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Холдор Вулкан

Член Союза писателей Узбекистана

 

У горящего фонаря греется холод



Бродит по улицам сумасшедшая зима,
Трепещет ее белоснежный флаг.
Заснеженные улицы сводят с ума,
Белизной ничего ненаписанных бумаг.

Зимы холодный и мягкий матрас,
Пушистым снегом до отказа набит.
А холодные ветры намерены какраз,
Всемирные рекорды побить.

Как белый скатерт заснеженная дорога,
Словно белоснежные странницы книг.
И как актер талантливый от Бога,
Шаги мне четко озвучивает снег.

Седеет сумрак январский, темный,
Который недавно родился, молод.
У фонаря как человек бездомный,
Греется озябщий холод.



38/04/2018.
12:58 ночи.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

 

Дом



Спасибо, дурак за бесплатные уроки,
Я твой успевающий ученик верный.
Знаю, что у тебя кругозор широкий,
И душа твоя чиста как снег первый.

Бродишь по полю строевым шагом,
Сделав себе флаг из рваной тряпки.
Человечество, как околдованное магом,
Играет с апокалипсисом в прятки.

Ты ходишь босиком, в дырявой одежде,
Под ногами снег музыкой звучит.
Препадаешь в подвале, то в подъезде,
Чтобы нас уму -разуму учить.

Не получаешь зарплату, но платишь налоги,
Бродишь по лугам, умываясь росой.
Под песней жаворонков поля и дороги,
Где ходит косарь, сверкая косой.

Как ты ликовал, радовался и шумел,
Под листопадом в осенней роще!
А народ даже жить толком не умел,
Как рыцарь с глупыми глазами, тощий.

Пожимая друг другу руки с улыбкой,
Говорят люди о дружбе и врут.
Строят из себя безобидную улитку,
Но как крысы друг друга жрут.

Я бы постучал в товою дверь, дурак,
Как дятел в лесу ночью и днем.
Колотил бы твой дом, в крови кулак,
Но двери отсутствуют в нем.

Где поселившись живут уж давно,
Кроважадные звери, а не ты.
Дом твой невесомо легко и плавно,
Ветрится в темноте и куда то летит.



25/04/2018.
10:30 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.



Ночь в деревне



Луна сияет бритой головой,
Раскатистая соловьиная рулада.
Так внятно поет в роще соловей,
Что переводчика не надо.

На пустынные улицы падают экраны,
Из светящихся рыжих окон.
Вой уходящего состава дальный,
Никто не может кричать как он.

Все затихло и заснуло в деревне,
Только лягушки поют монотонно.
Под яркой луной спящие деревья,
Как лунатики бродят сонно.

Здесь нет суеты и сирены вой,
Нет шумные рестораны и кафе.
Но по улицам в сумраке хмельной,
Шатается ветер под шофе.



24/04/2018.
12:49 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.




Снова отменяются полеты



Жаль, что одноногие деревья не ходят,
И не играют друг с другом в прятки.
Птицы шумными караванами уходят,
Срок пребивания у них краткий.

Деревья день и ночь мечтают летать,
За синие моря и океаны, на юг.
Для них из тонкой паутины в лесах,
Плетет шелковые парашюты паук.

У осени огромная золотая империя,
Но не за горами снежные метели.
Хорошо, что деревья лишились перья,
И в дальные края не улетели.



01/11/2014.
11:01 ночи.
г.Бремптон, Канада
.

 

 

Ночью в окна дождями она стучит



Природа на рассвете умолкает, молчит,
Потом птичками начинает говорить.
Говорит ласково и никого не огорчит,
Глядя на усталые уличные фонари.

Видно собеседник ей нужен позарез,
Возраст у нее довольно зрелый.
Она даже поет жаворонками на заре,
Заливаясь звонкой трелью.

В полдень на полях, где растет ива,
Серой одинокой кукушкой запоет.
Иногда как далекое детство тоскливо,
Пестрым удодом кого -то позовет.

Ночью в окна дождями она стучит,
Шелестя как на ветру высокая трава.
Вдали лягушачьим хором звучит,
В лунном сумраке ее слова.

О как она шепчет на осенних аллеях,
Рыжим кленовым тихим листопадом.
Когда гроздьями рябина заалеет,
В тополиной роще, рядом.

Шорохом снежинок вздыхает зимой,
Бродя по улицам в фуфайке рваной.
И говорит взглядом словно немой,
На языке молчаливого тумана.

 

21/04/2018.
10:48 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.


В темном сарае



В темном сарае он спичку зажег,
Сгорбилась его огромная тень.
Спичка образуя на пальцах ожог,
Горела словно уходящий день.

Сарай был похож на клетку с пленным,
Даже звезды не глядели из окна.
Бедная спичка во всей вселенной,
Как человечество одинокая, одна.

Чтобы поехать и купить зажигалки,
Далеко до соседнего городка
В заброшенном сарае вид жалкий,
И у спички век ничтожно коротка.

Трепетала она пламенем, сгорая,
Оказывается у нее не короткий век.
Она освещая темного сарая,
Горела целых девяносто лет.



21/04/2018.
7:24 утра.
Канада, Онтерио
.


 

 

Суратда, чапдан ўнга: Ўзбекистон халқ шоири Тўлан Низом, ўртада раҳматли Қобил Мирзо.

Девордаги ромда эса Ўзбекистон халқ рассоми Обиджон Бакиров тамонидан мойбўёқда ишланган устоз шоир Фарид Усмоннинг портретини кўриб турибсиз.

 

 

Андижонлик истеъдодли шоир Қобил Мирзо ёди



Андижонда эсласа арзийдиган яхши шоир - ёзувчилар, рассомлар, созандалар, ҳофизлар, олимлар, зиёлий инсонлар кўп.

Ахли дилларни чироқ каби ўзига чорлаб, анжуманларда шамдек порлаб, ижодкорлар бошини бириктиришга қодир, чин маънодаги истеъдодли, диди юксак шоир ёзувчилар: Абдулҳамид Чўлпон, Комил Яшин, Султон Жўра, Худойберди Қорабоев, Қурбона, Жасур, Ҳабибий, Омонулло Боқир, Восит Саъдулла, Имодиддин Улфат, Олимжон Холдор, Тўлан Низом, Муқимжон Қодиров, Фарид Усмон, Шукур Қурбон, Муҳаммад Юсуф, Набижон Боқий, Абдунаби Бойқўзиев, Сотволди Ражабов,Аҳмаджон Далиев, Нусрат Абдусаломов, Муҳаммаджон Ниёзмуродов, Каримжон Қобилов, Ҳалима Қорабоева, Замира Рўзиева, Хуршида Қўчқорова, Хабибулло Турсунматов, Ўтбосар Мирзаев, Одилжон Олимов, Одил Абдурахмон, Исмоил Тўлак, Усмонжон Шукуровлар қаторида Қобил Мирзонинг ҳам ўз алохида ўрни бор.


У андижонлик қалби беғубор шоир ва ёзувчилар: Турсунбой Тилсим, Ғайрат Асронов, Ҳалим Карим, Дилмурод Шокиров, Машъал Хушвақт, Соҳиба Ашурова, Хабиб Сиддиқ, Восит Аҳмад, Абдуғулом Қозоқов, Ҳабибулло Исомиддинов, Рафиқ Мухтор, Зухриддин Исмоилов, Зиё Нажмий, Адҳам Шерматов, Аъзамжон Мусаев, Икромжон Аслий каби кўплаб ижодкорлар ижодини айниқса қадрлар эди.


Шундай эээъъъжаткаллар борки, улар ўзбек шоириман дея ўз кўкракларига муштлайдилару, худди бармоқ вазнида ҳеч нарса ёзолмаганларидай, ота боболаримиздан ёдгор аруз вазнида ҳам эплаб бирон нарса ёзолмайдилар.


Баъзилари эса аруз техникасини билсаларда, қуруқ сўзлар йиғиндисидан иборат ўта одми, аянчли даражада саёз, примитив, бадиий бўш, хом -хатала нарсаларни ёзадики, у нарсалар деворий газетада эълон қилишга ҳам нолойиқ.


Қобил Мирзо эса, ундайлардан фарқли ўлароқ, аруз вазнида ўзига ҳос, санъат асарлари деса арзийдиган дардли, юзлаб гўзал лирик ғазаллар ва муҳаммаслар яратди.


Шоир кўзлари ожиз бўлса ҳам, кийиниш маданиятини ўрнига қўяр, соқолларини доимо қиртишлаб, бўйинбоғ тақиб, кастюм шимда юрарди.


У одам боласининг кулгисини қистатадиган, истеъдодсиз кимсаларга ҳос бўлган бемазакериклик, каттазанглик, ёлғончилик, ичиқоралик, бахиллик, маҳаллийчилик, жиззакилик, маккорлик каби иллатлардан йироқ юрар, бировни ёмонламас, ғийбат қилмас, устидан кулмас, яхшисини ошириб, ёмонини яшириб дегандай, барчага бирдай яхши муносабатда бўларди.


Энг қайғулиси ва ҳайратланарлиси, шоир ўз асарларини игна билан ёзар эди.


Қобил Мирзони доимо садоқатли ва севимли аёли Ёқутхон етаклаб юрар, юзларидан нур ёғилиб тургувчи у фариштадай аёл шоирнинг ҳам турмуш ўртоғи, ҳам котибаси эди.


Шоирнинг Андижон ўлкашунослик музейи биносидаги иш кабинети доимо рассому ҳайкалтарошлар, ҳофизу композиторлар, шоир -ёзувчи ва актерлардан иборат ижодкорлар билан гавжум эди.


Деярли ҳар куни у ерда мушоиралар бўлар, янги асарлар муҳокама этиларди.


Бугун энди Қобил Мирзо орамизда йўқ.Унинг порлоқ ҳотираси яқинлари, дўстлари, шогирдлари ва муҳлислари юрагида умрбод сақланиб қолажак!


Шоирнинг жойлари Жаннатдан бўлсин!

 

 

Қобил Мирзо

Кеча



Хўб ажойиб дам эди ёнимда ёр ўлғон кеча,
Толеим, бахтим кулиб, дил лолазор ўлғон кеча.


Шодлигим кўксимга сиғмас бу юрак ўйноғида,
Фош ўлиб пинхона ишқим ошкор ўлғон кеча.


Зулфи кўксига тушиб, холини беркитди шошиб,
Дил қуши хаддин ошиб, қалб беқарор ўлғон кеча.


Лаъли ёқутлар сочиб, сўзларда ҳар дамда чўчиб,
Хушларим бошдан учиб, тил йўғу бор ўлғон кеча.


Ошнолик бахтидан ўз севгилимнинг ахдидан,
Ёр висолин нақдидан дил беқарор ўлғон кеча.


Сен шукр қилғилки Мирзо, телбалик ҳам энди бас,
Бу кўнгил ахдида турмоққа қарор ўлғон кеча.

 

-------------------------   ----------------------  -------------------  --------------------


Қобил Мирзо шу ғазалини менга ўқиб берган эдилар.Шунда шоирнинг дафтарини кўриб, ҳайратдан анграйиб қолганман.Кўзи ожизлар дафтарининг варақлари юпқа картондан бўлиб, унга худди тамбур чертадиган созандаларнинг нохунига ўхшаган игнали қурилмани бармоғига кийиб олиб, ўша картон саҳифани тешиб ёзилар, битта харфни ёзиш учун картон тўрт - беш марта тешилар экан.У харфлар хитой иероглифларидан ҳам мураккаброқ туюлганди менга ўшанда.

Қобил Мирзо шундай захматкаш ижодкор эди.

 

Шоирнинг юқоридаги ажойиб ғазалини фарғоналик ҳушовоз хонанда Камолиддин Раҳматов қўшиққа айлантирганлар ва қиёмига етказиб ижро этганлар.



Холдор Вулқон

 

2018 йил, апрель.

