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– Once we summon someone here, they stop thinking about work. They're only interested in their own skin. Do you understand me, my friend?
– Clearly, how could I not understand, I completely agree with you.
– Do you know that your relative has been arrested?
– I know, of course, but I declare that he is not my relative and not even of the same surname. Among the Ayeshas, there have never been degenerates.
– A major conspirator, eh! I swear by my father, I don't know what to do: he claims that you, dear respected writer, knew about his conspiracy. No, he doesn't say you were involved, I don't claim that, it's up to the investigator to say, but he knew.
Ayesha slid off the chair onto his knees.
– I swear by my father, I didn't know, damn it, I've only seen this relative once. I'll eat dirt, he's deceiving you, dear chief.
– Perhaps, perhaps, they're capable of anything. But unfortunately, it's possible that you will still learn about the delights of Bibir Island.
Ayesha banged his forehead on the floor.
– I beg you, dear Aman-Jalil, save me, I'll do anything for you, want me to write a book for you "Iosif Besarionis and the Children," and you can present it to the Great Leader.
– Let's think about it, let's think… Listen, do you know Kasym?
– I've met him, but he doesn't read my stories from the stage, prefers to write them himself.
– Write one that he will read, one that can get him arrested. "Set him up," and I'll remove you from the lists, I promise. Are you willing to help me?
– I'll do everything, boss!… There's one story about Iosif Besarionis's mustache.
– Listen, isn't that the one whose author is already relaxing on the island?
– I'll offer it to Kasym as my own. No one knows about this story.
– Go, work for the good of your country.
There were such terrible rumors about the delights of Bibir Island, and the writer's imagination was so rich that Ayesha had to drink heart drops at home, even though his heart was perfectly healthy… Taking a copy of the manuscript from its hiding place, for which the author was arrested not without Ayesha's help, he retyped it on his typewriter. Kasym had other manuscripts, and he could accidentally compare the fonts. But Ayesha didn't dare to call Kasym and personally hand him the story, afraid to reveal himself with something. So, he called Kasym's friend, the cabaret director Bulov, and asked him to come over in the evening to take the manuscript for Kasym. Bulov willingly agreed; Ayesha always had good cognac, as soon as he hinted that gasoline was expensive these days, Ayesha pulled out a bottle of Courvoisier from the buffet and poured a glass. Bulov, slowly savoring, squeezed out the cognac and, taking the manuscript for Kasym, left. On the way, he stopped by the club of underground millionaires, met a couple of acquaintances in the buffet, drank a glass of vodka on their tab, washing it down with a glass of dry wine, then his friends persuaded him to take them to a restaurant to meet the veterans of the battles in the Serra mountains, the veterans had already stopped consuming strong spirits. Overloaded beyond measure, Bulov remembered that he promised to deliver the manuscript to Kasym.
The steering wheel of the car stopped obeying Bulov, so the director decided to leave the car at the restaurant and walk, luckily Kasym lived in the center, nearby. But after a block, Bulov saw the woman of his dreams and went after her. The woman was a professional, hoping for an acquaintance, she walked slowly, but Bulov thought she was speeding like an express train. Staggering from side to side, he stubbornly followed her, but caught up with her only in the old city district, when the woman, convinced that she was being approached, simply stopped. Bulov circled her for a long time, then tediously seduced the woman, from those women who make their piece of bread with butter on the panel, and was very proud of himself when he convinced her to take him home. He offered her twenty-five coins, so he liked her. If the woman demanded payment, the night of adventures would have cost Bulov only five coins, and twenty would have remained for a familiar venereologist. But the pleasure of being able to persuade another woman also cost something, let it be an extra twenty coins.
Slums, they are everywhere – slums. In a sober state, Bulov would not risk showing up here, but he was "knee-deep" in drunk. After a long wandering through crooked, tangled alleys, passages, through yards merging into each other, Bulov would not have found his way back even if he had been threatened with execution, the woman finally led him to her small, tiny apartment, where she honestly earned the unexpectedly inflated amount.
Bulov felt like going to the toilet. It turned out that all "amenities" were in the yard.
– You'll go out to the yard and fifty meters to the right, – the woman explained to him readily.
– What if I run out in just my underwear, I'll even put shoes on one bare foot, nothing?
– Who will you see here at such a late hour, your acquaintances, or what? The night is warm, run like that, just don't fall there. Maybe I should escort you? – she worried.
– Are you crazy? – Bulov was offended. – I'm as sober as a glass.
