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– Live long, – Gyaurov whispered and crossed Aman-Jalil as he left.
As Aman-Jalil approached the exit, a soft gunshot rang out from the office. No one noticed Aman-Jalil; the guard had summoned Aman-Jalil's assistant, and there were forty minutes until work began…
"What a funeral, what a funeral," Wazir thought, watching the endless procession with mourning banners. "How we love our dead, look at how we love our dead, if only this love were shown to the living, maybe paradise would come… But why? Because the dead pose no danger, there's no need to fear the dead, unless you believe in ghosts. They announced he died of a heart attack, but they say, 'he shot himself, couldn't bear the shame'… Oh, Jumshid, Jumshid, what have you done, scoundrel? May you suffer forever, such a glorious, esteemed father disappointed. What does a man need? He had everything: a good job, health, a beautiful wife, an apartment, money… Ingrate! It wasn't enough, he craved more. He wanted currency. Foreign coins to buy schnapps at the tavern. Doesn't he understand they'll ask right away: 'where'd you get this'?… What will you say? Found it at the market?… No, what a funeral… Nosaty walked with Gyaurov's wife, like the principal relative. But Jumshid's beautiful wife wasn't there. Shame on her husband. Killed his father, but saved his own skin. It's nothing; they'll send him to Bibir Island, where there's no warmth and comfort. All desires will freeze… No, what a funeral. Nothing to say, we love our dead, we love them more than the living… We're all the same: mothers during life too lazy to write an extra letter, but at the grave, they cry like little… And I'm no better: did I love Anush so much in life as I worship her after her martyr's death. Perhaps that's why we remember, love the dead so much, the guilt torments, the guilt that we didn't remember, didn't love in life. What good is our love to the dead? The living need it. Alive! I need to marry before it's too late… I need children, then maybe I won't suffer so much, that terrible road will leave me, my endless path of grief and despair"…
"Don't be jealous of evil people and don't wish to be with them: for their heart thinks about violence, and their mouth speaks evil. By wisdom a house is built, and by understanding it is established."
Over Ahmed's grave, a speech was delivered:
– Today, we bid farewell to our friend, our comrade-in-arms, one of the indomitable fighters against global injustice, against the exploitation of man by man. In the Serra mountains, he repeatedly proved his unwavering bravery, desperate courage, and steadfastness. He dedicated all his strength to serving the people, to the cause of the rebels. The underground in the Serra mountains forged his character; his heart turned to iron, sometimes even steel. Step by step, he climbed the ladder of his earned glory, a life full of dangers but also the joys that these dangers bring. Neither threats nor bribes, neither cold nor heat, nor rain nor snow could deter him from this path of glory. He reached the summit, but his heart, filled with love for his suffering people, could not bear this monstrous burden, this selfless dedication. We will all remember this remarkable man, a wonderful father and teacher. You, my friend, will serve as an example for everyone, entering the future legends that a grateful people will compose about heroes like you. Rest peacefully, brave friend. You did all you could!
The orchestra played a funeral march. Farewell salutes pierced the cemetery's silence, adorning Gyaurov's grave in the alley of eternal glory with mountains of wreaths and fresh flowers… The mourners dispersed silently. Many were ashamed to look each other in the eye.
Aman-Jalil swiftly expanded his bustling activities. His appointment as the third deputy in the Inquisition was met with cool, if not outright cold reception. Two factions within the Inquisition vied against each other, smiling and kissing on meetings. "Didn't sleep well, my dear? Pale as a ghost, take care of yourself, need me to recommend a doctor?" "Thanks, my friend! How are things with you?" "Flourishing and smelling sweet!" "Indeed, life couldn't be better."
Both factions kept an eye on Aman-Jalil, strategizing to sway him to their side. Thus, neither faction gave him any of their own people, take whoever you want. Aman-Jalil paid homage to Ahmed, doubling the Inquisition's ranks, and recruited his own supporters, all who hung on his every word, drank from his bottle. Instantly, he became a force to be reckoned with.
No one knew how to enforce the directive on confiscation, so Aman-Jalil did whatever he deemed necessary. He swiftly identified those with movable and immovable property: wealthy merchants, remnants of the aristocracy… He taxed all the underground millionaires. According to the palace-approved list, Aman-Jalil razed a clan every day, those displeasing Iosif Besarionis.