Канада, Онтерио.

 

 

 

Холдор Вулкан

Член Союза писателей Узбекистана

Волны как дни приходят и уходят



Изумрудно -зеленые шелковистые волны,
Приходят и уходят обратно в море.
И покрасневшие глаза заката больно,
Похожи на твои заплаканные взоры.

Соленая как слезы морская вода,
Колыбели волн короблей качают.
Расстаются как мы и прощаются суда,
И крикливо друг друга встречают.

Они плачут, гудят и с ума сходят,
Разбудив тишину, развеивая сны.
Шелестящие волны приходят и уходят,
Как разлукой пропитанные дни.



20/04/2018.
9:35 утра.
Канада, онтерио.


Осенняя дорога


Сиротливо танцуют на дороге листья,
Их беспамятство никому не вредит.
Деревья возвращают золотом чистым,
Полученный зеленый кредит.

Как будто на закате пылают камыши,
Которые на берегу подожгли дети.
Листопад шепотом плачет в тиши,
О том, что рощи и леса раздеты.

Летят как из костра алые искры,
Сухие листья осенних лесов.
Их полет задумчивый, не быстрый,
А калитка твоя закрыта на засов.


19/04/2018.
6:09 вечера.
Канада, Онтерио.



Человек в тумане



Я живу один в гостинице, "Туманный",
В огромном номере пустом.
Сплю на облачном мягком диване,
В домашнем тихом тумане густом.

Туман любит по вершинам ползти,
Как человек счастливый и богатый.
На вершинах белые снежные холсты,
Варенье из малины варят закаты.

Мое ремесло и промысел -слово,
Никогда с вершины не спущусь к вам.
Даже тогда, когда от раскатистого грома,
Вершины трещат по швам!

В этом тумане тишина снежная,
Здесь моя Родина, мой край далекий.
Пусть не рассеивается эта безбрежная,
Космическая туманность во веки!



19/03/2014.
11/02 ночи.
г.Бремптон, Канада.

 


Грусть



Ветер опавшие листья кружит,
Свистит, увядшую траву теребя.
Клены с удивлением глядят в лужи,
С трудом узнавая себя.

Их пожелтевшие рукописи листая,
Осень неустанно ворошить.
Вдали скворцов обезумевшая стая,
Как ветром снесенный парашют.

Под ногами сухих листьев хруст,
Ты выйдешь во двор за дровами.
И смотришь долго с грустью,
На улетающие гусиные караваны.



18/04/2018.
6:05 вечера.
Канада, Онтерио.


Над лугом клубятся ленивые туманы



Мне не нужно идти далеко, господа,
Чудеса рядом, в осенних лесах.
В речке покоется задумчивая вода,
Здесь даже листья умеют плесать.

Осень дождями плачет и рыдает,
В желтый платок, дырявый и рваный.
Журавлиная стая крикливо улетает,
Над лугом клубятся ленивые туманы.

Там пасутся, колокольчиками звеня,
Дружно и мирно безобидные коровы.
Так печально гудя не зовите вы меня,
В дождливой реке далекие паромы!



16/04/2018.
4:44 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.


Опадают листья как грустные слова



Бродит по рощам золотая чума,
Какой кризис, Боже, о какой крах!
Разносили ветры, сходя с ума,
Одуванчика в пух и прах.

В волшебном костре без дыма горя,
День за днем редеет ясень.
Ветрами багровый календарь октября,
Разорвала в клочья осень.

Опадают листья как грустные слова,
Которые осень выучила наизусть.
Плачет и дрожит придорожная трава,
Парк туманный и пуст.

Траву не отличишь от шерсти лисиц,
Облетают дубравы рощи и леса.
Смотрит на стаи улетающих птиц,
Осень хитрая рыжая лиса.



16/04/2018.
9:22 утра.
Канада, Онтерио.


Любовь



Там берег для тебя плетет венок,
В зеркальной дельте из кувшинок и лилий.
Ушли дни, которые удержать я не смог.
Они как паромы по реке уплыли.

Снова, в сумраке через цветущие луга,
Одиноко к дельте реки я иду.
За полями костер гигантский угас,
Пылающий закат, я имею в виду.

Поднимаешься тихо, словно во сне,
Над горизонтом без ступени лесниц.
О лысая луна, ты нравишься мне,
Даже без брови и ресниц!



14/04/2018.
1:10 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.

 


Ветер гуляет на улице пустой



Разноцветные пазлы разбрасывала осень,
Чтобы дворник не смог их сложить.
А голым деревьям холодно очень,
Увядшая трава на ветру дрожит.

День тоже какой то сиротливый, серый,
Прохожие молча как призраки идут.
Перелетные птицы давно улетели,
Деревья зимы с ужасом ждут.

Оставаясь совершенно голыми сами,
Они укрыли траву опавшей листвой.
Задумчивый пейзаж за оконной рамой,
Ветер гуляет на улице пустой.



14/04/2018.
10:51 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

 

 

Холдор Вулкан

Член Союза писателей Узбекистана


"- Ну достаточно, достаточно, Камбалкардон, молодец... Вот видите, господа, какого вундеркинда вы собираетесь приобрести. А вы, уважаемые родители, назовите быстро цену! Сколько просите за вашего ребенка?!


Отец и мать ребенка называли цену.


- Ну вот, почти что бесплатно, давайте, гоните бабки быстрее, господа, покупатели, и забирайте мальчика! Не то родители Камбалкардона передумают - сказал брокер Абу Абдуллатиф ибн Рахматулла, судорожно пожимая руку одному из покупателей. Покупатели хотели было поторговаться, но тут бедный Камбалкардон, крепко обняв ногу своей матери, горько заплакал и начал умолять со слезами на глазах:


- Мама, папа, не пгодавайте меня, пожалуйста, я буду слушаться вас. Буду пгисматгивать за своим бгатиком и не буду ничего бгать из холодильника. С пготянутой гукой буду попгошайничать на автобусных остановках. Потом собганные мелочи буду пгиносить вам, все до последней копейки. Если вы пгодадите меня, то я буду скучать по вас и по моему бгатишке, и по нашей собаке Бобику. Я пгосто умгу от тоски. Я вас люблю папа, мама... Я никогда не буду пгосить вас купить мне могоженое - сказал он, глядя на родителей как на телеграфные столбы с надеждой, глазами полными слез."

 

9 глава из любовной повести Холдора Вулкана "Листопад"

Лесоруб

Султан ехал на своем тракторе по проселочной дороге, думая о красавице Хуршиде, забыв обо всем другом, кроме руля и дороги.

- Какая прекрасная девушка! Какие у неё волосы, какие волосы, Боже мой! Они похожи на вьющиеся водоросли в прозрачной воде на побережье океана, на каком-то тихом атолле! А фигура её? Глаза, губы, гладкий подбородок, лебединая шея и белые нежные руки! Если Хуршида будет участвовать на международном конкурсе красоты, я уверен на сто процентов, что она займет первое место и овладеет титулом "Самая красивая девушка на планете". А интересно, нет ли у Хуршиды парня? Странно, почему об этом я сразу не спросил у нее? Эх, быстрее бы ехала это колымага! Почему время медлит как черепаха с Галапагосских островов? В другие дни солнце быстро поднимается над полями и будит полевых жаворонков, которые самозабвенно заливаются трелью на голодный желудок, а там смотришь - оно уже катится на закат, где жалобно жужжат комары. О, это красавица медленно и безмолвно поднимается словно луна, тихо освещая безлюдные поля моей души, сводя меня с ума! Как теперь я могу спокойно работать и жить без нее? А как звонко она смеется!

С такими раздумьями Султан приехал на поле, где хлопкоробы с утра начали сбор хлопка. Он остановил свой трактор в удобном месте, куда в обеденный перерыв хлопкоробы приносят на взвешивание собранный хлопок в огромных тюках. Сидя в кабине, он сразу нашел взглядом Хуршиду, спрыгнул с кабины и подошел к ней. Они поздоровались.

- Ну, господин бездельник мосье Султан де ла Круа же мопьель Аламизон Женегал тге бьен мегси боку муа , поможете мне собирать хлопок? Вот, возьмите, у меня лишний фартук и наденьте его - весело улыбнулась Хуршида.

- А как же, конечно, помогу, госпожа Хуршидаханум мадам де ла Маркиза ла тумбала неже пасе суа э фасеблу манежа - сказал Султан и надел фартук, так что спереди него образовалась сумка как у кенгуру.

- Ну, как, похож я теперь на кенгуру? - спросил Султан подпрыгивая.

- У кенгуру руки бывают очень короткие а у вас эвон какие длинные. - сказала Хуршида весело и звонко смеясь.

- Да? Вы находите? Тем не менее госпожа княгина Хуршидаханум мадам де ла Маркиза ла тумбала неже пасе суа э фасеблу манежа, вы можете залезть в мой кенгурятник и я вас покатаю по саванне хлопковых полей, совершая двухметровые прыжки - сказал Султан.

Хуршида снова залилась смехом. Так, беседуя, влюбленные начали собирать хлопок.

- Султан-ака, кем вы работали раньше, до того, как сюда приехали? - спросила Хуршида.

-О, это долгая история - начал вспоминать о своем прошлом Султан, не отрываясь от работы и продолжал.

- Я работал раньше гастарбайтером - лесорубом в далекой Tайге. Там мне не платили, то есть я работал добровольцем, как говорится, по зову сердца. Работа была довольно-таки интересная и она мне нравилась. Хуршида, вы когда-нибудь были в Тайге? Нет? Ну, тогда вы вовсе не жили на этом свете. Ох, эта тайга! Как я люблю ее! Знаете, дорогая, ну, ни с чем сравнить запах сосен, которые с жалобным скрипом и с грохотом рушались на землю, пугая лесных птиц и зверей, когда я валил их бензопилой. Как сыпались шишки!Словно сувениры!Ими можно украшать новогоднюю елку.После рубки лес снова стихает, и воздух наполнялся таким запахом свежей коры, что я пьянел от этого аромата! Однажды, поработав на славу, все мы, гастарбайтеры из Средней Азии, сидим у костра, суша свои промокшие портянки и кирзовые сапоги без подошв. А в это время где то там, в далеке начал долбить кору засохшей сосны одинокий дятел, типа "Тррррррр! Тррррррр!". Мы, лесорубы, с особым вниманием прислушивались к романтичному стуку дятла. А дятел то тут, то там, то в другом месте неустанно долбит и долбит засохшую сосну. Дробным звукам его стука вторит эхом дремучая тайга. А костер с треском горит, выбрасывая в воздух оранжевые искры и серым драконом поднимался невероятный дым. Сижу, слушаю этот волшебный дробный звук, создаваемый твёрдым клювом лесного дятла и никак не наслушаюсь. Тут смотрю, горят мои портянки, которые сушились над моими казенными кирзовыми сапогами без подошв.

- Е моё! - дико крикнул я в панике и, резко вскочив с места, начал было тушить портянки руками, но не тут-то было. Пламя перекинулось на мои брючины с многочисленными заплатками. Я, весь в растерянности, бью, значит, руками по горящим брючинам, но увы, локализовать пожар мне так и не удалось. Чем больше я бил, тем страшнее бушевал огонь. Хорошо, что друг мой Турик, ну этот, Таппаров из Тюмени налил воду из ведра мне в сапоги без подошв, в которых горели портянки и - боже мой! - в ведре оказался не вода, а бензин марки А-93 для заправки бензопилы. Как тут вспыхнули ярким пламенем мои сапоги, портянки и брючины! Я кричу и бегу от греха подальше, ругаю этого Турика Таппарова из Тюмени, зазываю на помощь своих земляков гастарбайтеров, которые спали в спальных мешках висячем виде на деревьях, словно летучие мыши в темных пещерах . Вокруг росли зверобои, густая высокая трава в купыри, лопухи, боршевики, донники, папоротники крапивы, ромашки, васильки, незабудки, чертополох, колыхаясь на ветру, словно зеленое море. Как батанический сад, ей Богу. Пламя, естественно, перекинулось на траву, вспыхнул страшный лесной пожар и с треском начала гореть бескрайная тайга.Горящий лес загудел. К счастью, как раз в этот момент, как по заказу, разразились гроза, засверкала молния, раскатами загремел гром, и с шумом хлынул ливневый дождь. Одним словом, свершилось чудо. То есть матушка природа сама бесплатно локализовала лесной пожар, спасая нас вместе с птицами и зверями, и с деревьями от явной гибели. После ливневого дождя я обнаружил сильные ожоги на ногах. Но, несмотря ни на что, я продолжал валить налево и направо вековые сосны и березы с помощью бензопилы.

