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Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

Larks sing over the field

(The short novel)

Translated by the author.

 


Any commercial use of the novel "Larks sing over the field" by Holder Volcano is prohibited without the prior written consent of the author.

(Holder Volcano)


This is the birth of a new genre in world literature. If you do not believe, then read this work to the end and You will firmly see this.

All an enjoyable read!

 

(Holder Volcano)



Chapter 1

Bank robbery in broad daylight




A gang of masked robbers, armed to the teeth, suddenly burst into the Bank with wild cries, threatening to shoot anyone like a partridge who dares to show the slightest disobedience or resistance. They ordered all Bank employees to lie down on the floor and not move.

- Anyone who tries to raise his head, immediately receive a bullet in the forehead! - one of them shouted.

One of the employees of the Bank, of about forty, tall, skinny build, with a nose like the beak of an eagle named Dalakazan, the bandits raised, pointing at him nervously, with trembling hands, the barrel of the machine gun:

-Come on, bastard! You will help us commit the robbery of the century!Come on, motherfucker, open the safe and put the money in those bags! Try to give signals to the cops, pressing the alarm button, then you, instantly turn into a corpse! Move your ass!- shouted another thug, hard-hitting kicks ass Dalakazan.

-Okay!Okay! I'll do anything you say!Just please don't kill me!I have a family and young children! -begged them Dalakazan. He obediently walked towards the cash register, raising his thin arms high, like a young soldier in a hot spot of the planet who had just been captured.

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But he, turning suddenly back, sharp movements knocked the bandit to the floor and quickly took his Kalashnikov machine gun. Then he pulled the trigger of the machine to neutralize the gang of robbers and save the staff, but the shot was not followed.There was a loud scream! - Stop! Okay, abort! The exercise went well!Thanks to all the participants of the unplanned exercise and we apologize for the fact that we conducted a training alarm without warning a group of employees of our Bank! It was a training event!Training! We must learn to behave correctly in such difficult situations!Although Mr. Dalakazan OSA Ibn Kosa left in danger the lives of other employees of our Bank and hostages, but he still managed to show the heroic qualities of a brave man!We thank him for his bravery!  the Bank's head of security shouted.

-Huh! Well, you have a drill! I almost killed those innocent guys!Thank God, that all go off!- said Dalakazan, helplessly squatting on the floor and a sigh of relief.

The fake robbers laughed in unison, looking at the ceiling, removing the masks from the faces.

Then Dalakazan was given a vacation and a trip to Yalta resort to rest together with his family on the French Riviera of the Black sea, for the shown heroism during teaching.

Yes, to work in a Bank, all the same, how to sit over the awakened Icelandic volcano Eyjafjallajökull , which is about to explode. Dalakazan, risking his life working in this dangerous institution, as a commercial Bank, for his faithful and charming wife Sadoqat sweetheart and loved his daughters.His wife is actively engaged in the education of daughters.She and her husband Dalakazan live together, as they say, soul to soul. Dalakazan sometimes proudly thinks, looking out the window of his office that he's the luckiest man in the world.Beautiful, plump, young, Loving wife, daughter, luxurious house, car, a prestigious job.As if that wasn't enough, the Bank Manager where he works is his loyal friend.This means that he has a real chance to climb the career ladder. Well, what else does a person need to feel like the happiest person on the planet? Such thoughts Dalakazan decided today to have dinner at home with his wife, at the family table, in a romantic atmosphere, by candlelight and to please his wife and daughters, telling them about the vacation and a free ticket to the resort "Yalta". Dalakazan went home in his car "Honda civic" Japanese production.He drove along the road, turning the wheel with one hand, the elbow of the other hand sticking out of the car window, whistling and singing some song about love.Finally he arrived and left his car on the side of the street, tiptoed into the house, so as not to accidentally Wake up his incomparable wife, who sleeps on the Italian chic double bed, breathing perfume. - Now in the bedroom my favorite Princess will wake up and be happy like a little saw me and heard about the holiday, about the free ticket, thrown my arms, cuddle me, even cry with joy thought Dalakazan.But then he froze, hearing the tread of footsteps and a mysterious whisper.He stood frozen, not knowing what to do and carefully climbed the stairs to the second floor. When he entered the bedroom, Sadokat was lying on a luxurious bed, like a Princess and slept sweet infant sleep in a delicate silk robe. "Thank God my wife is all right.I thought I heard something.I'm tired.Well, nothing, now we have a ticket to the resort and I will rest properly on the shore of the sea, together with my family, healing my shattered nerves, lying on a hammock, looking at the scarlet sunsets, listening to the rustling waves and the sad cry of seagulls - he continued to think. Then he saw his wife's scattered clothes and picked them up to hang on the hangers.Then he opened the closet and stiff with shock for a moment, as bewitched. In the closet sat naked his best friend - the Bank Manager, clutching to his chest his clothes, which he did not have time to wear.A friend of his who swore all the time in loyalty, declaring that he was ready to die for Dalakazan, if required.He, trembling with fear, began to speak:

-Dalakazan, my friend, I am not guilty!Trust me!I Swear It! This wrong Sadoqat is your wife to blame! She confused me like Satan, assuring me that we would make it... well, that... sin... Please, for the sake of our old friendship, don't kill me! Have mercy, Dalakazan, I have small children!Do you want me to make you my Deputy tomorrow? Well, think about it, why do you have such a slut? Find another.I'll give you the money, "- he said, trembling with fear.

Dalakazan turned toward the bedroom bed and saw Sadoqat, which was preparing to run.But she didn't succeed.Dalakazan caught her by the hair.

-Oh, you bitch! Horrible creature! I thought you were the most loyal, the perfect woman on the planet, believed in you, and you bitch made a cuckold of me! It's good that there were no daughters here!God, how will my poor daughters live now?!You disgraced the whole family! How dare you cheat on me, and this rascal, who believed all these years and believed the reptile to its loyal and faithful friend!You day and night swore that you loved me and can't live without me in this world any day! I loved you! What a puzzle!Oh, what skin!-shouted angry Dalakazan.

- Let me go, you bastard!What kind of love are you talking about?! There is no love in this world!Why are you not heard the saying, such as "Why to love and to suffer, when all roads lead to bed."Oh, you naive and stupid haryp, peasant! Believe my words!I've never loved you, and don't get your hopes up!This is firstly, and secondly you have no right to talk about my daughters! Because they're not from you! -Sadokat said.

After these words Dalakazan instead of trying to strangle his unfaithful wife and to kill, is why it was released, saying: - Everything from now on, you're not my wife, bitch! Cumtalak! The terrible word "cumtalak" by Sharia law means the final divorce spouse before Almighty God.

After Sadoqat and her lover ran out of the room, Dalakazan laughed as genie from a magic lamp .Then he began to shout in a loud voice: -Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! A few hours later came a polite team of doctors in white coats and taken away Dalakazan a shirt with overly long sleeves that are tightly twisted.On the way slightly recovering, Dalakazan asked the doctors about where he is being taken.The doctor bespectacled man with a velvet voice, explained.

-Calm down, my dear, you cannot worry.You have tired nerves and you need to relax in our cozy resort.We'll take care of you there, "- he said.

Hearing this, Dalagazan again began to shout:

-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!

 

 

Chapter 2

The return of Dalakazan


Half of the year Dalakazan  was treated in a cozy and quiet hospital located on the outskirts of the city where there is the bustle of the city, howling of brakes and sirens.Finally he was discharged from the hospital, according to the doctors, where it is written that Dalakazan not dangerous to society. But when he returned home, at the gate he met quite a stranger to him and, he surprised Dalakazan with a strange question.