Aman-Jalil's men stormed homes, confiscated valuables, leaving a receipt as a reminder that they once lived well. Those who resisted were killed: shot or stabbed. If nothing was found but they were on the list, they were tortured until they revealed a hiding place or died. Few could hide anything while watching their wives and daughters being violated, their sons abused. Who could trade their children for wealth? Will all the gold in the world, all the diamond mines of Golconda, replace the laughter of happy children, the sparks of happiness in their eyes…
"And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see. And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer. And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, Come and see. And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword. And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand… And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with the sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth…"
"Allah, bless Isaac, let him be a Jew, but what a good man, what wonderful advice he gave. Listen, what wonderful advice he gave, all for one hundred coins: divide all the wealth into two equal parts, throw one into the devil's mouth and hide the other properly. That's what I thought to do: set aside the gold coins to hide, and decided to give away the rest. You can't hide a diamond necklace when the whole city knows about it. Soldiers descended so suddenly, they piled onto my old head like snow. I thought—everything's over. Isaac saved me again, I had to give him a tenth. How clever he is: he dumped a pile of used paper in the bathroom, tucked the wrapped gold at the bottom, then covered it again with dirty scraps. The soldiers took half, ransacked the house, turned it upside down, but, imagine, couldn't find the gold. Thank you, Allah, you even Isaac's bright head, not because he's bald, but truly bright, made to work for the good of the believers, so the devil got less. The moan hangs on the ground, how life will continue, scary to think…"
By Ahmed's order, newspapers printed fabricated obituaries of the razed dissidents and dissenters every day, meetings and assemblies were held daily where the crimes of the razed were read out. In newspapers, meetings, and assemblies, authorities gave solemn assurances that strict, exceptional measures were applied only to enemies, while other honest traders and representatives of the old nobility could sleep peacefully. And everyone believed, or just pretended to believe, rejoicing daily that the soldiers-plunderers had passed them by again, others again, not him, him – why, he is an honest fellow traveler and objector. Like sheep, they waited their turn, when their throats would all be cut, presenting an example of humility and longsuffering.
But where could you go? The border was so tightly guarded that not even a fly could fly across it, and if by stupidity it mistakenly changed direction and crossed the border, Aman-Jalil immediately shot it down with his rubber thread. He won't miss—a sniper. His recruited agents spread rumors that they saw him flying like an angel in all white over the border, and silence and peace descended where he flew. And he blew into the big horn and shouted loudly, "Sleep peacefully, the border is locked!"
Aman-Jalil found many voluntary helpers among small shopkeepers and the dispossessed, provided many ears and eyes at his disposal. Patriots didn't demand any pay, their share in this universal plunder.
Envy! Here is the foundation of this vile layer of society. Here is its nutrient medium, always teeming with bacteria that shake the world with a terrible epidemic of hatred, devastating and terrifying for many generations. In every quarter, on every street, in every house of cities, towns, and villages, there were people who knew what the neighbor had for lunch. They bombarded the Inquisition with anonymous letters, revealing such intimate details that the inquisitors marveled at how quickly society sought to return to a slave-owning system. People didn't know what to do with the freedom they received and begged to be returned to slavery, where each would dream again of a kind master and a warm bowl of porridge.
So, Aman-Jalil's department was buzzing with work. Those who paid their dues to Aman-Jalil lived comfortably: with a salary of a hundred coins, each adult clan member had a splendid mansion, two huge country houses, one of which had to be by the bluest sea in the world. They bought freely for their wives, daughters, and mistresses—cars, furs costing fifteen thousand coins each, not to mention "trifles" like diamond and gold baubles. And nobody dared ask them any questions that could cause insomnia. Numerous letters, signed and unsigned, exposing underground millionaires, were intercepted. Gossips and facts were meticulously registered and compiled, so underground millionaires didn't have to hide in the Sierra Mountains. Against those naive patriots who dared to sign their names, cases of slander against respected and revered people were opened. The "slanderers" were thrown into prisons or exiled to the uninhabited islands of Lusin. "Let them gossip there!"
Lies were rewarded, and truth was persecuted. It became profitable to live by lies to survive, just to survive. People adapted, with difficulty, but adapted. There was no other way to live. You could think what you wanted, but aloud you had to say only what the newspapers suggested, what was preached from the high tribunes, and what they started teaching even in schools and kindergartens. Portraits of Iosif Besarionis and Ahmed appeared everywhere. "The Fuhrer thinks, and we implement these thoughts in life!" "Let's turn great plans into reality!" "The whole world is watching us!" They just didn't add: "with horror"!