К вечеру нам пришлось надеть москитные сетки, так как в это время на охоту вышли голодные комары, жужжа и гудя роями как вихрь на поле. Они безжалостно начали кусать нас, впиваясь в открытие участки наших тел с острыми хоботками. Они кусали даже сквозь толстые фуфайки, стремясь полакомиться бесплатной кровью бедных гастарбайтеров из Средней Азии. Кругом были болота, которые представляли собой благоприятную атмосферу для москитов и других семейств гнусных насекомых-кровопивцев. Лежать там, особенно в подвыпившем состоянии, было очень опасно. Эти мелкие на вид безобидные насекомые запросто могут убить пьяного человека, высосав из него всю кровь. Но мы, гастарбайтеры, не доноры и, кровь наша нужна самим. Сядем у костра, надев москитные сетки, и, как только отойдет духота в тайге заметно похолодает. Вот тогда туча крылатых вампиров резко исчезает.

Есть и другие опасности в тайге, такие как волки, медведи и грызуны. От волков, можно как-то спастись, забравшись, скажем, на высокое дерево. Но от медведя бежать бесполезно. Он забирается на дерево не хуже, чем опытный электромонтер, который залезает на электрический столб с помощью железных когтей, чтобы проверить перемычку проводов и заглянуть заодно во двор своей любовницы, чтобы узнать не уехал ли ее муж в командировку. Одним словом, нет спасения от разгневанного косолапого медведя. А мы, гастарбайтеры, умеем спастись от кого угодно, от медведя или голодной стаи полярных волков. Увидев медведя ночью, около нашего лагеря, мы начинали дружно шуметь, ударяя черпаком или кочергой по пустым громыхающим бидонам и вёдрам. Этот огромный зверь, несмотря на свой устрашающий размер, боится шума. Встанет на ноги во весь рост как человек, злобно зарычит и уходит обратно в дремучий лес, прям как на картине великого художника Шишкина.

Я как то лежу в висячем виде в спальном мешке как летучий мыш в темней пещере, луна самозабвенно светит над тайгой, звезды мерцают. И вдруг я уснул, недосчитав звезд даже до четыре тысячи восемьсот пятидесяти семи. Во сне иду я по какому-то базару, там огромная толпа, толкучка, шум и гам. Смотрю, в сторону барахолки бегут люди, окружая плотным кольцом одного типа, который рекламировал что-то громким голосом. Это был некий брокер Абу Абдуллатиф ибн Рахматулла. Он говорил быстро, словно опытный маклер на аукционе.

- Мальчика, значит, хотите приобрести, да? Ну, тогда вам сюда, господа! У нас широкий ассортимент товаров, как говорится, на любой вкус, то есть вот в этих клетках - мальчики, а в этих - девочки. Можете купить и заставить их работать на хлопковых плантациях рабом под свистящим длинным кнутом.Они в возрасте от одного года до десяти лет. Вы можете выбрать. Не беспокойтесь, они не украденные. У каждого из этих товаров есть соответствующие сертификаты, свидетельство о рождении и вот, как раз, их родители тоже стоят здесь. Они готовы вступить с вами в торг. Не забудьте, господа покупатели, что самых дешевых детей в мире вы найдете только у нас. Почти бесплатно! Таких продавцов, как эти родители, такого товара, как эти дети и такого и честного брокера, как я, вы нигде больше не встретите! Например, я бы предложил вам вот этого мальчика Камбалкардона. Он у нас очень умный и послушный... С этими словами брокер Абу Абдуллатиф ибн Рахматулла торжественно открыл дверцу клетки, чтобы выпустить ребенка наружу.

- Давай, выходи, Камбалкардон, за тобой пришли покупатели... - сказал он, помогая ребенку выйти из тесной клетки с помощью палки. Ребенок на четвереньках вышел из клетки. Брокер Абу Абдуллатиф ибн Рахматулла продолжал:

-Ну-ка, Камбалкардон, продемонстрируй нам быстренько свое искусство. Что ты умеешь делать? Может, прочитаешь нам стихи Александра Сергеевича Пушкина?

- Я умею считать до ста - ответил ребенок, хвастаясь, и начал бойко считать: - один, два, тги...

- Ну достаточно, достаточно, Камбалкардон, молодец... Вот видите, господа, какого вундеркинда вы собираетесь приобрести. А вы, уважаемые родители, назовите быстро цену! Сколько просите за вашего ребенка?!

Отец и мать ребенка называли цену.

- Ну вот, почти что бесплатно, давайте, гоните бабки быстрее, господа, покупатели, и забирайте мальчика! Не то родители Камбалкардона передумают - сказал брокер Абу Абдуллатиф ибн Рахматулла, судорожно пожимая руку одному из покупателей. Покупатели хотели было поторговаться, но тут бедный Камбалкардон, крепко обняв ногу своей матери, горько заплакал и начал умолять со слезами на глазах:

- Мама, папа, не пгодавайте меня, пожалуйста, я буду слушаться вас. Буду пгисматгивать за своим бгатиком и не буду ничего бгать из холодильника. С пготянутой гукой буду попгошайничать на автобусных остановках. Потом собганные мелочи буду пгиносить вам, все до последней копейки. Если вы пгодадите меня, то я буду скучать по вас и по моему бгатишке, и по нашей собаке Бобику. Я пгосто умгу от тоски. Я вас люблю папа, мама... Я никогда не буду пгосить вас купить мне могоженое - сказал он, глядя на родителей как на телеграфные столбы с надеждой, глазами полными слез.

Тем временем начался торг.

- Товарищ брокер, вы говорите ребенок почти бесплатный, а родители Камбалкардона называют такую цену, за которую можно купить сотню детей вместе с детским садиком. К тому же ребенок этот - косой и картавый. Пусть родители Камбалкардона сделают скидку на косые глаза ребенка и за картавость тоже - сказал один из покупателей, недовольно глядя на мальчика.

- Ну, господа покупатели. Какой он косой? Он просто боится вас. А что касается его картавости, то это признак гениальности. Многие знаменитые люди были кортавыми.Например Владимир Ленин.Тут такая низкая цена, а она вас не устаревает. На самом деле дети бесценны! Древние мудрецы так говорили! Я знаю многих богатых людей, которые за то, чтобы их жены забеременели и родили, готовы истратить все свои сбережения, золото и бриллианты, которые они хранят в швейцарских банках тоннами! Дети это... Тут брокер Абу Абдуллатиф ибн Рахматуллу перебил другой покупатель:

- Да, не надо, нам лекцию читать, господин брокер. Мы купим Камбалкардона за полцены. Если нет, то мы уйдем - сказал он решительно.

- Ну, теперь слово за вами, дорогие родители Камбалкардона. Не упустите исторический шанс. Между прочим, они назвали хорошую цену - обратился брокер Абу Абдуллатиф ибн Рахматулла к родителям Камбалкардона, пожимая руку отца ребенка.

- Ну, ладно уж, пусть забирают ребенка, мы согласны. Давай, Камбалкардон, иди к ним и не суетись. Тебе не придётся присматривать за братишкой. Потому что завтра мы его тоже продадим. Потом собаку. А из пустого холодильника тебе просто не придётся брать ничего потому что, даже если ты найдешь ключ от висячего замка и откроешь холодильник, ты в нём ничего съедобного не найдёшь, там ничего нет и, скорее всего, не будет в ближайшие годы. После того, как мы пропьем твоего братишку и твоего Бобика, будь спокоен, доберемся и до холодильника. То есть, его тоже продадим на барахолке. Ты, Камбалкардон, пойми нас правильно. Нам нужны деньги на выпивку, понимаешь? Мы без выпивки как космонавт без воздуха в открытом космосе, как рыба без воды. Только спиртное может расширить наши жилки в организмах, и мы успокоимся на время. А что касается тех денег, которые ты намериваешься собирать, попрошайничая на автобусных остановках, я скажу тебе по секрету, как бывший экономист, что это не реальный доход. Поверь мне, Камбалкардон. Тем более, той мелочи, которую ты будешь собирать неделями, не хватит не то, что на бутылку водки, но и даже на закуску. Кроме того, там есть милиционеры - рекетёры, которые крышуют местных попрошаек за определенную сумму денег. А еще там рыщут голодные налоговики, которые могут отобрать у тебя всю мелоч за то, что ты не платил государственные налоги. Так что, ступай, как говорится, с Богом и, не плачь как женщина, которую поколотил муж-алкаголик - сказал отец Камбалкардона.

Покупатели, вновь и вновь, пересчитывая мятые и грязные купюры, передавали их родителям Камбалкардона. Бедный Камбалкардон не хотел расставаться с родителями и, ухватившись за подол юбки мамы, он всё продолжал умолять о том, чтобы его не продавали. А отец и мама Камбалкардона жадно пересчитывали полученные за него деньги. Отец Камбалкардона даже проверял купюры, выставляя их на свет солнечных лучей и говорил:

- Вы не удивляйтесь, господа покупатели. Сейчас такое время, что никому нельзя доверять. Кругом ходят фальшивомонетчики с огромными чемоданами в руках, напичканными фальшивыми купюрами различных достоинств... Ну, вот, полюбуйтесь.., вы засунули в пачку рваную и отвратительную купюру, которую склеили скотчем. Поменяйте их на целые. А на эту купюру шариковыми ручками написаны нецензурные слова. А на обратной стороне? Ну вот... тоже написано что-то не разборчиво... Какие нехорошие слова! А тут даже нарисовали половой орган ишака... Какая гадость...Тфу мля! Поменяйте это тоже. Остальные купюры вроде нормальные - сказал отец Камбалкардона. Покупатели ребенка поменяли купюры и забрали живой товар вместе с клеткой, напоминающей чемодан сталинских времён. Камбалкардон бился и плакал, стараясь улизнуть от рук покупателей, но этого ему не удалось. Сильные и надежные руки крепко схватили его и, впихнув обратно в клетку, собрались уходить. Камбалкардон всё плакал, тряся железными прутьями клетки, как маленькая макака в зоопарке. Между тем, когда родители Камбалкардона пересчитывали полученные деньги от покупателей, те стали уходить. Брокер Абу Абдуллатиф ибн Рахматулла остановил покупателей и сказал:

- Господа, куда спешим? А моя доля? Гоните долю, которую я заработал честным трудом. Так нельзя. Ведь я должен сдать выручку в бухгалтерию нашего базара, а бухгалтер, в свою очередь, должен отчитаться перед высшем руководством о том, сколько сегодня умных и талантливых детей продано и на какую сумму.То есть у нас есть соответствующий годовой план, который мы должны выполнить, не смотря не на что. Иначе базарком выгонит нас в шею с работы. И что тогда? Как мне прокормить своих любимых детей? Я, между прочим, не хочу продавать своих детей здесь даже тогда, когда заставит меня нужда!

Покупатели, извинившись, отдали его брокерскую долю, и ушли из базара. Брокер абу Абдуллатиф ибн Рахматулла подошел к продавцам своего ребенка.

- Ну, родители проданного Камбалкардона, когда вы намериваетесь заплатить за мои брокерские услуги? - сказал он.