-Who are you, sir? - he asked.

- What a strange question, and who are you? What are you doing in my house? - answered with a question Dalakazan.

-Oh, you are a former owner Dalakazan OSA Ibn Cosa? I'm sorry, sir, but this house belongs to us now.Half a year ago we bought it from your wife named Sadokat.We have a legal document confirming this transaction, certified by a notary.That is all the law - explained the new home owner Dalakazan.

Hearing this, Dalakazan froze for a moment in surprise.Then he picked himself up and said, " I See.".. Well, as they say, a low bow to my ex-wife that she left me the car so I could ride it to work! Where are the keys to my car?

-Sorry again, sir. We also bought the car from your ex-wife.If you want, we can show you the documents and the contract of sale - said the new owner of the property.

- Oh...Really. Well, then, sorry to bother you - said Dalakazan and was about to leave, he was stopped by the new owner.

-Wait, your wife Sadoqat left you something! - said the man.

-Yeah? What did she leave? - surprised Dalakazan.

This old furniture - said the man, pointing to the wardrobe, lying next to the barn.

Dalakazan walked over and opened the cabinet door, looked.There was nothing inside it but his striped pajamas.

-All right, I'm going.Please, don't throw it away.I'll come back later and take it- said Dalakazan.

-Well - agreed the new owner.

Dalakazan began to leave.He walked along the road, furtively wiping tears from his eyes.

- Its okay, I'll work a couple of years in banks and everything will be fine.Again, I will buy a house and a car. I'll live alone for the rest of my life and never get married , he thought, still walking.He walked down the street and it seemed to him that his fellow villagers, afraid even to greet him, bypassed, pretending that they did not notice him. Dalakazan hitchhiking went into town to find some work, but every time, the guards of enterprises and securities were stopping him in the control - crossing point. And heads of the enterprises which it could contact by phone, politely explained to him that they can't employ it as it contradicts the Charter of organization.That is, he, suffering from a illness associated with the soul, can not work in a Bank.

Then Dalakazan went to the side of his house, who sold his ex-wife Sadoqat to pick up the wardrobe.There he changed into striped pajamas and made a strong post-it shoulder straps, attached them to the closet.Then, perched on his shoulder like a huge backpack, he walked toward the field. Coming out on a deserted country road, he tried to run with a wardrobe on his shoulders and since he was a physically strong man, he succeeded.He ran barefoot, shouting loudly:

-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!

He ran for a long time across the field, despite the resistance of stray winds that blew his pajamas like a striped sail.When he stopped on the bank of the river "Kashkaldak" to rest a little at a transparent spring where a huge willow grows, local boys and girls who grazed cows and sheep in the floodplain came running. They were surprised to see Dalakazan and his closet, which looks like a huge backpack and wasn't afraid. Dalakazan although he knew that half a year ago was sent to a mental hospital for compulsory treatment. One of the boys boldly approached him and said::

-Uncle Dalakazan, we roasted potatoes on the fire.Want to try? It is very tasty -he said, handing him the potatoes.

-Thank you, kind boy - said Dalakazan and carefully cleaned the potatoes peeled, and began to eat.The children watched his every move with curiosity.Dalakazan eating potatoes, thanked him again and drank water from a spring.Then, turning to face the children, he said: - do you guys want to ride on my closet?

- Yeah!  - the children answered in chorus.

-Come on then, climb up quickly into the Cabinet and firmly hold on to the handrails and I'll drive you! - said Dalakazan. The children climbed into the closet and he ran barefoot across the meadow with a cheerful cry:

-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!

 

 

Chapter 3

Wardrobe - school


Dalakazan last time I began to understand the language of birds and even began to talk with them on various topics.Then his head came up a unique idea to teach children "Tappicasod" bird language. He did. After he agitated the local population, many parents brought their children to his school.

Students of Dalakazan passionate about modern science on the avian literature, studied hard in new wooden wardrobe for school. Out of a sense of patriotism, the teacher of bird language and literature Dalakazan went to meet the wishes of his students and agreed to teach for free.

He, working in two shifts, in the evening until late at night wrote notes by the light of a kerosene lamp, checked notebooks of pupils, with exercises in bird language, dictations and compositions on bird themes. In parallel, the people's teacher wrote a doctoral dissertation. Sometimes he went outside and looked at the moon, shouting at the top of his voice:

- -Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!

Among other things, he made a variety of visual AIDS for use in the classroom. He worked until late at night, when the tired moon went to the horizon, quietly illuminating the banks, ravines and fields, and the stars began to fade.

That day he got up early, when the river began to shout the first the roosters and on the morning horizon Tappicasod appeared pale stripes. It was slowly dawning. In the distance, in a cool clover field, quail sang:

"Vivick! Vivick! Bibildik! Bibildik!"

But without waiting for the songs of larks, Dalakazan sleepily yawned and fell into a sweet sleep. Two hours later, he stood up like a young soldier, and after washing, had Breakfast, eating crunchy pieces of dried bread, which the students left under the Desk. The remaining crumbs he poured into the bird feeder.

Every morning he went out to his students in striped pajamas. But it didn't bother him at all. The most important thing is the people's education, he said. When he was teaching a class of wardrobe-school came the voice like a bird's song.

- Caw caw, caw caw! Tweet - tweet! Piiiit - piiiit - Few - Few - di - di - di - di - di - di! Chiaaaak! Chiaaaak! Blu! Blu! Quack! - quack! Hoo! - hoo!

- children shouted, mastering a new science in the history of mankind.

One day, during a lesson Dalakazan looked out the window and saw a police jeep with a group of operatives from the Department of the native police. He was terrified. His face paled sharply.

- I think I've been slandered again. Now the task force will RAID the wardrobe school, the cops grab my hands, put on the handcuffs and will close the wardrobe-school will take me, then they will take me to the police station- he thought.

So children are not afraid, Dalakazan ahead of the police. No, he didn't run away, escaping from them through the opening in the Cabinet, on the contrary, came forward to police with his hands up.

- I surrender voluntarily, initiates! - shouted Dalakazan.

But the policemen only smiled.

- What you, the citizen, the teacher, put your hands down. We didn't come here to arrest you, and quite another thing - said a pot-bellied policeman in the rank of second Lieutenant.

- Ah, you've come for the disciples to send them for field work?! - happy Dalakazan.

- No, Mr.teacher. We came to study in your wardrobe school! - the pot-bellied militiaman with a bald head and with a school satchel behind shoulders told.

Hearing this, Dalakazan cross eyed in surprise.

- Yes, chief, are you kidding me? So, you have so many special schools and academies!

- Yes, sir, you are right. We have our own special schools and academies, but, unfortunately, they do not teach bird language and literature. And we want to learn bird language. Why? I will explain clearly. For example, we found in the thickets the body of an unknown man with multiple stab wounds. The head of the corpse, for example, is so disfigured that even his relatives can not identify. Judging by the worms that eat the body of the victim, you can make at least some conclusions that he was killed, say, three days ago. Well, tell us yourself, how do we find the killer, who at this time managed to leave the country and escape? Don't know? Us too. And your friends know - the pot-bellied militiaman with the bald head and with a school satchel behind shoulders told .

Dalakazan paled even more.

- What are my friends? What about the corpse and the murderer you speak, chief? - he asked in surprise.

- Well, these your feathered friends - explained the pot-bellied militiaman with a bald head and with a small school-bag behind his shoulders.