And alongside Ahmed, more and more often at official receptions, one could see the figure of Aman-Jalil. He and his kind were gaining strength and already casting sideways glances at those who had found and raised them—supporting roles no longer satisfied them. They needed a leader, they were needed by a leader, and they created an earthly god, offering themselves as slaves. "Great Iosif Besarionis!" "Incomparable Iosif Besarionis!" "Wise Iosif Besarionis!" "Iosif Besarionis—teacher of all nations of the world!" "Iosif Besarionis—leader of all countries!" Such slogans adorned the walls of houses and along highways, especially along the transcontinental route. But the new generation was mistaken in thinking that the leader would remain loyal to them. He had propelled them, determining who would be pawns and who would be figures. He chose those capable and ready for anything: to abandon parents, forget about brothers and sisters, betray wife and friend, deny children. He advanced every sharp-toothed, every fanged one; his advice was the law for everyone, but those who did not understand their debt to him, who showed even the slightest freedom, he discarded from the board of his game, understandable only to him alone. But perceptive ones were advanced to important posts in his party of emir, in the army, in the police, and most importantly, in the Inquisition. The stake was placed on the Inquisition. After Torquemada, Iosif Besarionis was the first to realize the influence of the Inquisition on the minds and feelings of society and understood that whoever owned the Inquisition, owned those minds and feelings. And he worked tirelessly.
Io listened, but the rector's voice rang out or disappeared when Io's thoughts soared to his native mountains:
– Lord! You give us peace; for all our affairs You arrange for us… Firm in spirit, You keep in perfect peace, for he trusts in You… Do you not know? Have you not heard? The everlasting Lord God, who created the ends of the earth, does not grow weary or tired. His understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the weak, and to those who have no might He increases strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall, but those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint… Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand. Behold, all those who were incensed against you shall be ashamed and disgraced; they shall be as nothing, and those who strive with you shall perish. You shall seek them and not find them, those who contended with you. Those who war against you shall be as nothing, utterly nothing; for I, the Lord your God, will hold your right hand, saying to you, "Fear not, I will help you"…
"Now thus says the Lord, who created you, O Jacob, and He who formed you, O Israel: 'Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; you are Mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, nor shall the flame scorch you. For I am the Lord your God'… 'Turn to Me and be saved, all you ends of the earth; for I am God, and there is no other… Even to your old age, I am He, and even to gray hairs I will carry you! I have made, and I will bear; even I will carry, and will deliver you'…
"Oh, Allah, how I prayed to You when I managed to cross the border with the caravan of smugglers.
The caravan master on this side told me there was no need to check me; you can't play such fear on your face, death was standing behind your shoulder and laughing. I didn't scare him, didn't say why I fled. I said I killed two, feared blood revenge. This was familiar to him, mundane, routine. The caravan master took the payment and disappeared from my life; he won't talk much about me, who cares about some killer. If he knew the real reason, he wouldn't sleep at night, he would betray me with guts.
And the reason was terrible… Before the coup, every summer my father sent me to his brother on aylag to shepherd sheep. "Best rest from city life," he said, "all day outdoors." And I liked it. Better to work in nature, in silence and peace, breathing crystal-clear air, eating fresh food than spend time behind counters in dust, heat, and dirt, breathing dust, heat, and dirt, eating stale food. Maybe that's why I never got sick with various colds, such tempering I got in the mountains. Shepherds took me as an equal and didn't allow descent, the eldest, if I did something wrong, could give such a slap that my cheek burned all day. But he hit only for business: we, city dwellers, were lazy, while an eye and an eye were needed for a flock. Sheep are like people: there are smart ones, they don't run anywhere, they quietly eat grass, run to the watering hole with everyone, no cares with them, but there are crazy ones, as soon as you turn away from them, they want to run into the forest, or even down the road, into the village, once I ran for ten minutes, until I caught it, a couple of kilometers away, and, oh, did I beat her all the way back until the shepherds saw it… And on that fateful day, one of the crazy daughters of the sheep flock ran away from me down the road. I noticed her only when she disappeared around the bend, so I ran straight into the forest along the path, thinking how I would catch this naughty one and spank her. The path led to a fork in our road to aylag with a road to the city. Luckily, I noticed them from afar; I have eyes like a hawk, the shepherds say. They were—bandits. They stopped the mail coach on the road and robbed it. I hid in the bushes and lay down, forgot about the sheep, myself, like a sheep, defenseless. And the bandits laid down the postal workers and the guard on the roadside and shot them all one by one. As soon as they started shooting them in the back of the head, I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn't listen, they became cotton, I couldn't even move a finger, I lay down and prayed they wouldn't notice me, or they would kill me. So I lay until the last one was shot. Among the passengers of the coach was one woman. They immediately took her into the forest and were shot amidst the cries of this woman. My mother screamed, and the bandits laughed and fired a bullet into the back of the next one. Finally, the woman's screams fell silent, there was no one else to kill, then the stone that was crushing me and not letting me run away disappeared, and I crawled away and ran to my sheep, not knowing what to tell the shepherds. I forgot to think about the escaped sheep. And what to think about it: clearly, she got into kebabs with robbers and murderers. I decided not to say a word to the shepherds: everyone had a rifle; suddenly, they would want a reward for catching state criminals, and those would kill them and me too. No, it's better to forget this horror, I stayed alive and thanked Allah. I sat on a hill, basking in the sun, just closed my eyes— they kill, I open— the sun, green grass, blue sky, peace and grace, I close my eyes— shoot in the back of the head. I started thinking about the city, remembered my street, my native house, the shop, my friends… And the shepherds found me on the hill with a dead bird in their beak, and the most relaxed ones fell asleep on the stone and ate from the bag with dry bread.