Родители бедного Камбалкардона тоже отдали его долю и ушли с довольной улыбкой на устах в сторону винно-водочного магазина.

Тут я проснулся в висячем спальном мешке. Но друзья мои, то есть гатарбайтеры из солнечной Средней Азии все еще спали крепким сном. Над моим висячим спальным мешком мерцали далекие звезды, и над бескрайней Тайгой бродила одинокая луна.

-Ну, Султан-ака! Слушая ваши рассказы, не знаю, смеяться мне или плакать. Какие смешные истории и ужасные сны! - восхищённо сказала Хуршида.

- Да -сказал Султан и продолжал. - Теперь извольте задать вам один деликатный вопрос, госпожа Хуршидаханум мадам де ла Маркиза ла тумбала неже пасе суа э фасеблу манеже - скзал Султан и, не дожидаясь ответа, продолжал:

- Я, конечно, прошу прошения за то, что задаю вам иногда глупые вопросы, как неопытный следователь в следственном изоляторе. Это от того, что я вас люблю, и без вас я не могу жить не только на этом свете, но и даже в раю. Ну, посудите сами, если я начинаю тосковать по вас спустя несколько минут после того, как мы расстаёмся, как же я могу жить без вас в раю, где люди живут вечно? Я так вас люблю, что, когда увижу вас, я тут же замираю на миг словно стена, словно человек на фотографии. Ответьте мне честно и прямо -у вас парень есть или нет? Успокойте душу бедного механизатора, который безумно любит вас. Неужели вам трудно произнести два коротких слова - да или нет?

Выслушав Султана, Хуршида снова покраснела. Она старалась не смотреть в глаза Султана, который ждал ответа от нее на свой трудный пытливый вопрос. Наконец, Хуршида заговорила:

- Знаете, вы задаете мне очень трудные вопросы. Ну, что же, Султан-ака, раз вы настаиваете, то мне придется всё-таки ответить на этот вопрос. Только обещайте, что вы не обидетесь - сказала Хуршида, опустив глаза.

- Обещаю. Слово мужика - сказал Султан, приготовившись слушать.

- Даже не знаю как вам сказать...Ну, если коротко, то... да , то есть... у меня есть парень - призналась Хуршида. От этих слов Султан содрогнулся, побледнел лицом от чувства ревности и бессилия.

Да? - произнёс он с трудом, так как у него пересохло в горле. Хотя Султан был достаточно крепким и сильным парнем, но тут он присел от бессилия на большой тюк хлопка.

- Да - сказала Хуршида.

- А кто он? - спросил Султан.

-Я боюсь сказать. Он такой красивый, сильный, умный - Хуршида начала перечислять положительные стороны своего возлюбленного парня.

- Ну, что вы режете меня без ножа. Ну... в общем, ясно. Значит, есть все-таки у вас парень. Ну что же, жаль, конечно, что вышло так. Ладно прощайте тогда, я пожалуй уйду, чтобы не мешать вам. Огуа, госпожа Хуршидаханум мадмуазель де ла Маркиза ла тумбала неже пасе суа э фасеблу манеже, огуа - сказал Султан и поднявшись, собрался уходит. Но тут ее удержала Хуршида и сказала.

- Это вы! То есть нету у меня парня, кроме вас, Султан-ака! - сказала Хуршида улыбаясь и покраснея.

-Да?! - спросил Султан тараща глаза.

- Да - тихо, почти с шепотом ответила Хуршида.

Султан от радости хотел было кричать на всё поле, что он самый счастливый человек в мире, но Хуршида закрыла ему рот ладонью своей нежной руки. Султан обнял свою возлюбленную девушку крепко и поцеловал ей в губы, в глаза, в шею...

- Ура! - сказал он, глядя в красивые глаза Хуршиды. А она всё улыбалась сквозь слезы.


eb23ebae4e2f0a5747a3836a73a792433eb756231883193 (700x510, 39Kb)

 

 

 

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers


A part of chapter 9 "Woodcutter" of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves":

 

"And you, dear parents, what a fast price! How much do you ask for your baby?!

The father and mother of the child called the price.

- Well, almost free, come on, give me your cash faster, gentlemen, buyers, and take away the boy, before the parents of Kumbalkardon change their mind - said the broker Abu Abdullatif Ibn Rahmatulla, frantically shaking the hand of one of the buyers. Customers wanted to haggle, but then poor Kumbalkardon, hugged the leg of his mother, wept bitterly and begged with tears in his eyes:

- Mom, dad, don't sell me, please, I'll obey you. I'll look after my brother and I won't take anything from the fridge. With outstretched hands I beg at the bus stops. Then collected the little things will bring you every last penny. If you sell me, I'll miss you and my brother and our dog Bobik. I'll just die of melancholy. I love you dad, mom... I will never ask you to buy me ice cream he said, looking at the parents as on Telegraph poles with hope, eyes full of tears. Meanwhile, the bargaining began.

- Comrade broker, you say a child is almost free, and the parents of Kumbalkardon that price for which you can buy a hundred of children together with the kindergarten, besides this child - oblique and Burr. Let the parents of Kumbalkardon make allowances for the slant eyes of the child and for Burr, too, said one of the buyers, unhappy looking at the boy."

 

9th chapter of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves"

Woodcutter


9th chapter of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves"




Woodcutter



Sultan drove his tractor on a country road, thinking about the beauty of Khurshida, forgetting about everything else but the steering wheel and the road.

- What a beautiful girl! What hair she has, what hair, my God! They look like curly seaweed in clear water on the coast of the ocean, on some quiet Atoll, and the figure of her? Eyes, lips, smooth chin, Swan neck and white tender hands! If Khurshida participates in the international beauty contest, I am one hundred percent sure that she will take first place and will take the title of "the most beautiful girl on the planet". I wonder if Khurshida has a boyfriend. I wonder why I did not immediately ask her? Oh, why does this car slow down like a turtle from the Galapagos Islands? On other days, the sun quickly rises over the fields and wakes skylarks, who selflessly poured a trill on an empty stomach, and there look - it's already heading into the sunset, where the plaintive buzzing mosquitoes. Oh, this beauty slowly and silently rises like a moon, quietly illuminating the deserted fields of my soul, driving me crazy! How can I work and live without her now? And how loudly she laughs!

With such thoughts the tractor driver Sultan arrived at the field where the cotton pickers in the morning started picking cotton. Sultan parked his tractor in a convenient place, where at lunchtime cotton workers bring cotton to weigh the collected cotton in huge bales. Sitting in the cockpit, he found the sight Khurshida, jumped from the cab and approached her. They said Hello.

- Well, mister slacker monsieur Sultan de La Crua je'mapple a la maison general, la bien, merci beaucoup moi, help me gather the cotton? Here, take my extra apron and put it - he grinned Khurshida.

- And, of course, will help, Madam Hurshidbanu Madame La Marquise de La tombala the tender pace of sua e fusible arena said the Sultan, wearing the apron, so from the front it formed a pouch like a kangaroo.

- Well, how similar I am now on the kangaroo? - the Sultan Bouncing asked.

- The kangaroo arms are very short and You have Avon how long it is. said Khurshid fun and laughing loudly.

- Yeah? You find? However, madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege , may you can climb up to my bumper and I'll ride across the Savannah cotton fields, doing a two-meter jump - said the tractor driver Sultan.

Khurshida again burst into laughter. So, talking, the lovers began to collect cotton.

-Sultan, who were You before, before you got here? - asked Khurshida.

-Oh, it's a long story - he started to remember about his past Sultan, not looking up from his work and continued.

- I have previously worked as a migrant worker lumberjack in the distant Taiga forest. There I was not paid, that is, I worked as a volunteer, as they say, at the call of the heart. The work was quite interesting and I liked it. Believe Me, Khurshida. Have you ever been to the Taiga? No? Well, you didn't live in that world then. Oh, taiga! I love her! You know, dear, Khurshida, well, with nothing to compare the scent of the pines, which creaked and rattled fall to the ground, scaring the wild birds and animals, when I felled them with a chain saw. Like pine cones! Like souvenirs!They can decorate the Christmas tree. After felling the forest again subsides, and the air is filled with the smell of fresh crust that I was intoxicated by this scent! One day, a good job, we are all migrant workers from Central Asia, sitting around the campfire, drying their wet foot cloths and tarpaulin boots without soles. In the meantime, somewhere out there in the distance began to batter the dried bark of a pine, a lone woodpecker, type "Trrrrrrr! Trrrrrrr!". We, the woodcutters, with special attention listened to romantic knock of a woodpecker. A woodpecker here and there, in another place relentlessly hammer and hammer dried pine. Fractional sound of their knocking echoed echo in the dense taiga. And the fire burns with a bang, throwing in the air and orange sparks grey dragon raised an incredible smoke. Sitting, listening to this magical fraction of the sound generated by the solid beak of the woodpecker forest and can't get enough of. Look here, burning my foot-cloth that was drying on my breech tarpaulin boots without soles.

- Oh, my! - Wildly I shouted in panic and quickly leaping up, began to put out foot cloths hands, but there it was. The flames spread to my trousers with numerous patches. I, all in confusion, I beat, means, hands on burning trousers, but alas, I didn't manage to localize the fire. The more I beat, the scarier the fire raged. Well, that my friend Turik, well, this, Tapparo from Tyumen poured water from the bucket in my boots without soles, which burned foot cloths and Oh, my! In the bucket was not water but gasoline And-93 for refueling chainsaws. How then erupted into flames, my boots, foot cloths and legs! I scream and run away from sin, abuse of the Turik Tuparova from Tyumen, beckoning to the aid of their fellow migrant workers who were sleeping in sleeping bags hanging on the trees like bats in dark caves, around growing high grass, swaying in the wind like a green sea, as a botanic garden. The flame naturally spread to the grass, a terrible forest fire broke out and the endless Taiga began to burn with a Bang, burning wood blazing. Fortunately, just at that moment, right on cue, the storm broke, lightning flashed, thunder boomed, thunder, and the sound of pouring rain. In short, a miracle happened. That is, Mother Nature itself free localized forest fire, saving us together with birds and animals, and trees from apparent death. After heavy rain, I found severe burns on my legs. But, despite everything, I continued to bring down to the left and to the right century-old pines and birches by means of a chainsaw.

By the evening we had to wear mosquito nets, as at this time the hunt went hungry mosquitoes, buzzing and humming swarms like a whirlwind on the field. They ruthlessly began to bite us, getting into the opening areas of our bodies with sharp proboscis. They bit even through thick sweatshirt, trying to eat the free blood of poor migrant workers from Central Asia. All around were swamps, which represent a favorable environment for mosquitoes and other families vile blood sucking insects. Lying there, especially in the tipsy state, was very dangerous. These small seemingly harmless insects can easily kill a drunken man, sucking all the blood out of him. But we, the workers, not the donors, our blood need them. Sitting at the campfire, wearing mosquito nets, and as soon as the spirits depart in the forest noticeably colder. That's when a cloud of winged vampires abruptly disappear.

There are other dangers in the Taiga, such as wolves, bears and rodents. The wolves can somehow escape, climbing on, say, a tall tree. But from bear to flee futile. He climbs a tree no worse than an experienced electrician who climbs on an electric pole with iron claws to check the jumper wires and look at the same time in the yard of his mistress to find out whether her husband went on a business trip. In short, there is no escape from the angry bear. And we, guest workers, know how to escape from anyone, from a bear or a hungry pack of polar wolves. Seeing the bear at night, near our camp, we began to make noise together, hitting with a scoop or a poker on empty loud cans and buckets. This huge beast, despite his intimidating size, is afraid of the noise. Stands on its feet upright as a man, with an angry growl and goes back into the forest, just like the painting of a great artist Ivan Shishkin.

