you get there. And who wants to get there ahead of time? I swear, no one!.. The big-nosed one smiles, satisfied… Drinking such cognac, everyone would be satisfied… And not offering any to a fellow countryman… Not very comradely, eh!"
Aman-Jalil caught the pilot's envious glance and a devilish smirk played on his thin lips.
"I won't treat you, or you'll crash my plane, not because I care about the plane, feel free to crash it, but count me out," Aman-Jalil thought, pretending to pour himself cognac and drinking it, tilting the empty glass into his mouth. He didn't forget to nibble on a "Lux" chocolate, convincing the pilot more than if he had seen the cognac flowing down Aman-Jalil's throat. Alright, enough pretending, leave half for the pilot to shut his mouth… I wonder who he's bringing along?"
Aman-Jalil spilled a bit of cognac on his collar, waiting for the car to suddenly shake.
– Hey, driver, watch out, is there a pothole or something?
– You think this is a main avenue? Let's switch seats: you take the wheel, and I'll drink the cognac. Deal?
– Hold the bottle, it's exactly half full, honest… Just swear you'll finish it at home, they're already saying I'm getting all my friends drunk, the mullah almost hinted at it right in my face after the morning prayer. Don't you know?
– Small, isn't he? I don't drink at work!
Aman-Jalil stood up, discreetly wiped the bottle and handed it to the pilot.
– Drink up, elder, and understand!
– What am I understanding?
– Understand, I say.
– And what's that?
– I don't know, they say in the capital.
– Maybe it's a curse word?
– Maybe, but it sounds good.
– No, not a curse word: understand, learn, that's what it means…
– Clever! Listen, how clever you are, eh!
– Did you think…
Aman-Jalil suddenly saw a small black fly, it flew past Aman-Jalil and landed on the pilot's helmet.
– Wow, look, a fly on your head, don't move, I'm going to kill it now.
– Are you planning to shoot it with a pistol?
– Why with a pistol, dummy, then I'd have to shoot you in the head too, a fly is smaller than a bullet, don't you understand… Don't move.
Aman-Jalil took out a thread from his rubber band, his eternal companion, he always had these threads, carefully unraveling the most ordinary rubber band that held his underwear together. In a second, the killed fly fell onto the control wheel.
– Sniper! – the pilot praised him. – Look for more, maybe you'll find some.
He said it in jest, but Aman-Jalil seriously searched for flies and, to the pilot's surprise, found another six and calmly shot them down.
Ahmed, upon hearing the joyful news, jumped and clapped his hands.
– Ah, you've done it skillfully, ah, you've done it skillfully. Well done, jigit, the inquisition is all yours, with guts. Take it, command it, just remember: every word of mine is law for you.
– Why offend, father, every breath of yours is law for me… Oh, sorry, boss, got carried away…
– It's okay, it's okay, it's from an excess of feelings… Listen, were there any papers with Sardar Ali?
– None, chief. I reported to you that he first visited Nadir; if there were any, he left them there, but I think there weren't any, Sardar Kareem intended to discuss everything with Nadir first, but he wasn't there.
– He wasn't there, he wasn't there… But what if there were?.. Okay, can't reach Nadir anyway for now… Apples on the table, help yourself.
Aman-Jalil turned to the small table to take an apple and paled: a small human head crowned the pyramid of apples…
…In the daytime, a soldier brought a bag of apples, telling the mother:
– A gift from Renk, just sift through them, they've been sitting a while, might be some wormy ones…
And he left. Mother spread out the sack in the courtyard and poured the apples out… Her wild cry tore little Aman-Jalil away from his game. Running to his mother, he found her lying unconscious near the apples, and his father was sleeping, buried in the apples so that only his head was visible on top of the apple mountain. The boy pushed his mother away and asked her, when she opened her empty eyes:
– Why is daddy sleeping so uncomfortably?
And before his mother could stop him, Aman-Jalil rushed to his father and struck him on the forehead. The head rolled down the apple hill. Aman-Jalil screamed so loudly that his cry startled a flock of pigeons into the air, where they circled for a long time, hesitant to descend to the ground… And his father's head was already swarmed with flies…
…Now Aman-Jalil didn't scream, calmly picked up the apple, and took such a big bite that chewing became uncomfortable.
– It scares me, the old donkey, – he thought bitterly, – but you won't get the documents anyway.
– Do you like it?
– It's a tasty apple, boss.
– I meant something else.
– The real one?
– What did you think? I have one craftsman, a real Indian from the Maya tribe; he can't read knots, true, but he knows how to dry heads in hot sand… I think I'll leave the collection to the anthropology museum in my will.
– Is there a museum that collects skulls?
– You're dense, uneducated. I wouldn't trust you with any other position, but you'll handle the inquisition.
– I'll do my best, boss, just don't deny me in council.
– I won't deny you, not at all.
– The council is all-powerful… Can I go now, boss?
– Go… Wait! – Ahmed stopped Aman-Jalil at the door. – Why did you remove my pilot? I understand getting rid of those two crooks, but why the pilot? He's loyal to me; I don't understand.
– Nadir will dig the ground, and the pilot will be next. He won't cover for me: they flew there together, he'll say, and only one came back… I could see the question in his eyes. The pilot will say, Nadir will understand whose man I am, and that's your end…
– You cut off all the links, you're the only one left?
– If there's nothing else to do, I should be cut off too…
Ahmed suddenly calmed down.
– You understand, then?
– Even a blind man can see…
– Go, get to work!
Aman-Jalil left the office. Ahmed was left alone. Here it is, the new generation… Who can I work with? He doesn't chatter, he acts quickly. But for him, a person isn't a person, anything but a living person with their own troubles, desires, thoughts. And this one will only know the desires of the bosses and his own desires. Uncertain days are coming. There are few of his own people; I have to take such people. It's dangerous to work with them. Like a circus trainer: the tigers seem tame, but how many trainers have been torn apart as soon as they sense weakness… Oh, damn, I forgot!
Ahmed called. The secretary entered.
– Did Aman-Jalil leave? Bring him back immediately.
The secretary disappeared… After a while, during which Ahmed sat as if hypnotized, staring at one spot, Aman-Jalil entered.