How many years have passed, it's hard to count. I'm the only one left, parents passed away, couldn't bring a wife home, I'm small and ugly, and those who need my shop, not me, I don't need it for free. And the day before yesterday, when I remember that day, I shiver, we were all driven out onto the street to greet the Great and Invincible Iosif Besarionis. My curiosity almost got me killed. I sneaked into the front row, I'm small in stature, want to see everything better, and found myself not far from a group of representatives from all walks of life. They hold bread and salt ready, waiting for the Leader… The car rolled up close to the group, the door opened, Iosif Besarionis stepped out of the car, and then I was pushed, the back rows pressed right under the Leader's feet. I sprawled on the dusty road, my face ended up on the Great Teacher's shoe. He seemed to really like that I kissed his shoe, thought I was, brushed the dust off my suit, then looked me in the eye and said, "Somewhere, kacо, I've met you before, I remember your eyes clearly." I stood like a post, tongue stuck to my teeth with fear, silent and waiting to be executed. But then the welcoming group jealously pushed me aside, and maybe their joy saved my life. Only I heard, managed to hear, every word of the Leader's, addressed to his companion standing nearby: "Arif, we've seen this man somewhere, find out!" I dove into the crowd as quickly as possible and ran home on all fours. Changed my dirty pants for clean ones, took all the money and valuables I had, went to a competitor, who hadn't let anyone through with his proposals recently, and sold him my father's shop, which he significantly let down, here they said that all the property of the fleeing is confiscated, even if this property is transferred or sold to another. To avoid being searched, I told everyone that I was going to a wedding, I won't be home for a few days, and left forever. I moved to a border area where my uncle still lived, where I once herded sheep. I told my uncle everything without hiding. He loved me like a son, he had no children left, they died in the Sierra mountains, helped, introduced to a familiar caravanbashi, didn't require me to lie to him. Which I willingly did… How lucky I was to have the intelligence and strength to run away! How lucky I was to live alone, without a wife and children! How lucky I was that my parents died and no one would be executed by the inquisition for my escape!… Sometimes I miss my native home, my heart aches and tears involuntarily come, but when I remember the suspicious look of Iosif Besarionis, when I remember that horror: only twenty minutes separated me from death when I left the competitor's house, I already noticed a black car parked nearby my house, and only a miracle, blinding the agents who believed I really went to a wedding, saved me; while searching all the weddings in town, I managed to board a train that safely carried me away from death… And the heartache goes away, I only feel happiness from life… True, I had to change my name and nationality and move to the end of the world…»
Aman-Jalil didn't forget about Gulshan, his shot gazelle, whose tender body he dreamed of every night. After the murder of Sardar Ali, Aman-Jalil sent his people after Gulshan, but those sent returned with nothing, the widow and daughter left somewhere unknown, sold the house, garden, land and all livestock… Aman-Jalil slapped them on the cheek.
– The fools of the heavenly king, how will you catch spies if you couldn't find the girl, they didn't fly away through the air, didn't rise into the sky. Blockheads, urgently question, if necessary, neighbors, cashiers at the station… I give you two days, if you don't find out where the widow and daughter went, blame yourselves!
What this word meant, none of the agents knew, but what followed it, they learned so well that they "dug up the earth" until they found a villager who saw the widow in the city at the bazaar, where he brought peaches and a little hashish, you have to live, for sale. The villager was very surprised to see her, they told everyone they were leaving for another vilayat to relatives, not the city. It was harder to search in the city, but Aman-Jalil had his people in every police department, he raised all his own, and a few days later Gulshan was brought to his office.