I like that are in suspension in a sleeping bag like the flying bat in a dark cave, the moon selflessly shines over the forest, the stars twinkle. And all of a sudden, I fell asleep without even counting the stars to four thousand eight hundred and fifty seven. In the dream I was walking on some market, there is a huge crowd, crush, noise and hubbub. I see people running towards the flea market, surrounded by a dense ring of the same type, which advertised something with a loud voice. It was a broker, Abu Abdullatif Ibn Rahmatulla. He spoke quickly, like an experienced broker at the auction.

- Boy, means, want to purchase, Yes? Well, then you are here, gentlemen! We have a wide range of products, as they say, for every taste, that is, in these cells - boys, and in these - girls. You can buy and make them work on cotton plantations slave under a whistling long whip.They are between the ages of one and ten. You can choose. Don't worry, they're not stolen. Each of these products has the appropriate certificates, birth certificates, and that's just their parents are also here. They are ready to enter into a bargain with you. Do not forget, gentlemen buyers that the cheapest children in the world you will find only here. Almost free! Sellers such as these parents, such goods as these children and such an honest broker like me, you will not find anywhere else! For example, I would suggest to you that this boy Kumbalkardon. He is very smart and obedient... With these words the broker Abu Abdullatif Ibn Rahmatulla officially opened the cage door to release the children outside.

Come on, Kumbalkardon, you came to buyers... he said, helping the child to get out of tight cages with a stick, child on all fours out of the cage. Broker Abu Abdullatif Ibn Rahmatulla continued:

-Well, Kumbalkardon, show us quickly your art. What can you do? Can, would you read us poems Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin?

- I can count to a hundred ' replied the child, showing off, and began briskly to count: one, two, three...

- Well, enough, enough, Kumbalkardon, well done... See, gentlemen, what kind of Prodigy you're going to get.
And you, dear parents, what a fast price! How much do you ask for your baby?! The father and mother of the child called the price. - Well, almost free, come on, give me your cash faster, gentlemen, buyers, and take away the boy, before the parents of Kumbalkardon change their mind - said the broker Abu Abdullatif Ibn Rahmatulla, frantically shaking the hand of one of the buyers. Customers wanted to haggle, but then poor Kumbalkardon, hugged the leg of his mother, wept bitterly and begged with tears in his eyes: - Mom, dad, don't sell me, please, I'll obey you. I'll look after my brother and I won't take anything from the fridge. With outstretched hands I beg at the bus stops. Then collected the little things will bring you every last penny. If you sell me, I'll miss you and my brother and our dog Bobik. I'll just die of melancholy. I love you dad, mom... I will never ask you to buy me ice cream - he said, looking at the parents as on Telegraph poles with hope, eyes full of tears. Meanwhile, the bargaining began. - Comrade broker, you say a child is almost free, and the parents of Kumbalkardon that price for which you can buy a hundred of children together with the kindergarten, besides this child - oblique and Burr. Let the parents of Kumbalkardon make allowances for the slant eyes of the child and for Burr, too,- said one of the buyers, unhappy looking at the boy.
- Well, gentlemen buyers. What is it scythed? He's just afraid of you. As for his lisping, it is a sign of genius. Many famous people were burr. For Example, Vladimir Lenin.There's such a low price, and it does not get you out of date. In fact, children are priceless! The ancient sages said so! I know many rich people who are ready to spend all their savings, gold and diamonds that they keep in Swiss banks tons for their wives to get pregnant and give birth! Children this... Does the broker Abu Abdullatif Ibn Rahmatulla was interrupted by another buyer:

- Yes, it is not necessary for us to read a lecture, Mr. Broker. We'll buy a gallon for half price. If not, we will leave - he said decisively.
Well, now it's up to you, dear parents of Kumbalkardon. Don't miss the historic chance. By the way, they called a good price - turned broker Abu Abdullatif Ibn Rahmatulla to the parents of Kumbalkardon, shaking hands with the father of the child.

- Well, so be it, let him take the child, we agree. Come on, Kumbalkardon, go to them and no worries. You don't have to look after your little brother, because tomorrow we'll sell him, too, then the dog. And from the empty fridge you just do not have to take anything, because, even if you find the key to the padlock and open the refrigerator, you will not find anything edible in it, there is nothing and most likely will not be in the coming years. After we drink your brother and your Bobik, be calm, we'll get to the fridge. I mean, we'll sell it at the flea market, too. You Kumbalkardon, understand us correctly. We need money for booze, you know? We are without drinking like an astronaut with no air in outer space, like a fish out of water. Only alcohol can expand our veins in our bodies, and we will calm down for a while. As for the money you intend to rise by begging at bus stops, I will tell you in confidence, as a former economist, that this is not real income. Trust me, Kumbalkardon. Moreover, the little things that you will collect for weeks, is not enough is not what a bottle of vodka, but even for a snack. In addition, there are the police muggers to the roof of the local beggars for a certain amount of money. And there are hungry tax collectors who can take away from you all the little things for the fact that you did not pay state taxes. So, go on, as they say, with God, and do not cry like a woman beat up her husband -alcoholic - said the father of Kumbalkardon.

Buyers, again and again, counting out crumpled and dirty bills, handed them to the parents of Kumbalkardon. Poor Kumbalkardon did not want to part with their parents and grasping the hem of his mom's skirt, he continued to plead that it did not sell. And the father and mother of Kumbalkardon eagerly counted received for his money. Father of Kumbalkardon even checked the bills, exposing them to the sun and said:

- You will not be surprised, dear buyers. This is a time when you can't trust anyone. All around go counterfeiters with huge suitcases in their hands, stuffed with fake bills of various denominations... Well, look at that.. You are stuck in a pack of ragged and disgusting bill, which was glued with tape. Change them for whole, and on that note ball point pens written obscene words, and on the back? Well... also written something not legible... What are the bad words! And then even drew the sexual organ of a donkey... That's disgusting... Tfu! Change that too. The rest of the bills like a normal father said Drunkard. Buyers of the child changed the bills and took the living goods with a cage reminiscent of a suitcase Stalin's times. Kumbalkardon struggled and cried, trying to get away from the hands of the buyers, but this failed. Strong and reliable hands seized him and, having pushed back in the cage, ready to leave. Kumbalkardon all cried, shaking the iron bars of the cage like a little monkey at the zoo. Meanwhile, when the parents of Kumbalkardon counted the money received from buyers, they began to leave. Broker Abu Abdullatif Ibn Rahmatulla stopped buyers and said:

Gentlemen, where are we going, and my share? Drive the share I've earned through honest labor. You can't. After all, I have to pass the revenue to the accounting Department of our Bazaar, and the accountant, intern, must report to the senior management about how many smart and talented children are sold today and how much. That is, we have an appropriate annual plan, which we must fulfill, in spite of that. Otherwise Store owner fired us in the neck with work, and then what? How do I feed my beloved children? I don't want to sell their children here, even when you make me need.

Buyers, who apologized, gave it to a broker share and left the market. Broker Abu Abdullatif Ibn Rahmatulla went to the dealer of your child.
- Well, the parents of a sold-out gallop, when do you intend to pay for my brokerage services? he said.

The parents of the poor Kumbalkardon also gave his share and left with a satisfied smile on his lips to the side wine and spirits shop.

Here I woke up in a hanging sleeping bag. But my friends, that is, guest workers from the sun of Central Asia still fast asleep. Over my hanging sleeping bag flickered distant stars, and the endless Taiga wandered lonely moon.

- Well, Sultan! Listening to your stories, don't know whether to laugh or cry. What funny stories and terrible dreams! - Khurshida delightfully said.

-Yes-said Sultan and continued. - Now if you please to ask you a delicate question, madam Duchess Khurshidabanu de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege - said the Sultan, without waiting for a reply, continued:

- Of course, I am sorry for what you are asking sometimes silly questions, like an inexperienced investigator in an investigative soundproof room. This is because I love you, and without you I cannot live not only in this world, but even in Paradise. Well, judge for yourself, if I begin to yearn for You a few minutes after we leave, how can I live without you in Paradise, where people live forever? I love you so much that when I see you, I freeze for a moment like a wall, like the person in the picture. Answer me honestly and directly -Do you have a boyfriend or not? Calm the soul of a poor mechanic who loves you madly. Did you find it difficult to say two little words, Yes or no?

After hearing the tractor driver Sultan, Khurshida blushed again. She tried not to look into the eyes of the tractor driver Sultan, who was waiting for an answer from her to his difficult inquisitive question. Finally, Khurshida spoke:

- You know, you ask me very difficult questions. Well, the tractor driver Sultan, if you insist, then I will have to still answer this question. Just promise me that you won't be offended - Khurshida said, his eyes downcast.
- Promise. The word of man - said the tractor driver Sultan, he prepared to listen.

- I don't know how to tell you...Ah, if short, then... yeah, I mean... I have a guy - admitted Khurshida. From these words Sultan flinched, turned pale the face of from feelings jealousy and powerlessness.
Yeah? - He said with difficulty, as he has a dry throat. Although the tractor driver Sultan was quite strong and a strong guy, but there he sat from impotence on a large bale of cotton.

- Yes - said Khurshida.

Who is he? - Sultan asked.

I'm afraid to say. He's so handsome, strong, clever, Khurshida started to list the positive side of her lover guy.

- Well, You cut me without a knife. Well... okay, okay. So you have a boyfriend after all. Well, it's a pity that so happened. Okay bye then, I'll leave so as not to disturb You. Au revoir, Mrs. Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manage, Au revoir said the tractor driver Sultan, rising, going out. But then it kept Khurshida said.

- It's You! I mean, I don't have a boyfriend but you, Sultan! - Khurshida said smiling and blushed.

-Yeah?! - asked the tractor driver Sultan started to gawk.

- Yes - quietly, almost in a whisper said Khurshida.

The tractor driver Sultan due to joy wanted to shout at the whole field that he's the luckiest man in the world, but Khurshida shut his mouth with palm of his gentle hands. The Sultan hugged his beloved girl tightly and kissed her on the lips, eyes, neck...

- Hurrah! he said, looking into the beautiful eyes Khurshida. And she smiled through her tears.


 

 

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Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

A part of chapter 10 "Letter from the afterlife" of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves"


In this short novel, I have tried to describe the oppression of the pain and suffering that my compatriots have endured in the past.(Holder Volcano)



When I came to the cemetery, the moon was right above me, like a powerful spotlight. Look - over into the mailbox, which I installed on my father's grave, sits a large grey owl with round green eyes and hoots. "hoo-hoo!".

I shouted and my voice echoed tombstones, made of pure marble and granite. The owl gently flew away, plaintive hooting and waving their mighty colorful wings.

I opened the door of the mailbox and stunned with surprise, because the mailbox wasn't the letter that I wrote to my late father, gluing expensive brands on the white envelope, and another letter in a yellow envelope. I pulled this yellow envelope shaking from excitement.

Look - on the envelope, the familiar handwriting and the words. "Address: White light. To: My son the tractor driver Sultan ibn Ultan in hand" .


Reading the inscription, I was not myself, and I cried. All burst into tears..


- It's a miracle! Well, father! Decided to write me a response letter from the afterlife? Well, thank you, daddy... - I cried of boiling tears in the tails of his striped pajamas.


I opened the envelope and took the letter from him. The contents of the letter I know by heart, and it is still kept in my memory as top-secret archive materials of an Enigma.


Here are the contents of the letter:


"Heartfelt greetings from the world of the dead!


Hello, son Sultanbai!


Well, how are you? How is your mother? Fellow villagers relatives all alive and healthy? If you ask me, I feel very well. We , well, those neighbors are dead, sometimes at midnight we rise from the graves , sit actives in their shrouds, and when I tell my dead friends all about my ridiculous death, the company together laughing, snapping jaws.

I know that in my life I loved the festival of fear (Halloween).

And here we have every day a holiday, and we, the dead, scare each other slowly, with difficulty, move the gravestones, then suddenly, ran from one stone tombs to another, when a shining full moon a silent flock of bats fly over a cemetery.

