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– Goddess, I am your unworthy servant! To look upon you is to be blinded by the sun!
Leila was very pleased with the impression she made, soothed by Aman-Jalil's submission…
No mullah had ever married such an odd couple. 'I commit sacrilege, Allah! But understand: if I refuse, at best they'll throw me in prison, at worst they'll kill me, I know them. Neither of them believes in you, so this whole spectacle is illegal, but what do they care? They've desecrated the holy mosque, and now they're off to the church. They close down temples and mosques, turn them into warehouses or even stables.'
The mullah hurried through the ceremony, swiftly reciting verses from the Quran as a lesson, but upon receiving the money, he counted it with pleasure, as he hadn't seen such a sum in a year.
The wedding ceremony at the church was long and solemn. But then Leila became restless, running around the chancel, dragging Aman-Jalil, her father, the priest, and the others present along with her. She tore off her veil and waved it around, singing an inappropriate French song. The priest silently moved his lips, praying to himself so as not to incur the wrath of the Lord, and was on the verge of fainting.
– Champagne! – Leila shouted.
A crate of champagne appeared instantly. Ancient icons had often heard the clash of swords, the whistle of arrows, gunfire, but they had never heard the popping of corks from bottles. It was as if wild hordes had burst into the temple of love and forgiveness, bringing in horses and setting fires. But these were not fires; they were generous tips. Leila lit them from the candles and tossed them into the air or stuck them under the icons. They drank champagne, sprinkled it on the chancel, and poured it on the icons…
The revelry continued at the Palace of Matrimony and Family. Gleaming with excitement, Leila hurled crystal glasses at the walls and champagne bottles through the windows, shattering the glass. She theatrically tore apart the marriage registry book. The solemnity of the ceremony was shattered. At Ahmed's signal, another book was swiftly brought in, a separate one, bound in satin, with gold embossing on thick paper. Leila resigned herself, signed her name coldly, and gave Aman-Jalil a cool kiss.
At the feast table, Leila was the epitome of calmness. She looked at the abundance laid out before her but did not eat or drink. For such an occasion as a wedding, Ahmed had ordered the museum's ancient imperial gold service, a gift from the Emir, and the guests reverently partook from this service, feeling themselves among the world's elite.
In bed, Aman-Jalil was pleasantly surprised to find she was still a virgin. True, her expertise raised some doubts, but Aman-Jalil had known since childhood how girls could engage in sex while remaining virgins… Therefore, he proudly displayed the sheets with fresh bloodstains to the assembled guests, provoking a wave of delight and another reason for new toasts and libations.
Out of habit more than curiosity, when he returned to duty, Aman-Jalil requested information on his wife from the capital's archives. The information stunned him. The report listed numerous romantic liaisons of Leila's, but those were trivial; what truly astounded Aman-Jalil was that a year ago, Leila had officially married, registering her union in the capital out of great love, severing all her numerous romantic ties.
Aman-Jalil tasked his agent-doctor to visit all clinics, and within a day, a frightened surgeon stood before Aman-Jalil, begging for mercy.
– If Ahmed finds out, I won't escape Bibir Island.
– They don't exile the dead! – Aman-Jalil replied mysteriously.
The broken doctor spilled everything to him right away: how he performed surgery on Leila, making her a virgin again. For some reason, the surgeon began to boast about the staggering fee, but Aman-Jalil cut him off and kicked him out of the office, yelling unexpectedly:
– Get out, you sanctimonious prick, or I'll turn you into a boy!
Ahmed's betrayal stung Aman-Jalil deeply. He had been ready to marry Ahmed's mistress, only to be deceived about his own daughter. The world of men worked in strange ways.
Returning from their honeymoon brought another disappointment: his wife was expecting a child.
– A pregnant virgin! – Aman-Jalil whispered to himself in disbelief. What could be more absurd…
Gulshan fell into depression. She took Aman-Jalil's marriage hard. Before their trip to the Azores, he had spent an entire day with her, tender and tireless. Something about Aman-Jalil's disappointed face held her back from asking how his wife compared.