As soon as Bulov crossed the threshold of the house and found himself in the yard, the fresh night air played a nasty trick on him: instead of sobering him up, it further dazed him. Bulov went left, and having reached the neighboring yard, remembered that he needed to turn right, and turned right, wandered through the yards for a long time, finally, not finding the toilet and unable to endure any longer, he relieved himself in front of someone's window, not seeing a grandmother in the window, apparently suffering from insomnia, and now she was fearfully crossing herself at the sight of such shamelessness of a strangely dressed creature… And warm autumn nights become cold far beyond midnight, sometimes even frosts occur. Bulov, trembling, began to lose his fleeting body, wandered from yard to yard, from alley to alley, but only completely confused himself in the yards, forgot what the house where he was so warmly greeted looked like. To warm himself up, he started running, examining the houses, looking for "his," but the alleys unexpectedly began to end in dead ends, the houses threateningly loomed, the alleys became all too narrow, he could already touch the opposite sides with outstretched arms at the same time. Bulov began to feel that the houses were trying to catch and flatten him into a pancake. He suddenly imagined that he had stumbled upon an ancient labyrinth, a trap from which there was no escape. Losing control over himself, going mad, he began to wander and shout:
– Ariadne!.. Ariadne!.. Save me!
His cries rang out loudly in the silence of the night, though such screams were not uncommon in these slums. Perhaps a startled bystander, awakened in the dead of night, might have wondered upon hearing such an unfamiliar name, but in the slums, women often bore exotic names: Rosa, Lily, Hortensia, Traviata, Viola… In every dark corner, Bulov began to imagine a lurking Minotaur, awaiting human sacrifices. For some reason, Bulov didn't fancy being devoured, so he darted from side to side, grinding his teeth and feverishly trying to recall the name of this woman, but all that echoed in his mind was, 'Ariadne! Ariadne!'
Suddenly, two enormous yellow eyes flashed in the alleyway, and something growled and sneezed as it slowly moved towards Bulov. Seeing this, Bulov screamed madly and fled down the alley, only to collide once again with the wall of a building. Feeling halfway consumed, Bulov turned back, bidding farewell to life, to the stage, to his wife and children, and… unexpectedly burst into song: 'Oh joy, my life!' Before him stood a police car. Bulov dashed towards it like he had only ever dashed towards his mother in his early childhood.
A policeman stepped out of the car.
– 'Where's the split?' he asked dryly and routinely.
– 'That's exactly what I want to find out from you!' exclaimed Bulov.
– 'What, you mean to say we split you?' the policeman took offense threateningly.
– 'No, I always undress by myself.'
– 'Did someone hit you on the head by any chance?'
– 'No, I just got lost…' Bulov hesitated. 'Do you know where a certain whore lives around here?'
– 'If you'd asked about a decent woman, I could have told you – there's one right here, in this house, paralyzed since childhood. But as for whores in this area, there's no shortage. What kind do you want: young, old, blonde, brunette, redhead?'
– 'Blonde!' Bulov cheered. 'Looks like my first wife.'
– 'I never slept with your first wife or your second. Describe your first wife, maybe we'll find your whore based on her.'
– 'Slender, tall, young, with a face that was still… intelligent, eyes like two blue stars…'
– 'Well, well, aren't you a poet!' laughed the policeman. 'That's Kato, daughter of an enemy of the people. Be careful, she might recruit you… as a spy. Get in, we'll take you.'
Gunshots rang out nearby.
– 'It's starting again!' grumbled the policeman. 'Get in quickly, I said, we're taking you to the blue-eyed one.'
Bulov quickly hopped into the police car, and within minutes, Bulov found himself circling Kato's house, they were on the scene. The policeman ascended the stairs first and pounded on the door as hard as he could. There was dead silence behind the door.
– 'Kato, open up!'
The policeman hammered on the door with his mighty fist, like a sledgehammer.
– 'Did she fall asleep or what, damn whore!'
It was three in the morning. Bulov stood behind the policeman's broad shoulders, trembling like a leaf, cursing his love for adventure. For ten minutes, there was no sign of life from behind the door, and for those ten minutes, the policeman pounded relentlessly with his fearsome fist. Finally, a disgruntled voice came from behind the door:
– 'Couldn't find a better time for a visit?'
The door opened, and a startled Kato peered out through a crack. Upon seeing the policeman, she yelled:
– 'What the hell…'
– 'Open up, open up, witch!'
Kato swung open the door and yelled even louder:
– 'How many times have I told you not to come in the middle of the night, you damned pimp!'
– 'Shut your trap, I'm here on business.' The policeman nudged Bulov forward. 'Is this your client?'
Only then did Kato spot a trembling Bulov behind the policeman's broad back and burst into laughter until tears streamed down her face. Ignoring her laughter completely, the policeman pushed Bulov into the room and left, closing the door behind him. Meanwhile, Kato continued to laugh. Every time she looked at the nearly naked Bulov, a new wave of laughter shook her.