"I felt he wouldn't forget my body," said Gulshan. "He found it, even though my mother swore no one would find us in the city, not a single devil. One devil was found who found it. I wonder how he found it? Okay, I'll find out later!.. Should I tell him we'll have a baby or not? We'll see… Will her mother have a baby too? Also, a relative. Who will he be to us? My son – brother, because they have one father, at the same time he is also my brother, we have one mother, so he is my son, although I won't give birth to him. Who will he be to his father? A son is clear, a brother like my brother-in-law, and more?.. Will the mother have a son and grandson at the same time. You can get confused… Found to marry? Maybe ashamed? Afraid of the authorities? Scare him?.. No, he won't be scared, won't marry. Two to hell I'll just live with you. First get married, my dear. I'll give birth to your children, we'll live like people."
Aman-Jalil looked at Gulshan and felt his soul overflowing with tenderness and love.
– How her beauty blossomed, what pleasure it will be to dress this body, and even more to undress it. Give her gifts of pleasure, – Aman-Jalil thought, examining every detail of her body.
He drove away other, sinful thoughts: he wanted to undress her right here, in the office, on the wide leather couch he confiscated, where, he didn't remember anymore, and enjoy her instead of this exhausting work.
– Intentionally disappeared? – he asked, jealous.
– What's your business? Are you my husband? – Gulshan jumped up. – In your opinion, did we have to stay for the entertainment of the whole street, or even the city.
– That's right, you couldn't stay, the city is solid! – Aman-Jalil threw contemptuously.
– Listen, what have you attached to me? – offended for the native town Gulshan raged. – You came, trampled on all the laws of hospitality, adat and Quran in addition, did your dirty, black business and still make fun. You, villain, even dishonored my mother…
– Don't talk nonsense, woman, I needed your widow when you were nearby.
– Ara, means you mean, she went for a walk and had a baby?
– This is a driver, eh! I'll tell him, he'll marry your mother… Are you happy now?
– I will be happy if you follow his example and marry me, I'm also expecting a child…
Aman-Jalil was pleased.
– Well done, you make me a man… But I can't get married. Don't ask: why, why? I can't and that's all!..
…It's hard to explain what you don't understand yourself. Ahmed recently called him with a report on confiscation. He was pleased with his share, the amount sent to the capital, to the emir's palace, rejoiced like a child, and when Aman-Jalil was going to leave, he returned him from the door.
– Boy, why don't you get married? The bride didn't grow up?
Aman-Jalil was embarrassed.
– I'm joking, joking, – Ahmed laughed. – Not married yet. I found you a bride: beautiful, smart… True, I can't persuade her, but hope and wait. I said, I'll help!
– Thank you, teacher! – only Aman-Jalil found to say.
Perplexed, he left and couldn't work for a whole day because of excitement, – amused: he took out of a box made of rubber, where winter take, glued them in different places, walked, trained, knocked down with a rubber band, then tied several "flies" to the fan, turned it on, the flow of air spun "flies", and Aman-Jalil shot them "on the fly".
But the confiscation and ruin machine worked, once launched, already independently.
…Aman-Jalil tried to kiss Gulshan, but she sharply and dissatisfied pushed away.
– It's hard to explain to you, even I don't understand.
– What to understand? The child must have a father, and you will be his, or I will go to your boss, remember, I'm still a minor, and I'll tell him everything.
Aman-Jalil laughed, just laughed.
– You're a beauty! – he moaned between fits of laughter. – Parroting your mother's words like a parrot, while you – a gazelle, a doe, a roe deer, should be yourself: timid, graceful, tender. Look at the words you've learned, picked up from that one prisoner, passing on his knowledge to me every day, very smart, a great philosopher, a professor… And here you are talking like a market vendor from the central market. Shame on you!
– Me, ashamed? – protested Gulshan and… burst into tears, wiping them away childishly with her fist. – Who invited you, damned one, came, disgraced, doesn't want to marry and still lectures me.
Ignoring her tears, Aman-Jalil opened the safe and took out the photographs. Gulshan continued to sob.
– Stop crying, enough. Look at these pictures, they're real.
Aman-Jalil threw the photographs on the table in front of Gulshan, then moved to the window. He had admired the photographs so many times that he knew them by heart: all showed Gulshan, naked and in poses she, he was sure, had no idea about… Only one showed her naked partner – Sardar Kareem.
Outside, snow was falling, and rare passers-by hurried to leave the inhospitable, drafty street… Behind Aman-Jalil, there was the sound of a falling body. Aman-Jalil turned in fright and rushed to Gulshan. She lay on the carpet, holding in her hand that very last photograph. Aman-Jalil began to kiss her, trying to bring her to her senses, and then, almost without undressing, greedily took possession of her. His convulsions or the weight of his body brought Gulshan to consciousness. Seeing his face so close above her, she whispered quietly, not fully aware of what was happening:
– Is it really him?
Aman-Jalil silently got off her, bluntly fastened his trousers without hiding, helped Gulshan up, and seated her on the couch.