With Aman-Jalil gone, everything began to fall apart. And then her stepfather started paying too much attention, trying to barge into her room when she was changing clothes. He stared through the window when she forgot to draw the curtain between the toilet and the bath. Her mother was jealous, lashing out over trifles. The atmosphere in the house became unbearable. Only the old master walked around, oblivious to everything except his son. Lately, he had been dreaming of the boy, reaching out to him with a smile…
Gulshan started drinking, crying like a child. She felt sorry for herself. She had fallen in love with the cognac brought to the local chief. And she liked it so much that one day, she got drunk, passed out, and fell asleep in a chair.
Her stepfather, finding her in such a convenient state, took advantage of the opportunity. He carried her to the bedroom, undressed her hurriedly, and took her with a joy comparable to a thirsty traveler finding an oasis in the desert. Though Gulshan was insensible, she still experienced a kind of ecstatic pleasure.
In the early morning, the exhausted chauffeur fell asleep. Gulshan woke to his loud snoring. She stared at her stepfather through blurry eyes, her head pounding, mouth dry, thoughts confused. Then her husband's father walked into the room.
– You should lock the door! – he grumbled, seeing her stepfather in her bed.
And he left the room, spitting on the ground. Gulshan felt destroyed, dead inside. She got out of bed, put on a robe, and went to the bathroom. She scrubbed herself fiercely, as if trying to scrub away every touch of her abusive stepfather. When she came out of the bathroom, Gulshan drank a strong, hot tea, trying to regain her composure. But in her head, the words kept pounding: "It's all over, it's all over, it's all over… If Aman-Jalil finds out, he'll kick me out to hell and back… Then it's the panel for me, but even that won't let me go, he'll send me to some remote place where seeing a decent human face is already a holiday. I need to find a way out immediately, I need to find it now…"
Gulshan grabbed a heavy, thick stick from the kitchen, used for stirring laundry in the vat, and went into the bedroom. Her stepfather lay on his back, snoring with his mouth wide open. Gulshan struck him several times in the face with the stick, knocking out a couple of teeth before he woke up, yelling:
– Have you gone mad, you fool? I'll disfigure you, you whore!
Gulshan fetched a small, almost toy-like pistol from the bedside table drawer, a nickel-plated Browning.
– I'll shoot you, you dog!
– Fool! – the frightened chauffeur recoiled from her. – What will Aman-Jalil say when they find me here naked? Think before you act.
And with that, clutching his clothes, Gulshan's stepfather slowly exited the bedroom. Despite her urge to pull the trigger into his bare back, she couldn't bring herself to do it. Killing someone for the first time is exceedingly difficult. At the threshold, her stepfather turned back.
– Keep silent, or I'll come up with something you'll never wash off in your life! – he threatened menacingly, spitting blood.
And he slipped out the door. It was then that Gulshan remembered her official husband had entered the bedroom earlier, saying something she couldn't recall, but regardless – he was a dangerous witness.
"Stepfather will stay silent," Gulshan thought. "But what's the point of protecting me? He'll betray me!"
And an idea dawned on her. A terrifying idea. Such ideas only arise from desperation or from twisted minds. Gulshan went to the study. She didn't quit her job not because she had nothing else to live on, but because she couldn't leave Aman-Jalil unattended. Besides, Aman-Jalil didn't insist on it; he needed a devoted person in such a responsible position as secretary…
From the closet, Gulshan took out last year's lists of executed prisoners, found the most suitable one, which included the surnames of her late husband's son's friends and acquaintances, meaning he could have heard of or known them. Diluting the ink with water to make the writing look faded and old, Gulshan added the surname, first name, and patronymic of her fake husband's son to the list. She carefully dried the entry on the hotplate. Now the forgery could only be detected with specialized equipment, more advanced than the human eye. And the old man's eyes were weak.
Having crafted such a deadly weapon, Gulshan returned home. She had grown so accustomed to considering this house her own that she forgot it belonged to someone else, or rather, it had belonged until recently, and essentially, she had stolen it.
The old man was praying when Gulshan entered his room.
– Can't you refrain from defiling my prayers for even a minute with your presence? – the old man snapped angrily at her. – I forbid you to enter my room.
– We need to talk.
The old man sneered at Gulshan.
– Afraid I'll tell Aman-Jalil how you're cheating on him? Maybe I will, maybe I won't! Depends on how you behave!
Gulshan smiled.
– Who will believe you, you old sot! You were also forbidden to enter my rooms.
– I was thinking of my son, my feet brought me here out of habit, after all, this used to be his room.