- Ahhh, you should have just said, chief. And the fright I almost crapped in my pants - said Dalakazan a sigh of relief.

- You know, Mr. teacher Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa, criminals usually commit their crimes in the wilderness, in bushes, where trees and think that nobody sees their crimes but them. And there in the trees sat our feathered friends with a photographic memory all fixed. They're invaluable witnesses. And in this space age, apprehending criminals is not as easy as you imagine. They say that abroad on every corner there are surveillance cameras that help to catch criminals. But criminals, too, are not born yesterday, right? Because they are, before making their heinous crime, or disable installed cameras, or act in masks. And here we have a free live surveillance system at hand. A bird will arrive, sit on a tree branch outside the window of the police station, chirp, and the native police will be informed in time. Take a weapon with ammunition, sit quietly in the police car and head to the address where the attacker is trying to commit a crime. Quietly surround the building - the attacker in our hands. Then take them in the craters, kick their ass, similar to a backpack. They will be surprised, thinking, they say, that is, we probably have some new and ultra-modern equipment. And we modestly smile back at him. In short, the bird's language is also a great discovery for us. Having mastered the bird's language, we will quickly find criminals, working ahead of the curve. This will happen with all the cases, and, you see, in a month we will become senior lieutenants, in two - majors, and in a year we will wear the shoulder straps of the Lieutenant Colonel. And in order to recruit informant birds and work with them, we need to know their language thoroughly. Now I understand, Mr. teacher Dalakazan OSA Ibn Cosa?! - said the pot-bellied policeman, with a school bag over his shoulder, taking off his cap and scratching his bald head.

-Okay comrade chief! Now I see! - said Dalakazan and joyfully shouted: -Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!

Thus, a group of operatives from the Department of the native police, the bald headed pot-bellied policeman began to learn the Cabinet-school Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa with other students. The pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and a school bag behind his shoulders, who wanted to be an excellent student, was sitting at the front Desk. Since he was much older than his classmates, his body prevented the children from seeing what was written on the Board. Therefore children who sat behind him, pulled out from the pockets small slingshots and charging them with paper bullets shot in the ear to the pot-bellied militiaman with the bald head. He was angry, looked back and grimly threatened with a fist disobedient classmates.

One day Dalakazan held yet another lesson in nature, where birds were twittering, and suddenly from a distance came the sad voice of a lonely cuckoo. The master and his disciples fell silent, listening to the poor bird's voice.

- Come on chief, that is pot-bellied, student with a bald head and with a school bag behind, try to talk to the cuckoo - said Dalakazan.

- Well, Mr.teacher - the pot-bellied militiaman with the bald head, with a student's bag behind shoulders told and began to speak in broken bird language:

- Cook! Cook!

And then because in the thickets on the edge of a cliff where waved loosely in the wind wild poplar and willow, to his question was the answer.

- Well, Mr. bellied student with a bald head and the school bag over his shoulders, what did your feathered partner say? I think, they said its getting hot outside you should drink coca-cola, wow these birds must be very smart they even know about coca-cola. - said the teacher Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa.

- No, no, he tells about a captain James Cook who went by ship across to Hawaii, and there he was stabbed to death. - said the pot-bellied policeman, clutching his cap and thoughtfully scratched his bald head, on which the sunbeams were playing as a light-music in the night bar.

- Well, you see, talking to birds, you can learn a lot. This information is valuable historical and geographical facts -said the teacher Dalakazan.

After that, other students also began to develop their bird speech, entering into conversations with birds of different breeds. Then they went back to the school closet, talking to each other in bird language.

 

 

Chapter 4

Cranes over Tappicasod


In these days of autumn village Tappicasod  quite empty. No, the villagers did not go to the front or to work in foreign lands, the whole family. They all worked in the cotton field, to pick cotton. Students wardrobe-school of the great teacher, a teacher of bird language teacher Dalakazan was no exception. Dalakazan also worked tirelessly picking cotton with his wardrobe- school on his back, and was like a living combine with a wooden hopper. Lost among the tall, thick cotton bushes, the short, pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and a school school bag on his shoulders nimbly ran from one row to another, diligently collecting cotton in his school bag.

At this time, high in the sky, crane voices were heard, and all who worked on the cotton field, looked up, admiring the beauty of the flight slowly birds flying away. Cranes flew high, lined up in a wedge, filling the sky with their cries.

- The best student with a bald head, and a school bag on his shoulders! Quickly climb on the roof of the school closet and translate the cranes flying south ! - shouted Dalakazan.

- Yes, Mr. teacher! - said the pot-bellied policeman with a bald head, with a school bag on his shoulders, and, puffing and grunting, he climbed to the roof rack-schools . Then he began to translate the sad words of the cranes.

I ask them, " crook - crook - crook?"! That is, where you are flying, citizens cranes?! -  he started.

And the leader of the cranes answers him:

- Crook crook! Well, you're a big-bellied policeman with a bald head and a school bag on his shoulders! You ask stupid questions! Where else are we going?! To the South, of course! Goodbye, you two-legged bastards! Because of you, because of the improper distribution of water resources in Central Asia there are no clean water bodies and meadows! The Aral sea is dry!Year after year it becomes more difficult to live where green meadows cover salty sands! There are no frogs left in the ponds to eat ! And your poets write poems that we are flying over the autumn expanses crying! What are we supposed to do? We can't laugh when stupid people pollute the environment by using poisonous drugs to kill weeds and insect pests. They mindlessly sprayed the cotton with dangerous pesticides! You say where you're going?! What do you care, pot-bellied student with a bald head and a student's bag on his shoulders?! We, thank God, not people, and free cranes! Wherever we want, there and fly! Or do you want to set up a visa regime for us cranes?! Yeah, in sight, in these edges not only people, but and birds too became impossible to live! All of us! We're leaving, and we're never coming to this land again!

The pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and a school bag on his shoulders, standing on the roof of a sliding wardrobe-the school of Professor Dalakazan - translated the words of the leader of the cranes. All who heard the words of the cranes in the translation, felt sad, looking after the flock of cranes that left a sad autumn sky in Tappicasod.

- Yes- they said, sighing, and thought.

Teacher Dalakazan wiped the tears of his worn skull-cap, which he waved to the cranes, as if saying goodbye to them. The autumn fields seemed to have been orphaned after the voices of the cranes fell silent and disappeared behind the horizon in the blue of the sky. The villagers became thoughtful and silent. They worked in silence, picking cotton. The man who collects cotton has a hard time. The fact is that he or she has to bend his or her back, working in a slant, moving through difficult rows, on the move to collect cotton, dragging a heavy apron full of cotton. An hour later, the cotton grower has a pain in his hips, and it is difficult for him to straighten his back. In short, the cultivation and harvesting of cotton is a hell of a job! And the cotton grower swallows for dessert a good portion of poisonous defoliants-pesticides and other nasty things.

By November, if the authorities allow, in the empty fields, where the old and young harvested cotton, calling each other at the autumn sunsets, the villagers begin to clean the fields, collecting cotton stems, tying them in sheaves and building stacks of them. If you look at this landscape in the fog, you think that the blackening stacks begin to move like tanks on a Smoking battlefield. The rows of these stacks are flat so that the field workers can load these heavy sheaves of cotton into the tractor trailers, feeding them with pitchforks to the people who carefully place them in the tractor trailer so that they do not fall out while driving on the uneven country road. Downloading the bundles from the cotton in the trailer of a tractor, farmers happily return home, sitting with a pitchfork famously on the oscillating weight like a huge elephant. There are cases when incorrectly loaded sheaves fall down on the road, and the tractor with the trailer turns over. For Uzbeks who live in rural areas, the cotton stem is a strategic raw material, that is, fuel for the winter, for those who do not have gas and coal. For this, the Uzbeks, joking among themselves, this fuel which is called "gusapoya", they call "gasopoya", that is, the gas with which they heat their homes in the harsh winter. Now the cotton fields were empty, and the birds flew South. The swallows were the first to fly away, gathering in huge flocks, which recently sat on the wires, basking in the autumn sun, and made noise as slave-deputes at sessions, making a decision after the first reading and unanimously approving any draft laws, which will put the President of the country.