– It's him, it's me!… The child is mine, but you don't need to know anything else. There are things that it's dangerous to know or think about. I don't advise you to…
Aman-Jalil put the photographs back in the safe, took out a bottle of fine brandy from the shelf, poured half a glass, and made Gulshan drink it.
– Drink, drink, you're so pale, like snow, cold like ice, it's bad for you, bad for the baby, drink and don't talk.
Gulshan drank the brandy without resistance, immediately blushed, and the tremor in her body disappeared. The bad dream she had hoped for did not pass; instead, she suddenly felt the full horror of reality, its inevitability…
– From today, you'll work as my secretary. Your first duty, besides love, is to guard this office… Well, it's in your interest too: there are photographs in the safe… No film, don't bother opening it, – joked Aman-Jalil. – Congratulations on the child; it's good you left it… Listen, idea! Let me marry you off to an old man: wealthy, has his own house, you won't need anything, and no need to sleep with him. High, eh!
Gulshan looked at him, but saw and heard nothing. Before her eyes was a huge fiery sphere from which pornographic photographs shot out like lightning bolts, and in the center of the sphere, Gulshan saw Aman-Jalil's grotesquely swollen face, with fangs sticking out of his mouth like a vampire. The sphere suddenly burst into fiery, jagged pieces and… Gulshan realized clearly that she was entirely under the spell of this man who loved her, she knew it firmly, rather felt it, and the only thing permitted to her was to completely submit to his whims and desires. And Gulshan decided to submit…
"Damn it, he's turned my whole world upside down. That's why Sardar Kareem disappeared, only to die suddenly in the capital. This nosy devil's to blame. He came here for this, knowing nothing about me and never seeing me, this damn nosy one… He was obstructing them somehow, so they got rid of him… Ah! What's it got to do with me? I'll have a child, and I must think about him. The main thing is, this damn nosy one is crazy about me, violated me again, scoundrel, if that's what he likes, let him, I don't feel a thing anyway. He rejoiced at the child, so he won't abandon it like some useless thing. I'll do whatever he says, won't be worse… Those photos are so terrible, if anyone sees them, shame won't save me, I'll have to sit like a dog on a leash in his office and guard… That's what that dream was about: an endless road, and I'm walking on it, the sun mercilessly scorching, dying of thirst, hands tied, a noose around my neck held by a horse's saddle, with him in the saddle, the nosy devil, in a red caftan, golden stars scattered, holding a long pike in his hand and skewering all passing children like butterflies and beetles. Fangs bloody protruded from his mouth, somehow giving him a perpetually smiling appearance. And Gulshan followed behind his horse, her bare feet bloodied along the road. Poor Gulshan!.. I'm going crazy, talking about myself like about someone else, a completely different person… About another person… Am I still the same Gulshan?"
Two weddings were taking place simultaneously. The chauffeur looked sadly at his wife, who was seven years older than him, and at his newlywed son-in-law, thirty years older than him, and it was difficult to calculate how much older he was than his wife's stepdaughter, whom the chauffeur cast longing glances at, and hard to calculate indeed. But the women were satisfied: the widow, receiving such a young and handsome husband, the father of her child, was so grateful to Aman-Jalil that she forgave some "trifles," such as the death of Sardar Ali, a friend of her family, violence against her daughter, and even the forced husband imposed on her, at the sight of whom she felt nauseated. Gulshan, for her part, was very pleased that her husband was so old and ugly.
"Ugly! Not even a thought will come to lie with you in bed at such a mournful moment. Sits there as if he's at a funeral," – thought Gulshan, pretending to be a happy bride.
Everything imaginable was on the table. Aman-Jalil spared no expense, asked all merchants for an additional tax, and they brought the freshest, best of everything. Usually, every wedding invites the zurna musicians, an ensemble of eastern instruments: tar, kamancheh, zurna, nagara. But Aman-Jalil decided to impress and invited a brass band as well. The brass band played waltzes, polkas, and marches while guests drank and ate. During the change of dishes, for rest, the quartet played "shur" or the tarist mournfully sang a long mugham. Specifically at Aman-Jalil's request, a famous baritone, Baybulat, came and sang several classical arias. After receiving the agreed sum in a sealed envelope, he habitually put the money in his pocket without opening it, preparing to leave for his next performance, but Aman-Jalil invited him to stay. The celebrity dared not refuse, although he was not supposed to receive the next fee. Invited to the table, as always, he drank, boasted, and flirted with the young daughters and wives of Aman-Jalil's colleagues. But the guests envied his presence and forgave his little jokes: this celebrity did not visit ordinary mortals, and his fees were breathtaking.