– Dreaming of a reunion?
– It's my only hope.
– You'll meet on the other side, you won't see each other here anymore.
– Liar, whore, – the old man turned pale. – Aman-Jalil promised me…
– Men promise all sorts of things, – Gulshan interrupted, laughing. – Look here! I found last year's lists, your son is in them. He's been dead for a long time.
And Gulshan tossed the lists onto the table in front of the old man. He put on his silver-framed glasses with trembling hands and slowly moved his lips as he read through the entire list again, marking familiar names:
– Eri! And you're here! Such a bright mind… Mamad! What did you do to deserve this? You wouldn't hurt a fly…
Reaching the end of the list, the old man whispered his son's surname, first name, and patronymic, then repeated them louder and suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs, a strength difficult to imagine coming from his frail, feeble body.
– No-o-o!.. No-o-o! He promised me! I gave him everything: my honor, my house, my wealth… I paid such a ransom… And he's been dead for a whole year…
The old man cried bitterly, like only little children cry, wiping his eyes with his fists.
– Savages!.. Are these people? Worse than beasts, even beasts are better… That's why he appears to me every night as a child: reaching out his little hands and laughing…
The old man howled. His terrible cry poured out through the open window and startled all the nearby dogs, who also howled in response. Gulshan paled with fear; tears of pity streamed from her eyes, but there was no one left to confess to, the old man had gone mad; he began to laugh joyously and happily, reaching out to his apparent little son and gently calling out to him:
– Come to me, darling, come braver, only the first step is difficult, the main thing is not to fall after the first step, the main thing is not to fall…
The old man reached forward and fell, his eyes froze. Gulshan recoiled from him in horror. The old man was dead. He had lived with only one hope, and with his death, there was nothing left for him to do on this earth. Gulshan hastily grabbed the lists and fled from the room of the man she had killed. In her own room, she carefully cut out the perfectly forged piece with scissors, burned it, and returned the lists to their place in the study: who knows, maybe someone would dig them up. However, in all her time as a secretary, no one had ever asked about them, no one had shown any interest…
Aman-Jalil arrived and went to work the next day.
Seeing Gulshan, he snapped:
– Started drinking?.. I'll beat you!
Gulshan burst into tears. All the pain and resentment, all the horror she had endured spilled out and flooded the room. Aman-Jalil recoiled from this outpouring and shut himself in his office. After a while, he summoned Gulshan to him.
– Everything remains the same for us. Don't be upset!.. Remember: we have a son! What happened to you?
– The old man died.
– I know, they told me… It's all for the best. I never figured out how to tell him that his son has been dead for a year…
– And you knew about it? – Gulshan was horrified by the coincidence.
– An agreement was made, but I simply didn't have time to help his son: he fled the island, tried to swim across the ocean strait, and was torn apart by sharks; they specifically breed them there, feeding them the bodies of prisoners.
– And you kept silent? – Gulshan stared at him in fear.
– Am I a fool to miss out on such a benefit? Something came your way too, I did it for you. And the old man lived another year, married a young woman, what's wrong with that?…
– His death is on me!
– Forget about it! One less person on earth, one more… "You can't make an omelet without breaking eggs!" There are plenty of people.
Gulshan was about to leave the office but stopped at the door and said:
– There's more! The driver is making lewd propositions. Yesterday, I had to beat his face with a stick; he almost raped me.
– Almost or did he? – Aman-Jalil smirked. – Just kidding, don't get mad, almost doesn't count. Don't worry, I'll cool him off.
Gulshan left the office, and Aman-Jalil took a powerful Zeiss binocular from his desk and started looking toward the garage in the courtyard of the inquisition. A group of drivers, gathered around one of the cars, were "killing time," telling jokes, smoking hash, and gossiping about their bosses. All these conversations eventually landed in recordings on Aman-Jalil's desk; sometimes, even a minor detail could spark a serious case. Aman-Jalil's driver, showing off his new gold teeth replacing his knocked-out ones, laughed and joked more than anyone. His eyes were hidden behind large black sunglasses, making him look like an Italian mafioso. Aman-Jalil watched him for a long time, pondering what to do with this scoundrel, then called his assistant, showed him the driver through the binoculars, and quietly whispered instructions. The assistant listened silently, nodding in agreement.