With such thoughts Dalakazan waved cranberry caravans heading for the southern edge, pipes and their sad farewell song. He had his students feeling that the whole countryside, fields and meadows lonely accompany cranes, which drifted further and further toward the horizon on a cloudy sky.

 

Chapter 5

A man, who lives in a hollow mulberry tree





Writer Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich of thirty-five, forty, of medium height, thin build with a horse's face, sad eyes, like the eyes of a donkey, shaggy and bearded, he lives on the edge of the cotton fields in a huge hole inside of a 100 year old mulberry tree, alone. Since it is a mulberry tree it grows vertically, the writer sleeps in the hollow tree in a standing position. His makeshift bed stands upright like an astronaut's chair. Sometimes Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich feels like an astronaut that reclines inside of a space ship before flying into space from the Baikonur "Tappicasod". On the ceiling of the hollow hangs an old kerosene lamp that shines in the summer at night, as moths and bugs revolve around it, giving the hollow a romantic look. Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich resulted in this hollow art. That is, literary works. He desperately needed calm, Arctic silence, to write literary works, looking at the night sky through the cracks of the hollow tree at the stars, to the moon, listening to the silence of the cotton fields and the moonlit shores. Although the hollow mulberry tree was cramped, but it did not bother him, because the most important thing for him - peace of mind, spiritual independence, creative freedom and living in harmony with nature.He lives in this world only for the sake of art, for the sake of literature. However, his wife Ulpatay left him from this closeness, and now lives in town with her new companion. What of it? The sky fell to earth after her departure. It still hangs over the planet as a great bell without a tongue.Ulpatay always scared him in her departure, saying: - I'm leaving you, I will marry a rich businessman and I will live in a luxurious mansion in the Swiss Alps. She left him, as she had promised, but she married not a billionaire, but a hunchback caretaker of the local History Museum. Thus, Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich got rid of unnecessary worries, troubles that interfere with his work. What can you do if a woman does not understand the writer.
One winter, sitting in a hollow after he was buried in the clover hay, Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich saw through the opening of the hollow falling snow and felt happy a little.
- Look, Ulpataya coming down for the opening of the hollow mulberry tree, the snow, quietly and slowly covering our deserted cotton fields! Like the cotton opened their boxes with soft, fluffy cotton again in our cotton fields, the field workers of collective farms, school children, students of colleges and universities, old men and women, pupils of kindergartens still have work to do until spring, picking cotton in the cold boundless fields manually. As if there were still millions and millions of tons of raw cotton in these deserted fields! What a white blissful silence! What a snowy mist! It looks, as if not snow flakes flying  for the opening of the hollow mulberry tree, but soft and light  fluffy cotton plants over the summer  fields under the moon, like white jellyfish in the sea! - he said, admiring the snowy night landscape.
And Ulpatay, his ex-wife, did not even react to it, didn't show the snow scenery of any interest. On the contrary, she said, what's even good here? Well, the snow is falling. Let it fall. What's surprising? This snow is romantic only for officials. And for poor people, this snow can be a free white shroud in cold huts and apartments, like a freezer. I fear that tomorrow will begin with unprecedented cold, and you and I can freeze in this hollow, like caught fish in a frozen river in the harsh winter, like mammoths frozen in the glacial periuda.
-Here at what level was the consciousness and worldview of Ulpatay.