The old bridegroom stared blankly at the people gathered in his house: all strangers, he had never seen them before, except for Aman-Jalil, with whom he had had a preliminary conversation that the old man couldn't recall without shuddering. He already quietly hated his young wife, five months pregnant, for the second day since she moved in, acting as if she had grown up here, the mistress… "And her mother, damn sluts, looks so foolish: she gazes, silly thing, like a love-struck girl at the young husband, and he gazes at her daughter. Well, what a family! What's happening in this world, everything has turned upside down: the young marry old men, I'm fit to be her grandfather, and the young marry old women, but this marriage is beyond my understanding. In the past, such marriages were only for convenience, but what convenience can this young lad have? The widow has no money, although what kind of widow is she, damn it, she's not even a widow yet. I should kick them all to the devil! Just stand up and curse: 'go to such-and-such's mother!' As for me, this devil will kill my Javanshir right away, and I'm ready to give everything, sacrifice everything for the sake of saving my only child. For my boy, I'm ready to crawl on my knees before them. But this young slut, I'll get my revenge, I've already figured out how I'll do it… And what a wedding I had forty years ago, no one then thought about a coup, what a life it was under Renke, oh, what a life. Recently heard on the radio how a famous actress gave an interview: sweetly praised Iosif Besarionis's bloody regime, talked about how everyone lives well, but when asked how she envisions our bright future, she replied that when everything is like under Renke, stores are full of goods, you can freely travel abroad… and something else similar, I don't remember anymore. I'm sure all the radio workers involved in that broadcast were either fired, imprisoned, or even shot… For Javanshir, I made a deal that compared to it, selling my damn soul is nothing."
Aman-Jalil soon led the "newlyweds" into the bedroom. They bid them farewell with laughter, greasy jokes, and vile suggestions. Gulshan looked at Aman-Jalil in fear. "Is he really going to lay her down with the old man? Does he want to amuse himself?"
But Aman-Jalil, unabashed, stripped naked and climbed into the bed prepared for the "newlyweds."
– Undress and come to me, – he ordered Gulshan. – Or do you fancy this old man? So I'll get up… Just not to give him a place, but to kill him.
Gulshan began to undress, but she felt ashamed, blushed, and looked imploringly at Aman-Jalil.
– What, does this old prick bother you? – the brazen man taunted. – Hey, old prick, did you hear? You're bothering your lawful wife. And every word of hers is law to you. Bring a small table, put wine and fruit on it, and disappear. There's a small closet nearby, you haven't forgotten it, I think tonight you'll spend it there so that the guests think you're sleeping in tender maiden embraces… Oh, before I forget: take the sheet stained with blood from my bag, in two hours come out to the guests and show it with a happy face. Got it?
The old "bridegroom" nodded grimly. Aman-Jalil frowned.
– Didn't hear, say it again!
– In two hours, with a happy face, I'll come out to the guests and demonstrate the symbol of her innocence. If the guests don't die of laughter, they'll be satisfied.
– If someone starts dying of laughter, they'll report to me, I'll help him… die.
The old "bridegroom" set a table next to the bed, put wine and fruit on it, took out from Aman-Jalil's bag a sheet pre-prepared with signs of someone's innocence, and went to the closet located next to the bedroom.
Gulshan slowly undressed, feeling unusual excitement and novelty. Being five months pregnant, she had never really known a man until now. This was truly her first wedding night. Gulshan turned off the light and lay in the bridal bed next to her lover, the father of her future child.
Meanwhile, her lawful husband lay sleepless in the closet, thinking about his son, about the immense sacrifices he would make in the name of saving his life, waiting for the stipulated time when they would come for him, and he would have to play the comedy, affirming the innocence of his imposed wife, who was not his wife, and therefore acknowledge himself as the father of another's child, all in the name of saving his…
And this shameful moment came. Aman-Jalil's men went after him and led him to the guests. The guests greeted the "happy bridegroom" with drunken, sated laughter. Pretending to be overjoyed, the unfortunate husband and father unfolded the sheet and demonstrated fresh blood stains. Welcoming cries, approving shouts, even rowdy remarks filled the air. But only for a moment did silence fall, a neighbor of the old man's sneered from across the street:
– You can work miracles like a saint. However, no saint has ever performed such a miracle, you're the first.
Each of his words was his death sentence. In the morning, the neighbor was arrested, in the afternoon he was tried with a group of "conspirators," all of whom willingly claimed him as their own, and in the evening he was shot… If there are deadly jokes, this one was suicidal.
Aman-Jalil began to demonstrate his omnipotence.