What would you do son, if we have no case but to walk to play hide and seek, in early childhood.

There are no health problems. We do not breathe, do not eat, do not go to the toilet, and do not shave. We don't need any clothes, except for the shroud. There is no need for medical drugs.

Concepts such as house, car, luxury, business, money, banks, stock exchanges, that's all in the past for us. None of us was working.

In our cemetery there is always peace.But, around unemployment. The most important thing is we're all equal.

I have one friend who is in the white light, was the most influential rich man, and even ruled the country, took bribes in the large size, the oppressed people, engaged in money laundering, ferrying them to Western European banks through offshore zones, through the giant openings leaky laws of our country.

And now he had nothing but his yellowed skeleton and holey rotten shroud.

He previously lived with his family in luxurious bright castles in the Swiss Alps and now he's in the grave reigns dark, damp and cold. He has to be in company with disgusting worms, snakes, scorpions and nasty centipedes.

Well, such a grave got to him.

We're not much upset, that in our cold graves no electricity or gas. Why do the dead of electricity and gas?

 


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Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Review by an unknown reader about the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" in the electronic library"Ridley".

Dear readers, we sincerely hope that the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" will not look like any of the already read by you in this genre. Through images do not remain without attention, appearing in different places of the text they perfectly harmonize with the main line. It is clear that the issues raised here will not lose their relevance in time or space. Considerable attention is paid to the place of events, which gives the color and realism of what is happening. Fascinating, sometimes funny, very touching makes it possible to think about yourself, evoking memories from life. Portrait of the protagonist picked up very well, from the first lines imbued with sympathy for him, empathize with him, rejoice at his success, and upset failures. There is a certain feature, try to go beyond the basic idea and to introduce the uniqueness, thanks to which there is a desire to return to read. As you get closer to the outcome, it becomes more important great and beautiful, cleverly hidden than what it seemed at first glance. As you get closer to the apotheosis inadvertently freezes the spirit and later felt the desire to follow multiple reading. In addition to the fascinating, exciting and interesting narrative, the plot also retains the logic and sequence of events. At first glance, the combination of love and friendship seem mundane and bored, but later come to the conclusion that the evidence of the selected studies. The short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" read free online unusual, as the product is sometimes incredible, but at the same time, very interesting and exciting.

19.09.2016.

Thank you very much for the sincere review of my work.

Sincerely, Holder Volcano.



This short novel  has magic. If you start reading this book, you won't be able to stop.The story just drags you in like quicksand in the desert and swallows. Read and enjoy.


Copying, distribution, and commercial use the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" without the written consent of the copyright holder is prohibited.


Sincerely, Holder Volcano.

"Falling leaves"

(The short novel)

(Translated by author)



Chapter 1

Spring fields

 



Spring, birds singing in the high poplars at field mill, where the white acacia. Recently, among the thorny branches of acacia could see a nest of magpies, and now it disappeared from sight among the leaves and flowering bunches of the tree. Magpies are very smart birds. They know that boys can't climb a tree, whose thorny branches, as its sharp spiny thorns may hurt to scratch his hands and feet and even to rip their harem pants. Acacia flowers have captured the soul like Souvenirs made from pieces of white porcelain. The pleasant smell of these bunches winds spread across the field where farmers work. Khurshida worked, knocking hoe on the rocky field. It was a girl of eighteen, fair-skinned, with a dense and gentle curly dark brown hair, with a slender figure and magnificent Breasts, with hazel eyes, and clear eyes. She is so beautiful smiling coral lips, showing white healthy and beautiful teeth, that a lot of guys in the village were crazy about her. But Khurshida did not pay attention to either one of them, as she felt for him the tender feelings called love. His indifference she has increased "oppression" on the lovers. She didn't even answer your love letters that boys wrote and passed her through her friends.

Khurshida"s father Abduljabbar very strict towards his daughter Khurshida and his difficult character and behavior more like a stepfather than her own father. He often drinks alcohol and satisfied with drunken fights. But Abduljabbar is a good specialist in the field of sheep shearing. He works as a mechanic on a cattle farm. Repairs on the farm milking machines, automatic drinking bowls, conveyors, cleaning barns, combines, forage shredders and so on.
Although Abduljabbar is not a religious fanatic, but he strictly prohibits Khurshida to go to parties dedicated to the birthday of her classmates, which was attended by boys. Abduljabbar swore that if his daughter Khurshida will disgrace their family, he will curse. So mother of Khurshida Raheela every day insisted that she did not play with fire and was cautious in communication with her classmates and other unknown guys, Raheela knew that the class of her daughter not all girls were friendly with Khurshida. That is, some girls are jealous of Khurshida and look at her with despise, because she's pretty and many guys were in love her but not with them.

With these thoughts in mind, Khurshida continued to work on the field, leveling soil for planting cotton. She loves to work in the fields alone, as nobody bothers to think about what she wants to think. Loneliness for her freedom was like the boundless sky. Sometimes Khurshida stops to straighten her back, listening to the distant of a sad voice of an alone hoopoe which comes from Willow Grove, where the wind wanders drunk. There, in the distance, a willow grove, a cotton field, she saw an alone tractor that silently glided over the field like a ship on the surface of a green sea of cotton. Khurshida thoughtfully watched agile low flying swallows. They flew over the fields, almost touching the ground, and its white belly and wings similar to bent black daggers with sharp blades. Then again she set to work, humming a sad song about love. And the sun slowly but surely rose to the tip of the sky. Khurshida worked on the field under the scorching sun and stopped work only when on the hill, the cook Tubo shouting the beginning to entice people for lunch.

-Choygaaaaaaaaa!- she cried, and her voice flew over the spring fields, like a bird freed from its chest.

Leaving the hoe on the edge of the field, Khurshida went to the side of the field mill. Approaching her, she smelled a delicate sweet smell fragrant acacia which bloomed near the field camp, which grew tall poplars and weeping willows. At this point, of the cultivator, which stopped near a field camp, jumped a young tractor driver of about twenty to twenty five, in a worn skullcap, tall, broad-shouldered, snub-nosed, with curly hair, with a mustache above fleshy lips, a peculiarity of the guy with a green scar on his left eyebrow. It gave him the appearance of harshness and masculinity. His appearance resembled a Roman Gladiator who fought with his bare hands with hungry tigers. Khurshida had not seen this tractor driver in these parts, but I just remembered his tractor, which she just watched from afar in the cotton field. While Khurshida was removed from the branches of the mulberry tree a small pouch in which was bread, sugar, welding, aluminum spoon, and a mug with a bowl, the tractor driver was already standing in the queue at the field tin samovar, where workers were poured theirself a Cup of boiling water. Taking her mug, Khurshida poured her the tea and also got in line. Seeing her, the guy turned to look and gave up his place. Not expecting such a gentleman, Khurshida thanked the young tractor driver and kindly smiled. After a few minutes the guy started to talk to her:
- Girl, let me tell you an amazing story while we stand in line. In short, yesterday I go past this tree - beauty!- from the white acacia flowers that you can’t stop looking at. The acacia blooming was like a young bride in a white wedding dress! I stopped involuntarily admiring the unusual beauty of this tree, looking at it with delight, like a farmer who came from a distant village with a bag on his shoulders, who first saw the city. Then there was gunfire. I thought, there was a terrorist shooting at me from the machine gun. I quickly lay down on the ground, so he couldn’t fire the whole clip at me. I layer down for a while and I look, and there's a singing magpie. Well, I felt ashamed about myself. Stood up, looked around, found my dirty skullcap, shook off the dust, jammed it on my head and went on. It’s a good thing nobody but me saw it.

After hearing the story of the tractor driver, everybody having lunch amicably laughed. Khurshida too, then came their turn. But, unfortunately, boiling water ceased to flow from the samovar's tap. It turned out that the cause was the fact that in the samovar boiling water level dropped below the level of the faucet, so it stopped showering. But the tractor driver found a way out: he asked Khurshida to bend the samovar and pour the boiling water into a mug, which he set up.

- Okay - agreed Khurshida and when the young tractor driver framed his mug to the tap of the samovar, Khurshida gently bent the samovar. But then disaster struck: Khurshida accidentally dropped the samovar, and he fell over, the young tractor driver scalded with boiling water. Tractor driver, making a face from a severe burn, started to jump from the pain, leaning on one leg, pulling air into the lungs.

- Vsss -ah-aaah! Vsss-ahh-ahhhh! Ooooohhhh!- he jumped from the stinging pain and spun like a dog chasing its tail.

Khurshida started to cry, not knowing what to do and how to calm the poor tractor driver. And workers who had already begun eating, all got up from their seats, feeling for the tractor driver who accidentally scalded with boiling water. Some laughed, especially when the timekeeper Abdelkasim cried, you take off your pants and jump right into the pond!

- Oh, excuse me, for God's sake, mister! This is all my fault!.. Badly burned?! Poor!.. I don't know Your name... what your name? - Said Khurshida, crying and circling around the guy in confusion.

A young tractor driver, holding his scalded thigh, stopped for a moment and with a grimace on his face said:

- Me? A-aaaaah- ahhhh... my name is Sultan!

- Oh, Mister Sultan, sorry! I didn't want to... - said Khurshida with tears in her eyes.

-Don't worry, girl, about anything... Aa-a-ahhh-ahhh... Ahh-ahh-ahh....My leg will get better before the wedding said tractor driver Sultan, smiling through the grimace on his face, continuing to jump on one leg.
Then he asked, distorting the face of unbearable pain:
-And You? What's your name?

- Me? Oh yeah, my name is Khurshida.

-Very nice... Vsss-aaaaa-aah... Yyyyh! That's a beautiful name, like you, honestly. You, Khurshida, do not pay attention to me. Better get yourself something to eat. Its lunch time right now... - said Sultan, continuing to rely on one leg to alleviate the pain.

- No, I will not eat. Well, how am I supposed to eat when you suffer because of me? - cried Khurshida.

Here the tractor driver Sultan stopped limping and said.

- Well, Khurshida, now quit crying! After all, people are looking at us. Already released the pain, don't you worry. I have everything in order. Don’t you believe my words? Well, then I have no choice but to prove to you that I'm healthy as an ox.
Here look and, humming a tune, he began to dance, stamping their tarpaulin boots, as a dancer with great experience.

Sultan danced, whirling like a whirlwind and singing cheerful music. Seeing this, everyone around laughed as if the viewers who are watching a funny presentation of a wandering artist. Khurshida was also smiling through her tears, rejoicing that the Sultan let go of the pain.