- All normal men,  leaving their wives alone, went to work in neighboring countries, and you sit here in a close hollow tree and write to no one necessary things! -she said and cried. Uneducated fool. But the world is not impoverished by smart women who dream all their lives to be a wife or at least a mistress of real lonely writers.
Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich knows exactly what his ex-wife Ulpatay will soon regret leaving him,  as she married the guard Museum. A couple of years Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich glorified on the weight of the world, that his books are best-sellers and will be the most famous and he will be the best writer on the planet. Then Ulpatay, leaving the guard Museum, went running to him. But, sadly for her, she will not find Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich in these parts. Because by that time he will move to France and begin to live in a magnificent hollow of a huge chestnut, which grows in the alleys of Paris near the Eiffel tower. In the meantime, he's staying here and he's not going to complain. Because the most good art writers write precisely in difficult times, when they are threatened by poverty, hunger, exile and civic participation.
With such thoughts Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich poured in a tin of vodka, which he himself had prepared from rice, and he then drank it. Then he continued to write.
In spring and summer, this hollow mulberry tree is easier to live in than in winter in the bitter cold. But the summer seasons also have their own problems. In spring, in rainy weather on country roads and on slippery paths, it is very difficult to move. However Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich beckoned spring willows that spread their buds bright yellow on the river "Kashkaldak" in in the woodlands where olives grow, wild poplar, thoughtfully looking at his shadow reflected in the thaw. In the summer he sits in the hollow, at the opening, admiring the huge rim of the slowly rising moon, listening to the singing of crickets and listening to the distant tired barking of stray dogs. He loves the summer pre-dawn silence more than anything. Especially the quiet twilight, when the air is cool and distant clover field sings wild quail making sounds "Vivek! Out! So-talak! So-talak!". At such times Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich somewhere in the depths of the soul awakens the divine inspiration, and he will write landscape poems, and stories about the deserted fields in the predawn hour, about loneliness and solitude souls. During the day it is hot and you can listen to the voice of a distant cuckoo, who sings somewhere in the ravines or in a poplar grove on the Bank of the river "Kashkaldak". He listens in silence to the booming and thumping woodpecker, who is drumming his beak on the dry trunks of trees in the groves. In the evening increases stuffiness and Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich comes out from a hollow mulberry tree to admire a peaceful sunset, where the fiery ball of the sun slowly drown in the lava of the burning clouds as the ship burned. Mosquitoes will buzz, which swarms surround a person in the hope of drinking his blood, hysterically singing their songs, similar to the terrible crying of quicksand. They get drunk, wanting to drink  the blood of Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich, like it is the excellent Irish age-old red wine. In such moments Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich , fighting off the winged bloodsuckers, using burning dung, which he had collected on the lawn and threw the acid smoke shooing a buzzing swarm of pesky mosquitoes. However, in winter bloodthirsty mosquitoes disappear along with the dirt and Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich gets the chance to walk on fresh snow as the North shepherd-herder, who rides a herd of reindeer across the expanses of icy tundra, where the giant herd of spinning reindeer, humming like a whirlpool like the universe itself. But the bitter cold, penetrating through the sleeves of his torn cotton vest, penetrates him to the bone, and he has to sit all day in the hollow of a mulberry tree, hiding behind dry clover hay. In a Blizzard, the bare branches of a mulberry tree, like bent swords, will howl like a pack of hungry wolves in the distance. during a strong storm, in a hollow sits Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich , his mulberry tree sways like a rickety tower and he prays to God that his house dosen't get demolished by the storm. At such moments, due to heavy snowfall, the cotton fields disappear in the whirlwinds of snow flakes. Despite this, Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich liked to listen to the fierce Blizzard that cries and whistles in the snow storm. When the Blizzard subsides, the shores of the icy river "Kashkaldak" with the Central Asian forests and cotton fields, reminded him of a huge white piano, and the snow-covered fields and the shores are transformed into music, the white Symphony, which Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich listens with his eyes, like musical compositions by frédéric Chopin, Franz Peter Schubert and Bach Sebastian. In the Indian summer on the lawns, wandering the quiet breeze, tearing fuzzes of the dandelions and flying over the fields. Dandelion fluff flies over meadows and fields look like snow flakes in the light of street lamps in a snowstorm. Autumn life in the hollow becomes much calmer. In poplar and willow groves, in gardens, where the trees fly thoughtfully. Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich looks, sticking his head out of the opening of the hollow of the mulberry tree at the cranes, flying over the deserted autumn fields and meadows, listening to their sad farewell cries. He waved his old hand-me down skull cap for as long as they do not dissolve in the grey sky, yet it will not cease their cries, disappearing over the horizon. Then, again he is beginning to write poems. His soul cries, and the paper, on the contrary, laughs, making sounds similar laughter, "crack - crack, crack - crack", when the pencil tickles the paper's side with its sharp tip, similar to the beak of a woodpecker. By the end of autumn begins the season of cold and brooding rains.If not rain, and the tears of heaven drops pounding on his hood. Behind the opening of the hollow, the rain rustles like wet silk, and he sits in the hollow, as if in the womb, where he visited nine months before being born. The mother of Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich too similar to the mulberry tree, especially her face, with a wrinkled forehead and rough hands, bony fingers, like bamboo. Her name is Kupaysin. Twice a week she visits him, bringing him food. she will come, knock on the trunk of the tree and in the tree sits her son Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich  . He sits down next to his mom and eats the food she brought. While he eats, Kupaysin cries softly, looking thoughtfully at his son, stroking his long hair, like the manes of a lion, and wails with bitterness.
- Son, can't I write these, what's their names, your stories and novels and poems in the nursing home where I live now? Come on, son, let's go to my place. There in the nursing home you will also find a place. The state will take care of you. After all, the whole village laughs at us, saying that the son of Kupaysin has gone mad and lives in the hollow of a mulberry tree that grows on the edge of a distant cotton field. Because of your miserable existence, your wife Ulpatay also left you and married the hunchback caretaker of the Museum of local lore. Your father, God rest his soul, before his death bequeathed me to get married again. If I die without fulfilling your father's will, my soul will never rest, not even in Paradise, and my bones will not cool in a cold grave until judgment day. Well, judge for yourself, son, who wants to be related to us and give his daughter to marry you, if you live here in this damned hollow? I, too, grow old year after year, and I want you to get married and finally have grandchildren and granddaughters - said his mother crying, wiping tears from her eyes with the edge of a handkerchief, which had been burned and it formed a hole the size of a walnut, when she lit a fire in the hearth and blew on a Smoking dung to make tea in a nursing home.
- Do not cry, mom the people who are laughing at us don't understand what literary art is and what a stream of consciousness is, in modern works. They are aliens to the giants of thought, such as Nietzsche, Albert Camus, James Joyce, Sartre, Beckett, Cortazar, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Kobo Abe, Borges, Hemingway, Kafka, Carpenter, Navai, Rumiy, Pushkin, Abdullah Kadiriy and including a modest writer who lives alone in the hollow of the mulberry tree and writes poems. I'm not going to say his name, I think you probably know who he is. Mom, you have no idea what kind of writer you were born with! Centuries will pass and humanity will understand the essence of my works and the choir will cry into huge leaky handkerchiefs because they did not adequately appreciate my literary works when I was still alive and healthy as an ox! The people of our planet will eternally punish themselves for this, and will tell each other that they slept through the years when the mighty comet of my work flew across the sky of world! They will regret, Oh how they will regret, that they did not award me a prestigious international prize for my literary works, and, waking up from the so-called literary lethargy, they will suddenly remember about you too. Then they quickly stand out from the budget of a huge amount of money (in dollars, of course) you will have built an 18 metre monument of bronze in the center of our village "Tappicasod"! So cheer up, mother! - said Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich, licking a bowl and a wooden spoon with patterns of Gzhel masters.
-Why do I need a monument, son, when one of my feet is here and the other is in the grave. Most important to me, so you can be healthy and a respected person in the village "Tappicasod". I want you not to run wild and go crazy with loneliness - Kupaysin said, continuing to cry hysterically and wiping tears from her eyes with the edge of the handkerchief, which has a good part burned and it formed a hole the size of a walnut, when she lit a fire in the hearth and blew on a Smoking dung to make tea in a nursing home.
-Oh, mother, you know, sooner or later a man will be lonely and will lie in his grave until the day of judgment. Can you imagine? So we have to train in life to master the complex science of loneliness. Not everyone can be lonely. For loneliness is an elegant and subtle art. Alone acquires cosmic consciousness, recognizes the essence of his existence and purpose is explained Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich said, drinking recovery vodka, poured into a tin can. Then, loudly, thanked Kupaysin, because she brought him food.
"Thank you, mother, for the food. You know, don't worry too much about me and don't bring me food. What am I, a little child?  Thank God, there is rod, and I sometimes catch fish sitting on the Bank of the river, which I cook as soup and eat for health. I dry the extra fish in the sun for the winter in reserve. They're hanging on a tight rope! I may seem like a poor man to you, but I really am not, mother. I sometimes feed on the eggs of wild birds, like the rich aristocrats who eat eggs in the morning  from eggs of the Nightingale. Sometimes songbirds fall into the loops I place on the tree branches, and I carefully roast them on the fire, eating like game, which is served in the Chinese expensive restaurants in Toronto. If you thoroughly fry the carcass of a bird, its bones will also be a crispy delicacy. You, mother, don't pay any attention to the Neanderthal laughter. That's when the world community recognizes my literary works, the publishers themselves will come here from overseas and beg me with bitter tears in his eyes that I signed a contract for billions of dollars. Then my books will be published in millions of copies all over the world! Oh, if you only knew how much money I would earn then, Lord! You and I will travel the world, and I will show you people who read my books on the new York subway and on the English double-Decker bus that goes at neck-breaking speed, famously turning towards Trafalgar square in foggy London. The time will come when I will become the most famous writer in the world! And my works will turn into table books for everyone, from the ordinary inhabitant of the planet to the presidents of the developed countries of not only Asia, but even north and south America, and Europe! That's when I will live in a multi-story hollow of a huge pine tree that grows in the Swiss Alps. I will have many children. In a luxurious hollow set a large aquarium with fish. In free time I will raise your mood, looking at the fish and the white snow lilies, which will bloom in the aquarium - said Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich and again drank a small portion of rice vodka.
Hearing the words of her son, Kupaysin cried and Packed her bags and began to leave home, in a nursing home , on a narrow path, which meandered like a snake among the thickets of cotton.

 

Chapter 6

Opera singer on a cotton field


Quiet, pensive autumn is the favorite time of the writer  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich. He sits in the hollow of a mulberry tree, watching the movements of cotton growers, who in the distance collect cotton, moving among the cotton bushes like buffaloes that swim across a wide turbulent river, rushing to the other side, where the juicy grass grows.