Aman-Jalil stayed late in the office, catching up on work accumulated during his honeymoon. The driver waited obediently; it was his shift. He was nervous, feeling a gnawing unease.
– Curse the day and hour when the crazy thought of taking Gulshan came to my mind, – he scolded himself. – For one sweet night, I might end up on Bibir Island if that fool confesses to Aman-Jalil… No, she wouldn’t. Is she mad? They'll send me to the island, but she'll never forgive that night with me, kick me out… And she has a child! She might even say it's mine… No, she'll stay silent, I'm sure. I'll wait… If she keeps quiet, she's scared. When the boss is busy, I'll make her sleep with me again; now, he'll be busy at night often: young wife, beautiful, not like that village girl… But what a body she has, what a body. A houri!
Late at night, Aman-Jalil finally got into the car and ordered the driver to take him to Gulshan. The escort car followed them, but Aman-Jalil didn’t take any guards with him. Hearing the address, the driver got scared, sweat trickling down his spine. Driving as if in a dream, he reached the house, feverishly contemplating: will there be a talk with the three of them, after which he’d be sent away, and that would be the best outcome, or not? Stopping the car at the entrance, the driver quickly jumped out to open the door for Aman-Jalil.
And then rifle shots rang out. Consecutively. Three bullets hit the driver. The first bullet wounded him. He turned around and looked pleadingly at Aman-Jalil. He sat still, smiling at him. In Aman-Jalil’s eyes, the driver read his verdict. And it was only death. It came with the second bullet. So, the third was redundant. The guards rushed out at the shots, thoroughly searching the nearby houses but found no strangers.
The widow mourned at the funeral; she still felt sorry for her foolish young husband, the father of her little daughter. But Gulshan smiled, beginning to enjoy the power to control life and death…
All the morning newspapers were filled with descriptions of the nocturnal attack by the enemies of the people on the defender of law and order. They detailed Aman-Jalil’s firmness and bravery. They praised the driver’s heroism: "the valor of a soldier shielding his commander with his body." The driver was posthumously awarded a high honor. A toilet on Liberation Square was named after him, and Gulshan loved to visit it whenever she was in the center, to pay her respects… The widow was granted a pension and a hero’s ration. Gulshan’s mother took her little daughter back to her hometown. Now she was not ashamed to return…
Arif, Iosif Besarionis’s closest aide, hadn’t visited Ahmed in a while.
– How many years have passed? – he mused, standing by the train window, watching the endless salt flats roll by. – Ah, it was the year when I failed to catch that shepherd boy. Clever boy! Vanished like a ghost, even abroad they can’t find him, probably changed his name. I always said: clever boy!… What a memory Sucker has. So many years, and he remembers every look. Hears another word behind every word. A true Great Leader!… If he’s sending me on an inspection, it means he's dissatisfied with Ahmed. Impossible to find out, the Great One doesn’t share such thoughts, so better find a replacement for Ahmed just in case. But who?… Candidates are plenty.
The special train raced on, not stopping even at major stations. And who doesn't love a fast ride. Other trains moved aside, letting this armored, weapon-laden, thug-filled convoy pass without complaint. When the train safely passed through a station, the station master crossed himself, whether he was a follower of Allah or Buddha…
The platform, washed with hot soapy water, smelled of French perfumes and church incense. For a week, all public toilets within a five-hundred-meter radius around the platform had been closed. On the platform, covered with expensive Persian carpets, stood the local elite headed by Ahmed. An honor guard of beast-like Indians from the Chech-In and In-Gu tribes was assembled. Young girls in national Indian costumes, all plump and to Arif’s liking, practiced their poetic greeting one last time.
Ahmed was nervous, though he skillfully concealed it. Aman-Jalil, gazing devotedly into his eyes, inwardly gloated; he also understood that an inspection, especially by Arif, wasn’t just a friendly visit; it meant the ground was burning under Ahmed’s feet. It would be skillful to pour gasoline, but without burning his own hair…
Arif was met with music, flowers, kisses, and welcoming speeches. He was taken in armored limousines to the palace of honored guests. Ahmed and two plump schoolgirls, handpicked by Arif, sat in the car with him. Arif liked them very much. After the journey, they took Arif to a Finnish sauna, where the chosen schoolgirls gently washed him, and then he lovingly washed them. Clean and satisfied, they sat down to eat what the gods had sent.