Frozen, Bulov leaped headlong into the bed, warming up in the warm sheets and stopping his teeth from chattering, he looked around and noticed that his clothes had disappeared.
– 'Hey, where's my clothes?' he wondered.
Kato bent over laughing even harder.
– 'Oh, I can't, I'm going to die right now…'
– 'Hey, don't die, where did you put them?' Bulov asked worriedly.
– 'I burned your clothes, threw them in the stove, burned everything.'
– 'Are you out of your mind?'
– 'You brought this on yourself.' Kato stopped laughing. 'Half an hour later, I went to look for you, thought maybe you fell into a pit, that board there is completely rotted. You weren't in the toilet, or in the pit either, I walked around, shouted, nowhere to be found, came home worried, every morning we find at least one corpse, how many don't we find?..'
– 'What does my clothes have to do with it?' Bulov asked in surprise.
– 'They started shooting, then the police, I didn't know who came, thought they'd find your clothes and I'd be done for, stage by stage, goodbye to my native land. I threw everything into the stove, banged so hard on the door that I heard your voice when I went to open it, and it was too late anyway, I doused your clothes with kerosene, burned them so they'd burn faster.'
– 'My manuscript was in the jacket.'
– "Been and gone," Kato grumbled. "You don't know what 'big shmuck' means. They'll find any little thing, it's curtains for me, blow it up into a political case."
Bulov sighed. There was no use complaining, especially not to a cop nicknamed "the pimp."
"Well, I'll say I gave Kasym the manuscript. Kasym never reads Ayesha's crappy works anyway."
In the morning, Kato brought him old trousers and a shirt borrowed from a neighbor, and Bulov trudged home, checking the route against Kato's map every second to avoid getting lost again.
"I didn't burn the manuscript. Pulled it out of my jacket pocket out of boredom, recognized his signature right away. I've typed enough of his manuscripts over those two years, I know the typewriter font by heart. Started reading this one and couldn't put it down: this story was once written by my father, the reason he disappeared into the wilds of Bibir Island. And the one who snitched on my father, after he read the manuscript, now claims his story as his own, pseudonym Pendyr might fool anyone else, not me. Scoundrel! How he pretended to care about me when father vanished without a trace, leaving me with nothing, everything confiscated, he was father's friend, indeed, all for the sake of dragging me into his bed. I was fifteen then… Two years later, I found the draft of the denunciation, unsigned, incomplete, but in his typewriter font… I nearly died, I loved him. Kept silent. And he found a lucrative wife and threw me out onto the street, saying, 'you're grown, work!' But where to work, when everyone avoided me like the plague, no one would hire me… Until I found 'the panel.' It unites them all: professionals and amateurs. Those amateurs, I'd tear them all apart: they have families, children, everything I dreamed of as heaven… What drove them to the panel? Were they starving like me and my kind?… Were they pursued like rabid, sick, homeless dogs?… That's where you sent me to work!… Never mind, now you're in my hands. I'm sure those who sent my father away so far haven't read this story themselves. Iosif Besarionis's cockroach mustaches are sacred, and anyone who laughs at them is a blasphemer… But we must wait. Our inquisitors will catch on… Yesterday, one guard, they're just as talkative in bed as anyone else, said they're expecting a big boss's arrival, Iosif Besarionis's closest aide… He's coming to inspect… If he can't pass it on, we'll wait, there's no rush, live while you can."
Aman-Jalil got married. It was advantageous. And he couldn't refuse.
Ahmed called him to his office over the phone:
"Come in, my dear, I have a gift for you!"
Aman-Jalil hurried to his boss. Aman-Jalil's nervousness wasn't unfounded; Ahmed's gifts were hard for many to stomach, and some perished from indigestion. Anything could happen, so Aman-Jalil checked his channels, known only to him. There seemed to be no storm brewing, at least nobody knew anything.
In Ahmed's office, Aman-Jalil saw a young, beautiful girl. Aman-Jalil liked her, but she glanced briefly at him, frowned maliciously, and turned away. Ahmed stood up from his desk, approached him like a long-awaited guest.
"I'm glad to see you, my dear! Great Iosif Besarionis said he's watching your work and is pleased with it. He remembers you… And you, remember who you owe everything to… Now, back to business, I invited you here for this… Look at this beauty! Listen, you can't imagine how long it took me to persuade her. Every day on the phone, I told her about your great love, how you torment me with your talks about her, sent her your gifts, ordered flowers at your request. If I didn't love you like a son, I would have grown tired long ago of coaxing this capricious beauty. So, you owe me! I've fulfilled your pleas: she agreed to be your wife. Now you can call me 'dad'!… Let's kiss!"