 

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Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Chapter 22 of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves"


Quiet leaf fall




The great chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch released the Abduljabbar from the post of mechanic of cattle farm for a drunken brawl at the estate of his grandson, the little Turabitdun. And Abduljabbar, took home his daughter together with his grandson Turabitdun and strictly forbade Khurshida to meet Pathella.
- Well, nothing. Here I will gather my things and leave in Texas dreaming Abduljabbar. I will change my name to Douglas Steveenson. There I with their American counterparts in the rough jeans, pulled on the head a cowboy hat, I will work on a cattle farm. Going to ride a wild horse "Mustang" on the boundless steppes of the Prairie, rotating head over to lasso like a helicopter propeller "Apache." With the lasso will catch the horses and bulls in the cactus thickets. I will participate in the competition among the Texas cowboy’s sheep shearing, and become winners. Then, having received a cash prize of five thousand dollars, I will go to a nearby pub, where whiskey flows by the river, and drink all this money to the last cent. Treat my colleagues and friends, and we will be going to have fun, sipping Scotch on the rocks and listening to fun cowboy songs. On the Buster, naturally a fight breaks out in which to stand in the side are not supposed to. According to the old tradition, I will also hit my head in the stomach and break the nose of one cowboy - Abduljabbar continued to fantasize. He did not remain in debt, have hit back, giving me in the face with his dirty fist. The other cowboys around us are going to have a massive fight, too... Tables will be overturned, bottles and glasses shattered. Someone will hit me with a bottle on the head, and it will break into pieces, but I will not fall, will not lose consciousness. On the contrary, will grab that cowboy out of them over the head like a propeller of a helicopter "Apache" and throw him out the window. Cowboy takes off into the street, screaming wildly. After that, the most important thing will begin - a firefight with revolvers. Dt-tish! Dt-tish! When local Sheriff Michael Jordan comes running with his rifle in his hand, I jump out and run, tumbling, so as not to clap a stray bullet. And there will wait for me, my anxious horse. It will be nervously snore, threw its head back, staring eyes of fear and tight and pulling on the bridle tied to the wall. I will quickly cut the bridle with a dagger and a cat jump will sit on a wild horse "Mustang". After vortex will jump in the direction of the sand dunes, where there are cacti and hysterically singing quicksand. Bullets with whistle will fly past my ears and over my head, and I will disappear from species for dunes - completed his fantasizing Abduljabbar.
Then he asked forgiveness of his wife and daughter because he gave his daughter to marry the nephew of the great chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch. Listening to him, Raheela and Khurshida cried.
So, Khurshida came to live with her parents and commute to her old job, leaving little Turabitdun at home with her mom.
Autumn reigned in the city recreation Park.With maples and poplars softly falling red and yellow leaves.They lay on the lanes is so beautiful that the attack on them was pathetic.In some places fires were burning, similar to fuming volcanoes where a tourniquet fallen leaves.
Khurshida worked sweeping the area and as always thinking of the tractor driver Sultan. On wobbly benches sat a happy young couple, enjoying a quiet maple leaf. On the empty benches lay the fallen leaves of the thinning trees.
Khurshida stopped, seeing the group of women farmers, which the crowd walked through the Park like the tourists are foreigners. Since Khurshida was also from the village, the women caught her eye. It wanted to communicate with them. Ask who they are, where they came from and so on. It's interesting.
When she cautiously approached and greeted them, asking where they came from, one of the women said that Khurshida almost fainted. Turns out they came from the "Charvak" mountains, from the village of "Tuyamuyun", that is, from the mountain village of his beloved Sultan.
- Daughter, what's wrong with you, why are you pale? Are you sick? - surprised the interview Khurshida.
- Yes there is no, I have it all in order - answered Khurshida, and gently asked her if she knows of one man, named Sultan, tall, with curly hair, snub-nosed, with a mustache above fleshy lips and a green scar on the left eyebrow.
- We know him. He's our fellow villager. Sultan went to Tashkent to enter Tashkent state University. But we heard him the first attempt failed to go to this university, and he worked in the valley, the farm "Tillaquduq" simple tractor to preparing for exams in solitude and again try to enroll in Tashkent state University. Then we heard that he entered Tashkent state University and graduated with honors. After graduating from the University, he came back to our "Tuyamuyun". But for some reason didn't want to teach in high school and became a businessman. He opened a trading manufacturing company and built a rest house at the foot of the "Charvak" mountains on the basis of this company. Rich guy, lived in his two - storey cottage-told another woman.
-Yeah? He lives with his family, so he's married? - asked Khurshida. From the excitement of her dry throat.
- No, Sultan not married - said the first companion Khurshida.
- Why didn't he get married? - Khurshida asked and then blushed at her own stupid question.
- He loved a beautiful girl named Khurshida, when he worked as a tractor driver on the farm "Tillaquduq". How much his mother begged him to get married, but Sultan never started a family, led a lonely life. The poor man died. And what he is, excuse me, have you? Friend, I guess. It is clear that we studied together, so in this, in Tashkent state University. Uh-oh, ruthless life! - said second companion. From this terrible news from Khurshida pale lips.
- That?! What are you saying, aunt?! - Shouted Khurshida, staring their eyes out in horror.
- Why? I told the truth. He died in the spring of loneliness, sadly looking through the window of his two-story cottage on the blooming white acacia, which he planted. I know better than anyone, since he lived next door to us. Man was modest, polite and always all helped, than could. When he died, all the people of our village, from small to large, cried as if the people's rain had died. Five thousand people came to his funeral, you know? And coffin of Sultan people suffered at the cemetery on their shoulders, passing from shoulder to shoulder without any traffic. Everyone says he died of an incurable disease called love. By the way, the holiday House he had built, he named his lover. Yes, at the entrance of the rest house he installed a huge neon sign, where the volume of neon letters written the name of his beloved girl "Khurshida". The name of the night is. Every night when we see this glowing sign, we sadly sigh, remembering the poor Sultan said first companion Khurshida. After that, ginseng went to the side, where a huge carousel rotated with a creek.
Khurshida from impotence sat down on a wooden bench, as a suicide, sentenced to death in court. She sat as if the mad, pale face the face of. Then, clasping her head with both hands, she wept aloud.
In autumn Park there was a quiet leaf fall.


End.



07/09/2014.
8: 27 PM.
The city of Brampton.
Canada.


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132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Chapter 21 of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves"


The fight in the birthday of Turabitdun





Khurshida's son turned one year old. She wanted to name her baby the tractor driver Sultan, but her husband Pathella and mother-in-law, Khurshida suggested to name the baby Turabitdun in honor of her grandfather, who showed the presentation at weddings, running freely on the high rope with a pole in his hands and directly into the rope cut the sheep. Recently the whole family celebrated the birthday of Turabitdun for a rich banquet. The birthday was attended by parents of Khurshida who sat in the place of honor at the table. Abduljabbar was always tipsy and sat holding his grandson in his hands, kissed him on the cheeks, rejoiced.
- I can see clearly that my grandson Turabitdun will be a great person! he said proudly.
- Oh, yeah, you’re right - confirmed the words of his test Pathella, lighting candles, inserted into the beautiful cake.
- Come on son; show me what you can do. Let's get you out here, the booze you probably hid in the Saratov fridge. What speech generally can go about a party with no alcohol?! Let us drink to the health of my grandson Turabitdun and for the health of my idol the Great Chairman, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch! - said Abduljabbar, raising his grandson high and looking him in the eye. Hearing this, Pathella looked at Khurshida say, what to do? Khurshida called her husband into the kitchen and said in a whisper:
- Pathella, father already sitting drunk. If you pour more on him, that's all. He's going to start getting bigger. Tell him you're not a drinker, and we don't have vodka in the fridge.
- You, that honey, I so not can. How can I fool my father-in-law? He is for me like a father. What's he going to think of me after that?! I don't want our father to think of me as a greedy person. What if he gets out of his seat and leaves?! Or, say, go to a nearby pub, drink vodka out of a bottle, empty it all standing, and come back to us? Isn't it better to have a drink with him one hundred and to remove the vodka from the table to hide it. Another option we have, love - said Pathella also in a whisper.
- Well, as you know. Be extremely careful. And then the father of such a nature that it will not find - said Khurshida.
- Don't worry darling, everything will be okay - said Pathella, kissing his wife. Then he took out vodka from fridge door and headed to table, for which sat his mother -in -law and with his father-in-law.
Seeing a bottle of vodka in the hands of Pathella, Abduljabbar predatory happy,
- That's ours! - He said, rubbing his hands together like a fly that rubs paws.
- Yes, father -said Pathella, also smiling.
Uncorking the bottle, he carefully began to pour into bowls. Watching his movements, Abduljabbar could not resist.
- Well, You, my son-in-law, what you as the pharmacist who weighs snake venom? Hands You are shaking like a cheque, who suffers from Parkinson's disease. Pour the bowls full! Today we have a round date, a family holiday! We celebrate the birthday of my first grandson! Let's drink and be merry, while our ships will not sink in a sea of vodka! - He said.
- Well, father - obeyed Pathella and filled with subtle and sonorous Tashkent cups vodka. After that, they drank for the health of the birthday boy, choking with bowls, and tasted salty cucumber.
Pathella wanted was to quietly remove the vodka from the table and hide, but he did not.
- Where do you take the vodka, my dear son-in-law?! It is not good to complete the penalty not sacrifice, comrade executioner - said Abduljabbar, deliciously munching a slice of salted cucumber and wiping his lips with a towel. Then he offered to drink the health of his idol, the Great Chairman of the collective farm comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch. When they emptied a bottle of vodka, Abduljabbar became embittered. Barely looking at his grandson Turabitdun, he began to speak.
- Turabitdun, you are my first grandchild, and when you grow up, you will become a mechanic, of the animal on our farm "Tillaquduq" and be involved in shearing sheep on flocks as I do! - he said.
- No, father, you're wrong. Our Turabitdun when you grow up, you will become a singer. I will create all conditions for him, buy him a piano only Turabitdun became a great singer. I'm ready to die, after Turabitdun coming on stage of the Palace "Khalklar dostligi" in the center of Tashkent and sing a song of a poor soldier, who lost both eyes in the war and lying in the hospital, sang the sad song of his wounded countryman who was discharged from the hospital. The blind soldier sang about so:
- Oh, brother, if you get to the homeland alive and well, the first thing to say Hello to my father!
Also say Hello to my poor mother, who, stumbling, runs out to meet you, to hear good news about me.

Pathella sang a sad song about a blinded warrior, knocking to the beat on the table. Abduljabbar got angry.
- No! I don't want him to become a singer! Turabitdun will be the only mechanic of the animal on our farm "Tillaquduq" and will shear the sheep in the pasture with the help of machines with elastic shaft! I'm ready to die, not sparing anything directly in the collective farm club, when my grandson Turabitdun will receive an honorary diploma from the hands of my idol, the great Chairman of the XXI century comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch, demonstrating their art in the shearing of sheep and goats! -Abduljabbar shouted.
- No! Turabitdun my son, and he will become the person that I dream of! He will be a humorist, will make people laugh at weddings, and will make a lot of money, he will build a cottage at the foot of the "Khumsan" mountains: there will be picnics, fishing, hunting saiga and tapirs in the steppes and all that! If he disobeys me and becomes a mechanic in a livestock farm, I'll take a hunting rifle and shoot myself! - replied the father-in-law Pathella.
- You, son-in-law, don't play with fire! And then I have a very bad temper! Don't cross me! If I said that Turabitdun you'll be a mechanic of the farm animals, then so be it. Oh, you decided to shoot! Yes bullets pity on you! No offense, but people like you need to kill with a shovel to save a bullet! Long ago I would have strangled you with my own hands, but you remain alive only because of my respect to your uncle, the great chairman, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch! So, think before you say anything, make a statement or, say, petition - Abduljabbar said.
- No! My decision is firm and not negotiable. My son will only do Show business! - shouted Pathella.
- Oh, is that so?! Well, now you blame yourself, you're in the rectum! - said angry and drunk Abduljabbar. With these words he lashed out on his son-in-law and began to strangle him with all his might. But Pathella managed to free his neck from the sharp as pincers of a crab at the hands of Abduljabbar. He not only defended himself, but went on the offensive, throwing punches and kicks to the vital organs of his father. Women and small birthday Turabitdun began to cry and scream. Khurshida also cried and begged them to stop the fight. She tried to separate the fighting men, but they fought like fighting dogs.
- Who's the rectum, huh? Who is the horse?! And let me repeat, a goat smelly again, something I can't hear! You allow yourself; the cattle are dirty, which goes to the farm, sinking knee-deep in the dermis! I'm respected, accepted, treated, and you, instead of saying thanks, wipe your ass with the tablecloth, insult, shake your right! Who are you to dictate to me?! Or have you forgotten who I am?! I'm the nephew of the Chairman of the Collective farm"Tillquduq" Mr. Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch! Enough of my bit, and you immediately be fired and go to jail for years! - said Abduljabbar, continuing stubbornly and desperately fighting.
- Are you a man or a snitch, not shorn sheep "Gissar" you with a huge rump! Well, go tell your uncle and have him kick me out of the job if he really needs to lose a talented professional like me! - said Abduljabbar, and with a distorted face with anger and contempt, hit with a fist Pathella. From a strong blow of Pathella flew and fell on the table. The table broke into two parts. And the cake flew into the air and turned over on the fly, hit right in the face of Abduljabbar. While Abduljabbar was wiping the cake cream from his face to open his eyes, Pathella managed to get up, grab a piece of the board of the collapsed table and hit hard on the head of his father-in-law. Abduljabbar crashed to the floor, unconscious.