At this point, close to the mulberry tree a female voice singing the Aria ""Otmagay tong"" from the Opera "Takhir and Zukhra". The woman sang so divine gentle voice that  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich froze with delight, as if bewitched. The song literally hypnotized him. It seemed to him that it was not a man singing there, but a heavenly angel.  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich listened to the song and did not stir, so as not to scare the singer who was like a singing bird and not to stop her with his noise. He wanted this song to never end. It was not a song, but an invisible heavenly boundless river, which has no end, which flows under the quietly shining moon. The voice and performance were like a professional singer, who has a rare talent.  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich looking in the slot of the hollow of a mulberry tree he saw the singer and gasped with delight. She was a beautiful woman of medium height in her thirties, with black glossy hair and a beautiful figure.

"My God, what a beautiful woman, and what an injustice! She sings better than professional singers, who almost every day sing on television, go on tour around the country and go to weddings until the morning, raking in big money. Rather modest, talented nuggets, such as it is, working in the cotton fields, staying in the shadows. It's not the voice but the pure sound of the Stradivarius violin, on which he played the legendary violinist Paganini Mikola thought Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich.

And the woman all sang arias from various operas.  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich really wanted to see the face of the singer and find out who she is. But he was afraid that when he came out of the hollow, the woman would see him and stop singing. Although  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich sat in the hollow, with bated breath, as if the viewer who is sitting in a concert hall without a ticket, but he was glad that listening to such beautiful songs, and free. The voice of the singing woman flew across the expanses of cotton fields like a bird that was released from the Golden cage.

Meanwhile, the sun is beginning to set on the horizon. In such moments, when all around subsides, he could clearly hear voices even from afar. That is Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich it seemed that the song, sung by an unknown singer, people heard even in the distance, on the other side of the cotton fields. But when the shout of the timekeeper in hirman sounded, calling for cotton growers to stop collecting cotton, which were collected brought to the weighing, the songs of the unknown singer were interrupted.  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich not to lose forever the singer, hastily came out of the hollow and saw this beautiful, Busty woman of about thirty, with a graceful figure. She was the only one around. When  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich quietly came to the place where the woman stood, she was scared and quickly spoke.

- Oh, who are You?! As here proved?! You scared me to death. I thought there was no one around - she said, and blushed involuntarily.

- Hello, not worry about, Madam. It's me, writer  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich. I'm just taking a walk in the fresh air. I live in the hollow of that big lonely mulberry tree. There's my office where I write novels mainly about love, about loneliness and sadness - said  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich.

Hearing these words, the woman laughed all over the field. Her laughter was like the sound of pure Chinese porcelain.

- What are you talking about? How can a man live in the hollow of a mulberry tree in our cosmic age?! Still you are engaged in creativity! I think you work as a clown in a circus. They made me laugh. I swear! To tell you the truth, I haven't laughed like that in a long time. Thank you! - said the lovely Busty woman with a beautiful figure, wiping her tears into the tip of her delicate transparent scarf.

- Don't you believe that I am a creative person and live in the hollow of the mulberry tree? Then I can recite the sad string of haiku that I wrote just yesterday - said  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich and began to read haiku with a special intonation and waving to the beat hand.

Sitting in the hollow of a mulberry tree

I ate rough grinding

And choked...

Once  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich finished reading, the woman exploded with laughter and laughed even louder. The laughter brought tears to her eyes.

- Well, that you laugh actually, instead of crying and, Madam? It's not good to laugh at a poor poet. This haiku is based on a real event that happened to me. By the way, this haiku has a sequel. Listen to this. And  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich read the continuation of haiku by heart, angry at the woman.

I ate roughly ground and choked badly,

Eyes plate from lack of air,

I almost died then...

The Busty woman laughed for a long time. Then recovering himself, took a breath a little bit and wanted to say something, but looking at  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich, she laughed again.

What's funny? Try not to laugh, Madame - said  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich.

The woman barely suppressed her laughter and wiped the tears from her eyes with the apron, in which she collected cotton.

- Sorry. But your haiku was very funny, so I laugh...  - she said, still laughing, shaking her shoulders.

- That you, on the contrary, this is a haiku symbol of sadness and sorrow. I almost kicked my hoof back then. And you laugh - said  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich, making a serious face.

The Busty woman started laughing again.

Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich without waiting for a response continued:

- Tell me, please, did you recently sing Opera songs? - he asked.

Yeah, why? These songs are just about love. There is no policy - the woman told.

- Well, thank God, my assumptions were confirmed. Believe me, you sang so beautifully that your voice just bewitched me, and I could not move, sitting in a hollow. I was even scared then, thinking, did I have enough paralysis. It was a miracle performance and natural phenomenon, aerobatics art! Who are you? For some reason I had not seen you in these constituencies on TV too - said  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich.

The woman blushed again and began to talk about herself.

- My name is Sarvigulnargis . I work in a dental clinic. We came to help cotton growers of your collective farm "Yakkatut". We were placed on that field camp - said the Busty woman, pointing to the field camp, which was white in the distance, next to the willow grove.

- Yeah? Ah fate! And I was just about to go to the dentists, so they put my teeth with gold crowns. I am very glad to meet you, Sarvigulnargis. You are a very beautiful woman as your name, your voice like the sound of a violin of Stradivari. You have not only a clear voice like a silver bell, but also a great talent. Believe me, you are a real singer. No worse than Montserrat Caballe and Celene Dion - said  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich.

- Come on, what kind of voice and talent can I have? I think you're overreacting. But all the same, thank you for your kind words, Mr. writer, who lives in the hollow of a mulberry tree, despite his exceptional talent - said Sarvigulnargis.

- Your welcome, Sarvigulnargis- smiled Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich, and asked:

- And who do you work in a dental clinic? As a dentist or technician? -  he asked.

- I work there as a cleaner. Cleaning the floors, with a mop in my hands, I act as a hockey player of the women's national team back and forth, only without a puck. And as for the teeth with gold crowns, I do not advise you to do it. First, our dentist Kelsinbay will show you real gold crowns, which You will insert into your teeth with copper crowns, which will immediately rust as soon as you drink water. Inserting teeth is like torture in detention facilities in some countries, where prisoners of conscience are tortured by pulling out their healthy teeth in order to extract a confession from them about a crime they did not commit. I used to be afraid when they heard the cries of the patients in whom Dr. Stomatolog Kelsinbay mercilessly teeth pulled without lidocaine. But gradually I got used to it. Now I heard wild cries of patients as cheerful music. With these words of Sarvigulnargis tied the ends of the huge apron in a bale of cotton she had gathered, and began to lift it. She struggled to get the bale on her head. But from the weight she lost her balance and started to fall. Fortunately, Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich caught her in time , and she was in his arms.  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich nose buried in a gentle and thick hair Sarvigulnargis and his lips accidentally touched the smooth neck like ivory, a beautiful woman, There is the smell of French perfume heavily drugged  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich and he's a little drunk that heavenly aroma. Sarvigulnargis dramatically extricated himself from the embrace  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich and started adjusting her hair, shining like black silk.

- Oh, you Sarvigulnargis! Sometimes you need to go to the gym and lift weights with rods. Lifting the bale, you almost broke your neck. Yes, what I'm talking about. It's not like singing songs. You were born to sing, not to pick cotton and lift huge bales. Come on, give me that bale. I will help you carry it to the hirman(A cotton drying area) - said  Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich and shouldered it.

They went to the side of the court, which is called hirman, where the timekeeper weighing bales of cotton. At this time, the last rays of the sun went out at sunset and the black curtain of the evening cotton fields fell. In the distance the houses one after another the lights came on, sparkling like diamonds.