Ahmed embraced Aman-Jalil and shed tears. Anyone who didn't know Ahmed, seeing this scene, might seriously think he was a "kind uncle." Aman-Jalil knew better. So, he shed tears in response, respectfully kissed Ahmed's hand.
"My gratitude knows no bounds! You are the light that illuminates the beautiful path to an unparalleled future! I owe you everything, and until my last breath, I will remember this."
Ahmed led Aman-Jalil to the capricious and discontented beauty.
"My daughter! Here's that shy admirer who tormented me with his stories of his love for you. Look, Majnun, here's your Layla. Children, give each other your hands, unite them to walk together on the path of happiness and harmony."
Without hesitation, Aman-Jalil reached out, trying to show happiness and love on his face and in his eyes. The girl stood up, glanced at Aman-Jalil for a moment, and reluctantly extended her hand. But her handshake was gentle and warm. She was half a head taller than Aman-Jalil, slender, graceful, with huge black eyes that harmonized beautifully with her flowing black hair. She was more beautiful than Gulshan, exuding an aristocratic air. She belonged to the circle where Aman-Jalil's road was previously paved. Yet, something mean, haughty, and unpleasant was imprinted on this angelic face.
"My name is really Layla, but I hope that father's beautiful metaphor is only half true, and you're not Majnun. I can't stand mad, sentimental admirers pretending to be Werther. Surely you've read 'The Sorrows of Young Werther'? Nonsense and rubbish are in the title itself, as if there could be an old Werther. What the author wants to impress upon us doesn't mean it's reality…"
She continued talking, but Aman-Jalil had tuned her out, lost in his own thoughts: he was thrilled to learn that Layla was Ahmed's daughter.
"Frankly, I was sure Ahmed would marry me off to one of his mistresses," Aman-Jalil admitted to himself. "But refusal wasn't an option. And this way, it's advantageous. To be kin with Ahmed himself…"
"Did you swallow your tongue out of joy?" Ahmed chuckled.
Aman-Jalil hastily feigned embarrassment. Layla looked at him mockingly and somewhat arrogantly.
"I agree to be your wife, but on one condition: every word of mine is law to you!… Understand?"
Her eyes flashed so fiercely that Aman-Jalil thanked Allah that his heart belonged to Gulshan and Nigyar. Falling for this monster would mean a lifetime of suffering, or at least until you loved. So he obediently bowed his head.
"So it shall be: every word of yours is law to me."
Ahmed clapped his hands. Immediately, servants entered the study carrying a black morning coat for the groom and a white lace gown with Dutch gold embroidery for the bride. Leila went to the sitting room behind the study.
– The mullah is waiting, the priest too. Everything's set at the Palace of Matrimony and Family. First the mosque, then the church. Shame they turned the Catholic cathedral into a warehouse, they've just finished renovating it. And then the seals and champagne at the Palace of Matrimony and Family… How do you like the grand plan?… Oh, here are the golden watches with two diamonds each for you. A gift for your daughter. She's a symbolist, whatever that means—I checked with the medics just in case. They say it's nothing serious… Your gift, the diamond necklace, I've already presented to the bride. Tell me, where did you get such money, huh? You're just a humble inquisition clerk, yet this necklace costs ten times more than what you earn in ten years. Are you saving on matches?
– An aunt passed away and left it to me," Aman-Jalil replied, playing along nervously.
– So, you have several of them? My dear, then I'm at ease about my daughter. She won't know the meaning of 'denial'. Right?
– Don't worry, boss. If a shadow of discontent crosses her face, that shadow will vanish in my dungeons…
– That's right: the pure with the pure, the impure with the impure!
Aman-Jalil changing into his outfit was a matter of minutes. They waited a long time for Leila. Minutes dragged by in complete silence. Ahmed perused papers, jotting notes into a thick, leather-bound tome. 'Mortirologia'. Everyone knew about it, but no mortal, except Ahmed, had ever dared to peer into its pages.
Aman-Jalil watched a fly that had managed to slip past the servants into the study. His fingers automatically reached into his vest pocket, where he had stashed an elastic band from his suit. The fly lazily explored the vast chamber, filled with a sweet scent, gradually approaching Aman-Jalil. On the small table next to him lay a large open box of rum-filled chocolate bombs. Aman-Jalil swatted the fly over the open box, wiped the elastic band absentmindedly on his vest, tucked it back into his pocket, and with his bloodied fingers, picked up a rum-filled chocolate bomb and popped it into his mouth. A tiny sip of rum pleasantly refreshed his throat, and the chocolate eased the mild burn…
Finally, the door from the sitting room swung open, and Leila entered in her bridal attire. The men stood up respectfully, struck by her beauty and elegance. Although Aman-Jalil briefly thought Gulshan would look just as stunning in that expensive bridal gown. He thought, then pushed the thought aside and knelt before Leila.