 

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Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Chapter 20 of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves"


Writer Qalandar Hazrat ibn Abdel Fattah




After Khurshida angered the visitors by its hysterical, the owner fired her dining room. She had to find a new job. After a long search, she still found a job in the city Park of culture and recreation. She started working there as a janitor and cleaned the Park with a broom with a long wooden handle. Khurshida performed the tasks given to her by the foreman. Work in this Park liked it even those, which in it, too, grew white acacia. Where she sometimes sat on the bench under the white acacia, eating his meager dinner, she feels as a mother field camp, where there was exactly the same locust, which became a symbol of her love. On the lake, people riding families on boats, some crowds walked through the Park where it was shady, clean and cool from bubbling fountains. Many preferred to ride on the merry-go-round, others rested on other attractions, ate ice cream and drank soft drinks. Especially attracted the attention of Khurshida, well-dressed couples in love, who walked in the Park, walking under the handle, laughing loudly. Khurshida looked after them with envy, thoughtfully leaning on the handle of the rake or shovel with work gloves on her hands. Entry days, Khurshida did not rest as other workers, and went into wide field and in the thickets among the juniper bushes collected dung for the winter, despite the fact that she was already two months pregnant. To collect dung for her was like a good walk in the fresh air, a kind of rest and freedom, where she could think about tractor driver Sultan as much as necessary and no, it does not interfere. Every Sunday she went to the side of a wide field, with a bag in her hands, like people who go to the forest to pick mushrooms. She rejoiced every time she found dung, as an avid mushroom picker who is happy to find a mushroom. As this is ancient free of dried fuel was easy, Khurshida did not make special work to lift a sack of dung. Pressed dung reminded cakes could be found mainly in those places where cows grazed all summer. Khurshida today decided to collect dung at the edges of cotton fields in the juniper bushes, thickets and on the banks of the river at the ravine. Collecting dung, she looked around; making sure no one was around, she sang a sad song about love and separation. She sang enthusiastically and beautifully, like a professional singer. She came to herself and blushed only when I saw on the shore in the middle of tall grasses, the man who was sitting with a fishing rod in his hands. He looked at Hurshida with interest, and she became uncomfortable.
- Sorry, I didn't know you were fishing here. I feel sorry. I probably scared the fish -sheepishly said Khurshida.
- No, on the contrary, you helped me, calling all the fish here, and their magical songs! I was interrupted by the beautiful songs you sang. I interrupted them, coughing like a sheep with leaky lungs. I have a bittersweet so bitter that when I do a puff, the smoke stinks in my lungs like an arrow, because I smoke a flywheel, twisting a piece of paper. And you sing, just like the legendary French singer Mireille Mathieu. At first it seemed to me that these songs are heard from the transistor radio, and sings a professional singer. Can this so and there is? Are you a professional singer? - Fisherman said.
- Yes Ah, that you, what I have talent! I'm not a singer, but a simple caretaker. I work in the city Park of culture. Sweeping the territory - explained Khurshida.
- No, You have to work not as a janitor in parks, but in Philharmonic halls and go on tour giving concerts all over the country! You have a loud and clear voice like a tuning fork, like a silver bell that rings zing! Dzin! Dzin! But do not forget, God forbid, you leave the art and will not sing for the General public, the story Will not forgive you. And the future generations will curse you with glee. I appreciate talent, because I'm a writer. Write a book. Recently wrote a very interesting novel. "The driver" it's called. In this novel, my literary hero Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch forty years sitting in a deep and dark dungeon of the Emir Abu Negman Merzaqul Khidar Ibn Darvesh Kokaltash Abdulmakorem Hadjy Balutkhan for kidnapping time. Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovucha childhood dream that he had a lot of time, but his dream was never realized. In a land where he was born Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch, it was difficult to exist if the person didn't have enough time. That is, then time was more expensive than gold. From the lack of time, people even died, you know? Parents Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch also died from lack of time. Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch have grown and matured and one day, he robbed the Central Bank. There is, unfortunately, Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch the alarm went off and the guards arrested him red-handed. And condemned, put him in a deep and dark dungeon, where people can see only birds flying and the sky above the dungeon. Forty years young Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch was released grizzled, older man and began to work as a shepherd, Drover large herds of donkeys in the steppes. Day and night he drove a herd of wild donkeys on the boundless steppe with a long whip in his hands, and clouds of dust that rose from the hooves of wild steppe donkeys, settled on his sweaty face, hands and feet. A herd of donkeys was so huge that Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch lost their account when they wanted to count their heads for reporting to the user. Every day without days off and without leaving from morning to night, running around the steppe barefoot in the same short striped pants, eating on the run. And the donkey, the long and ugly was shouting, stretching his neck, then fought among themselves, biting and laga each other, then ran, shaking the steppe hooves. Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch loved the giant herd of wild donkeys, and day and night he worked to drive them into safe shelters, where they could not break a pack of hungry wolves. But gradually the herd is out of control and no longer obey the driver of Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch . Despite this, shepherd Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch not sleeping a wink at night lit bonfires, and hungry wolves dared not attack the donkeys, for fear of the blazing fire. But the donkeys were not able to appreciate the back-breaking labor of his shepherd, on the contrary, once they trampled him into the mud and killed. Here is such a sad affair happened to me at a glance - fisherman finished his story. Then add:
- My name is qalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah - What's your name? - He asked.
- My name is... And why should you? Actually, I can tell you my name. I'm Khurshida. But your story about the novel you wrote just struck me. What an interesting and sad novel. And where, in any bookstore you can buy this book, sir Kalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah -? - asked Khurshida.
- Unfortunately, You will not find my novel in the bookstores of the country yet. But there is hope that it will be published by one large publishing house with which I signed the contract. Yes, writers are people too, and they also have families and children. I mean, they need money, too. But I generally do not write for publication. I have nothing to compare the pleasure that I get when I write my works. I love fishing, loneliness and silence. I go to bed late, but Wake up at dawn, when others are sleeping the sweet sleep, and in silence listen to the sonorous morning trills of newly awakened birds. Streets are deserted. If you don't count the bird's chirping, we can assume that silence reigns around. The air is cool and clean. In such hours it seems that consciousness deepens and the mind becomes transparent like a mirror. Then you go out into the yard and sitting on the steps of the wooden stairs of your hut, you listen to the cool silence, watching the slowly and gradually pale horizon, which is full of stripes, like a torn silk women's nightgown pale yellow. From the distant clover fields, there were voices of wild birds. Here begins the roll call of roosters. From a distance barely hear the drums and hysterical crying surnai (Eastern wood-wind musical instrument), inviting people for a free wedding Breakfast which would attract anyone, without invitation. Sounds of canary and the drum roll. These distant sounds do not disturb the silence, on the contrary, decorate it with their presence. Especially when you're with a hoe on my shoulder going for a morning trail, overgrown from two sides by high grass, begins to sparkle with diamond dew, and the sun, bursting, singing skylarks over a field. You will stop with a smile on your lips to listen to the joyful songs of these birds that sing. You listen to their songs, and you don't want to leave. Then with elated mood you walk further, as speak, with leaps and bounds. It is good that there is a field, to my happiness. If I was offered a job in some crowded city and assigned a salary of five thousand dollars a month, I still could not live and work there for a long time. I would have died right at the working machine from the longing for the broad fields and the native village, gradually slimming, losing the gift of speech like a wild man. Borderless, I'm like a Dolphin with no sea. Dumb love flight of the white butterflies that flutter above the paths, silently chasing each other. The flight of white butterflies is a living image of silence, which artists are unable to portray in their paintings. I've been on the field a long time knocking on hoe, and I don't sit down to rest, no. In order to shake off the boot, which hit the lump. I take my boots off my feet and begin to shake it, holding it like a pipe of a heater, which is cleaned of soot in the winter. Meanwhile, I hear a distant and sad voice of a lone hoopoe and freezes with the boot in his hands: "Upupup! Upupup! Upupup! Pisssss!"."Upupup! Upupup! Upupup! Pisssss!". I listen to the weeping of the hoopoe, grey. Then I put on my boots and then I keep working. I used to think why I always wanted to cry when I heard the voice of the hoopoe in the fields. Then I realized that this voice, it turns out, is associated with my childhood, and it reminds me of those distant years when I went to the field with my late mother. I vaguely remember the field camp with thatched roof, tall poplars and a huge willow tree, in the shade where we children played, next bubbled through pure water in the irrigation ditch; on the branches of the tall poplars hundreds of passerine nests, red straw which patted the winds. Sparrows rustled in unison, stunning the neighborhood. How noisy these poplar and willow on the free winds! The nannies tied hammocks to trunks of poplars and, having laid in these hammocks kids, rocked them, loudly singing the lullaby, for the field camp. Women worked in the fields, glittering in the distance with the edges of their hoe. I still miss those fields and mulberry trees with trunks like elephant legs. I miss those tall poplars, the willows, the noise and the chirp of the Sparrow flocks, and I even miss the smell of pesticide-treated cotton seeds that lay in the pit. Oddly enough, the smell of pesticides - it is also the smell of my childhood. Every time I think about it, tears come to my eyes. Don't know why, but it is. That field camp and the trees, those people disappeared a long time ago. But they live in the fields of my memories, and no one can kill and destroy. With such thoughts I get back to work. I work, I work, and suddenly I stop again, straightening my back, and listen to the voice of cuckoo, which comes from the coast, where the olives grow, which blossomed. The pleasant smells of blooming olives are spread around the field drunk winds. Oh, you should have seen the moment when I come back from the field against the backdrop of a blazing sunset! I'm going tired, but in a good mood at the acquaintance to a pain a trail, overgrown from two sides by high grass, fending off pesky mosquitoes. As I cross the field, the night falls softly, and begins to twinkle. I walk along the trail, walking with a hoe on my shoulder, but not without stopping, of course. I stop only to watch the moon slowly rising from the horizon, quietly illuminating the cotton fields. Looking at the rising moon, I listen to the singing of the cricket, which is chorus and rhythmically chirping, but they do not see. And the moon shines selflessly. There, above the village in the sky, twinkling innumerable stars. I'm looking at the big dipper constellation, which looks like a crystal. And there's a little bear. I stand and I cannot look away from celestial bodies. I am a farmer. I work in another field, in the field of literature. I sow the seeds of kindness in people's hearts. I know that these seeds will grow and give their fruits, which will bring pleasure and joy to all people of the planet. Finally, I would say that for me creativity is life. And life is creation, there is also creativity, the creativity of Almighty God summed up his story writer qalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah.
- Ooooh, I never thought that someday meet a living writer like you, right here, on the banks of the river. To be honest, I am fascinated by your stories - said Khurshida. Here on the surface of the coastal waters began to twitch the float rod writer Kalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah-and excited him, disappeared under the water. Writer qalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah -quickly began to roll up the line into the reel and soon over the water seemed to hump the fish, which trembled nervously, wanting to get rid of the hook. But it did not. Kalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdelfattah pulled the fish out of the water and freed it from the hook, threw it on the shore, where standing Khurshida. She even got scared and jumped back, having made laugh with the writer Qalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah. They laughed and rejoiced, with admiration looking at the fish, which from lack of air were widely opened and shut it's mouth, convulsive twitching, writhing and bulging not contiguous, round, red eyes without eye lashes, staining it's silvery scales, sand.

 

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