Only the most elite and trusted were there, but as Arif looked around, he realized that none of them could be fully relied upon; they would betray at the first opportunity. But the speeches were more loyal and friendly than the next. Ahmed sang praises of Iosif Besarionis’s wisdom and other virtues…
By rank, Aman-Jalil wasn’t supposed to speak, but he was more anxious than the speakers. Several times he caught Arif’s glances, the second-in-command, as he was flatteringly called in Iosif Besarionis’s circle. And he felt uncomfortable under that scrutinizing gaze.
Arif was indeed closely observing Aman-Jalil. Ahmed had recommended appointing his newly acquired relative as the head of the region’s inquisition. For this reason, Arif was against the appointment. And Nadir was buzzing, setting Iosif Besarionis against Aman-Jalil and Ahmed. Nadir’s people had uncovered details of Sardar Ali’s death; someone saw Aman-Jalil with the thugs whose poisoned bodies were found at the office. Ahmed’s private jet arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed either, and the sudden death of the pilot hinted at grim conclusions. But Iosif Besarionis inherently disliked Nadir, the kind and simple giant, and his accusations only piqued his interest in the son of the man whose stomach was shot through because of Iosif Besarionis, followed by a beheading. Arif noticed Iosif Besarionis’s increased interest and decided to take this young rogue under his wing, especially since he noticed a fleeting smirk on Aman-Jalil’s face when he looked at Ahmed; only someone watching every move closely could catch such a momentary smile. Arif was pleased, catching the smirk: it meant Aman-Jalil didn’t much like his boss and close relative. Well, Arif knew how to turn a small crack into a deep chasm.
Aman-Jalil wasn’t the kind of man with whom one needed to play a complicated diplomatic game. Seizing a moment, Arif whispered to Aman-Jalil:
– Comrade, escort me to my bed!
Aman-Jalil bowed obediently, his breath catching: either it was death itself, or they’d let him into the tower of the chosen ones, where the only way out was to flutter out the window like a bird, but fluttering out didn’t mean flying like a bird, a cry and a short fall, the ground’s firmness and a soft impact the consciousness no longer felt…
One would think they’d avoid that terrible tower, but no: they rushed there, jostling at the entrance, shoving each other, elbowing to give a blow, tripping each other or hitting the ear, stepping on the foot or the soul. The door was so narrow that two couldn’t pass, so everyone tried to break through first, just to be one of those who were worshipped, one of those who were feared, one of those who had the right to control the lives and deaths, property and careers, happiness or misery of thousands and thousands of people.
Ah, what a magnificent system they’ve created, what a new societal pyramid they’ve built, nothing compared to the ancient pyramids of Egypt and America, the Maya and the Aztecs; millennia of your experience were compressed into ten years, and they also managed to fit in the experience of Chinese mandarins and the rich experience of the Chinggisids. A vast historical legacy from which everyone draws according to their taste. One likes chocolate, another likes pork cartilage. "Only he who is worthy of life and freedom goes every day"… Goes where ordered, does what is told, thinks like everyone else, and everyone as one, and one is the Great Iosif Besarionis. An ideal state!…
Let the decadent, decaying enemies slander: police state… barracks… terror… Yes, terror: every ten years – a purge, every five years – a campaign… The campaign of devastation brought enormous income to the tower. But among the landowners appeared a new layer of strong masters; they had food, they had money, but no leader to openly declare their power…
Ahmed himself ordered Aman-Jalil to keep an eye on the guest, to be by his side all the time, not to leave even a step away, and to report to him personally about every step Arif took. Aman-Jalil eagerly assured the boss that he would try to occupy and talk to the guest so that none of Ahmed’s secret enemies could penetrate the palace of high guests. And at night, two plump schoolgirls would watch over Arif, submitting a written report every morning, which would be counted instead of an essay in native literature, to Aman-Jalil. Luckily for Ahmed, the regional inquisition chief was ill, and Aman-Jalil’s hands were free. Aman-Jalil’s men surrounded the high guest in a triple ring; not even a fly would pass through, Aman-Jalil himself killed flies, walking around the palace with a rubber thread, hunting them, an hour in the morning, an hour in the evening…
Aman-Jalil personally escorted Arif to the bedroom, respectfully supporting him by the elbow; he was very drunk.