 

 

Chapter 7

Night lessons at the cemetery





Once at midnight, having put his students at their desks and perched wardrobe school on his shoulders, Dalakazan went to the cemetery to conduct lessons in nature, showing students the living language of birds in practice. The student, the pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and with a school bag on his shoulders walked in front with a lighted lantern in his hand. He was walking, as the class was full of students, and the pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and a school bag on his shoulders did not fit into it because of the size of his body and stomach. There was the pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and a school bag on his shoulders marching, from time to time saluting the trees, which stood in the lunar silence, thoughtfully looking at their shadows. Somewhere a hungry dog howled pitifully, a night bird cackled, sitting on a branch of a stunted tree near the ruins of destroyed houses in an abandoned yard, which blackened without windows, like gouged out eyes.

Finally, the mobile school of Dalakazan arrived at the cemetery, where the tombstones stood sadly, mourning the dead people who went to the other world illiterately, and not knowing the secrets of the bird's language and literature. Anxiously looking around, Dalakazan whispered:

-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!

The students one by one jumped out of the closet-school, as well as their teacher of the bird language Dalakasan, fearfully looking around. Suddenly from the tree flew a large owl; and, flapping  it's wings, flew in the direction of the teacher of the bird language and literature Dalakazan Osa ibn Cosa and his disciples, badly frightening them. It sat down on one of the tombstones, where blackened, cold shiny marble tombstones.

- This is the right time - said the teacher Dalakazan and said to his disciple the student, stunted potbellied policeman with the bald head and with a school bag on her shoulders: - well, pot-bellied, student with a bald head and with a school bag behind, try to talk to the owl he said.

- Well, Mr. teacher replied paunchy policeman with a bald head, with the school bag on your shoulders before you enter into a debate with the owl, carefully massage your mouth to correctly pronounce each difficult words of birds, especially the owl.

- Hoo!-Hoo! - said, finally, the pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and a school bag on his shoulders.

- Hoo!-Hoo! - the owl replied.

- Well, what is she talking about, dear paunchy student with a bald head and with a school bag behind your shoulders? - asked the teacher Dalakazan, inquisitive, looking into the eyes of his undersized, pot-bellied student with a bald head and with a school bag behind his shoulders. The pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and a school bag on his shoulders began to literally translate the short, but incredibly long words of an owl.

- Hi, dear guests, flesh and bones!

My name is Owl, and you know it. We owls are not like the other birds that fly South in flocks across the oceans. Seeing us on a moonlit night among the ruins or in a cemetery, you two-legged creatures are afraid of us. But you don't know what we owls are really like. We're not that scary compared to you. Here I will explain now a bit about two-legged beings, and from the story you know so we are good. I didn't call you guests by accident. We are all guests in this world, and never will be the masters. A perfect example of this is these sad graves, in which lie the same two-legged creatures, like you. They also lived, laughed, loved, cried, and it seemed to them that life has no end. Many of them were officials, rulers, powerful financial magnates who did not recognize death, believing that with the help of expensive anti-aging injections can prolong there life and enjoy a luxurious life forever. They ate delicacies, caviar of various grades, drank excellent century liquors, slept in soft as a cloud, beds with beautiful, slender, young mistresses. They chose girls with a small mouth, similar to ripe strawberries or a Bud of fragrant roses and changed them like socks. They lied to all my life its true the poor wives, changing them at every step. People's goods were stolen on a colossal scale, oppressing the people who barely made ends meet, suffering from unemployment and poverty. For fun, drunk, they hunted red deer in the reserves, shooting them with a gun with a telescopic sight. Built themselves castles high in the mountains, on the shore of blue lake, covered with coniferous evergreen forests. And the people who once voted for them, believing their empty promises, worked on an empty stomach on cotton plantations in slave conditions, under the scorching sun. Moreover, they harassed and brutally killed their political opponents in prisons and camps for telling  the people the truth. The ruling circles and rich people in this way protected their pink plump bodies. And now they all lie in damp and dark graves, as if in solitary confinement, feeding their well-groomed and plump bodies disgusting grave worms. And some survivors of the bureaucrats from the ruling regime that shot its people when it requires adherence to human rights, torture at night nightmares, in which they are haunted by terrible beasts, koi jump with a wild roar, nibbling steel grating, heralding the approach of them a bloody revenge.

At this point, the pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and a school bag on his shoulders paused. Then he turned to owl with the next question.

- Ooh?! - he said in broken owl's tongue.

- Ooh, ooh, ooh! - the owl replied.

- Well, what are you standing  like that, translate more of your feathered friend, tubby the student go bald head, with a school bag on his shoulders - was strictly demanded by Dalakazan.

- Okay, teacher - readily replied the pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and with a school bag on his shoulders and continued the translation.

- And you know, the pot-bellied student with a bald head and a school bag on his shoulders, in this world, each of them has its own native language and its own literature. There is poetry.It remains only to understand them correctly. Here you are at night, when the window pours autumn rain, quietly listen, but do not understand the words of the rain. If you look at the rain, which cries outside, dropping it's tears in a puddle, much can be understood. Rain weeps for days drawing on the surface of the puddles the number zero. Rain says, Hey, illegally enriching rich robbers and evil rulers! In vain you collect and hide fabulous money, gold and diamonds! In vain you consider yourself millionaires, billionaires! Your untold riches, in the end, becomes zero, which I draw on these pools. That's right! Look, the land you live on is like zero. The sun, too. You two-legged look at the pictures of galaxies and nebulae, which were shot by your friends astronauts! These images also look like the number zero! The number zero means emptiness. It means "nihil", "nothing". This means that Almighty God created the universe out of nothing! And you, boastful two-legged creatures, will be able to create anything from nothing?! No, never! So live with respect for each other in this life, which will eventually turn into nothing, into zero, into emptiness! Live in this fleeting life modestly and honestly, in peace and harmony, as a single family, regardless of your religion, nationality and race! On this I am forced to interrupt our short conversation, as I have a lot to do. I have to catch mice for their chicks who are waiting for me in the nest, built in the ruins of the abandoned Palace of a deceased ruler. - The pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and a school bag on his shoulders finished translating the speech of the owl .

The owl flew to the side of the field, illuminated by the moon. The students fell silent.

- There, my dear students, the owl knows everything! What a clever and wise bird!.. Well, that concludes our lesson. Come on, get in the school closet. Lets go back home! - said Dalakazan.

The students climbed into the wardrobe, and Dalakazan carried them home, walking on a moonlit path that meandered along the edge of the cliff. Ahead walked the pot-bellied policeman with a bald head, and a school bag on his shoulders, holding a kerosene lamp, around which butterflies revolved. Followed Dalakazan with the wardrobe-school on his back, stepping in torn old galoshes. Crickets sang in the quiet twilight, now near, now far away.