Winter and spring flew by unnoticed. Upon Gulshan's demand, her husband rewrote his house and all his property to her, and he now lived in his own house as a lodger. The widow pitied him and took care of him, feeding him, washing his clothes, while Gulshan paid him no attention, as if he didn't exist. People are like that: they love those whom they do good to and hate those whom they offend or harm, willingly or unwittingly. The chauffeur courted Gulshan lovingly, trying to please her in everything, catching every glance from her, while his wife silently envied her daughter, silent but watching their every move.
In the summer, Gulshan's mother gave birth to a girl, and Gulshan gave birth to a boy. Her first childbirth was difficult, and Gulshan was to spend at least a month in the maternity hospital. Aman-Jalil visited her, but not daily.
– A chief can't show undue interest in his subordinate, – he reassured her.
In reality, however, Aman-Jalil had cooled towards Gulshan. He became infatuated with a cabaret singer. The woman turned out to be unyielding, and it was difficult for Aman-Jalil to arrest her on suspicion of espionage and enjoy her for the three lawful days of preliminary investigation. Almost every day, Aman-Jalil visited the young detainees in prison. The newcomer was transferred to a specially equipped cell, where there was a nickel-plated bed with a soft net, delicacies and alcoholic beverages were brought to the cell, and Aman-Jalil spent three nights in the prison. Having enjoyed the fresh air, Aman-Jalil released her, even if she was actually a spy. But if the girl resisted, then she was tied by her arms and legs to the bedposts, and Aman-Jalil got what he wanted, but in that case, a queue of guards lined up after him, anyone who was free and willing, patients with venereal diseases were put at the end of the line, and the poor victim serviced everyone against their will. Sometimes the weak victims breathed their last under another sweaty and stinking body. If the scandal couldn't be hushed up, the guards drew lots, and the one who drew the lot was "disgraced" from his job. A report on the harsh measures taken was sent upstairs, and Aman-Jalil placed the failure somewhere in the area.
But Nigyar, as the singer was called, belonged to those circles where Aman-Jalil had not yet been granted access and where he was eager to enter. Perhaps that's why Aman-Jalil craved her love, admiration, her attachment. But this "ungrateful" woman refused to see him, sent back expensive gifts. But most offensive to Aman-Jalil was that Nigyar was the wife of Kasym-the-know-it-all, who had tormented him with mockery at school. Kasym worked as a compere, leading his wife's concerts, filling the pauses between numbers with jokes, humorous sketches… His wife, apparently, had told him about Aman-Jalil's courtship, and Kasym publicly shamed him, not naming names, but Aman-Jalil understood everything, he had already learned to understand half-words, and Kasym-the-know-it-all he always understood. And he always had the desire to slap Kasym like a fly, he hated this brazen, insolent man.
But his hands were tied. Kasym was a relative of Ahmed himself, not close, but a relative. And it was impossible to take him with bare hands. Especially since at all government concerts, Kasym spoke the right words, only those that are allowed to be spoken. But at government concerts, Kasym did not perform so often. But at regular concerts, Kasym, as Aman-Jalil found out, also managed to work as an intelligence officer, catching foreign agents who flew into our "world center" under the guise of musicians. Kasym was very intelligent, for Aman-Jalil's love of Nigyar's family, the government would not touch him. And so the matter was at an impasse.
Times were changing, but Kasym couldn't change quickly enough. He often had a strange dream: that wings were growing out of him and he was leaping off a cliff, flying far, far away through the darkness of the night towards the horizon ablaze with the dawn's flickers. Yet, the wings started to fall apart feather by feather, and how helpless his hands felt in the air, how powerless they were, nothing to lean on, nowhere to hold onto, and the abyss was endless, and as he fell, Kasym gradually dissolved into the air, or rather merged…
Aman-Jalil decided to try to destroy Kasym, to "catch" him on something. For this, he needed qualified help. So, he summoned Ayesha, a well-known writer in the city and throughout the country. Aman-Jalil knew well that the writer also worked in the circus and cabaret, writing sketches and replays under the pseudonym Pendyr. The summons to the inquisition already evoked a tremor of respect in the law-abiding hearts of citizens; for many, this summons proved to be final, and they did not return home. Therefore, the writer, pale as a wall, looked obsequiously at Aman-Jalil and was ready for anything. Aman-Jalil spent a long time compiling lists of "conspirators," paying no attention to Ayesha. Then he graciously noticed him.
– Dear Ayesha! Have you been here long? These secretaries don't understand anything about visitors. They have one measure for everyone. And I'm exhausted, I have no strength left.
– It's okay, it's okay, – stammered Ayesha, – I'll wait, I have plenty of time, not in a hurry.