 

 

Chapter 8

Insomnia




After seeing Sarvigulnargis to field mill, Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich went back into the hollow of the old mulberry tree and lit a kerosene lamp. Then he sat down on the stool and decided to write a few haiku poems about loneliness and separation, but he could not concentrate. He did not rest having thoughts about the beautiful woman Sarvigulnargis. Her songs still rang in his ears. The desire to see Sarvigulnargis tortured Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, and he realized that in love, as they say, at first glance. He kept looking through the narrow slit of the mulberry tree hollow and could not take his eyes off the field camp, where distant lights shone sadly. Just behind this field camp shined a clear month, illuminating the darkness. In the sky, somewhere in the distance, blue stars mysteriously flickered.
Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich felt hungry and decided to cook his own dinner, came out of the hollow. Then he laid out the dry firewood, lit a fire and began to fry corn on the fire, which he brought from the collective farm's corn field. When he roasted the cob, the air was filled with the smell of roasted corn. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich took one hot ear of corn and began to throw it from one hand to the other, at the same time blowing on it to cool down. After that, he began to eat fried corn with a great appetite. He ate, closing his eyes with pleasure, not seeing his blackened mouth with soot, like a squirrel that nibbles a lump on the paw of an old creaking pine in the pine forests of distant Canada.
- How delicious! Thank you, God, for a hearty dinner! - he thought sweetly as he chewed the roasted corn kernels.
After a hearty dinner, he decided to go to the camp again to see Sarvigulnargis. If you can't meet her, you can at least see her pretty face from afar. With such intentions Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich extinguished the fire and a kerosene lamp, which was burning in the hollow of a mulberry tree. Then he went along the path towards the field camp.
The road Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich walked along, shined brightly. As he approached the field camp, there, by the light of the hanging lamps, he saw a group of women and five men sitting at a long homemade table. One humpback man played the rubab and sang some sad song about love. A man with a pale face accompanied him on a torn accordion. When Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich saw Sarvigulnargis, who was sitting among the women, and his excited heart almost jumped out of his chest.
- What a beautiful woman! - he thought.
Sarvigulnargis leaning her head to the shoulder of another woman, listened to the song, sung by the tall and skinny musician with a rubab in his hands. At this time someone was washing at the ditch and someone washed clothes. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich was behind the trees that grew along the canal and he would watch the people who came to the aid of the cotton farm "Yakkatut". He stood like a hungry wolf looking at a flock of sheep out of the darkness.
Then a short, fat woman came to the pit and threw in the empty cans. It was a chance for Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich that was impossible to miss in any case. And in order not to frighten the woman, he went out where it was light, and artificially coughed to attract the attention of a short, stout woman. Hearing his cough, the woman lost her balance in fright and almost fell into a deep hole. Hastily stepping back - she said:
- Who are you?! What are You doing here?! - she said, backing away.
- Don't be afraid, for God's sake, Hanum. It's me, writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich I live there... this one... Well, it doesn't matter... Me this... How would you explain. Ah... could you call a woman by the name of Sarvigulnargis? Please - asked Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich
A short woman turned sharply and ran back to where there were women and men, and going to Sarvigulnargis, whispered something in her ear. Sarvigulnargis suddenly turned halfway aside where Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovic's hand stood up. Then Sarvigulnargis hesitantly and fearfully headed towards Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
- What a beautiful women, my God! It approaches like the moon, which slowly rises higher and higher, illuminating the gloomy fields of my soul! - Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich thought with delight
Sarvigulnargis approached the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich and they shook hands.
- Why are you here? Leave now, for God's sake. What will people say when they see me with you? Do not spoil the reputation of a lonely woman said Sarvigulnargis - anxiously looking back.
- Well Sarvigulnargis, I'll leave now. Only on one condition. You promise me that tomorrow will come where we met today - said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
- Why? What do you even want from me? - said Sarvigulnargis surprised.
- I don't know, Sarvigulnargis. You know... I just want to hear your songs again. I want to talk to you. It's nice talking to you, you know? But honestly, I don't know why, believe me.
- Come on, what are you talking about? Are you kidding me?  - said Sarvigulnargis and blushed.
- I'm serious, Sarvigulnargis are you coming or not? If not, I will sit here until the morning, waiting for you to come out of the field camp, and so every day. Just to see you or at least see your beautiful face from afar, I'm ready all the way up to stabbing and photophoresis - Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich said firmly.
- Ugh... All right, all right, all right, deal. I'll try to get there. Now go - said Sarvigulnargis.
- That is another matter, Sarvigulnargis, that's all. I left. Good night to you and may you have  good dreams - say goodbye Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
- Goodnight - said Sarvigulnargis, and turning around, went back to the field camp.
On the way, Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich happily singing, had fun dancing to the beat of her song.

 



Chapter 9

Fire flies



Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich  the whole night couldn't sleep and never wrote a line, thinking only of Sarvigulnargis, writing in creaky beds covered with hay. He only fell asleep at dawn and woke up when he heard the familiar divine voice of Sarvigulnargis. She sang near the mulberry tree, in the hollow of which Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich layed in his vertical bed-like astronaut armchair. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich went to the balcony of the hollow and saw Sarvigulnargis that not looking up from her work, enthusiastically sang the Opera songs.
- It turns out, she all - came! How nice! Thank you, God! - thought Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich and out from a hollow mulberry tree. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich brushed his teeth, washed his face in the fall ditch and dried them on a towel, listening  to beautiful operatic arias which were sung by Sarvigulnargis.
- Here is the real woman! - thought a poet is not that his ex-wife Ulpatay, which not only didn't understand art but presale it.
She said that art is the craft of Satan".
With such thoughts Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich went on a date with Sarvigulnargis, even forgetting about Breakfast. Sarvigulnargis sang another Aria "Oglima ohshaydi ovozing sani", from the Opera "Shahsenem and Garib", whose title in translation was: "your voice is like the voice of my son." This is a sad song of a mother who went blind, yearning for her son Garib, who went to distant lands in search of his beloved Shokhsanam. When Garib comes home with a caravan from far away, his blind mother groping his face, singing, they say, a stranger, your voice is like the voice of my son, and it seems to me that you have been where my son Garib wanders, and you may even have met him and talked with him. This touching song of Sarvigulnargis sang with such skill, - as much as tears appeared in the eyes of Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
When she finished the song, Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, coming to himself, like a man who came out of the coma, he patted her. Sarvigulnargis beautifully smiled, looking at Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich from under her palm against the sharp rays of the morning sun.
- Well, good morning, Mrs. singer ! Bravo! Bravo! Great performance! said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, applauding.
- Good morning, Mr. writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich! Thanks for the compliment! - thanked Sarvigulnargis, for a moment stopping to pick cotton.
- Sorry I'm a little late, Mrs. Sarvigulnargis. I would have come on time, but, you see, when I heard your voice, my muscles became paralyzed, and I, like a stone statue of Buddha, could not move even a centimeter. I came out of the hollow only when you do a break - Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich began to make excuses .
- Well, well, again began to start the Comedy, dear writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich? By the way, you also have God's gift. You have to open your Comedy and humor theatre. Otherwise history won't forgive you -said Sarvigulnargis to Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
- Yes, I tried once to open a farm, but my attempt failed. The Bank refused me to give loan -said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
- I wonder why they refused to give you a loan? - surprised Sarvigulnargis.
- In the bank  they asked forgiveness and told me that they can't give out the credit to dead people as dead people aren't able to return the credit received by them with percent. They said that they have documents confirming that ten years ago I was killed in the explosion of an oxygen cylinder at a construction site in distant Russia. The matter is that I, really, many years ago went to earnings as the guest worker to Russia, and there on one of buildings worked as the gas welder. I loved my profession then. I threw a kilogram of carbide into the tank and poured water into it. Then, when the tank started fizzing, I tightly closed the lid, carbide with water was included in the reaction and inside it was accumulated gray gas light that was burning, mixing with the oxygen. I worked, wearing a mask, and holding a heating pad. When I put the lighted lighter to the tip of the hot water bottle, it first made a sound, like "Shh!"then Prrs!"- and a jet of orange fire with a blue tip lit up. I was cutting metal, and the molten metal was flying in different directions in sparks of fire, like red flies. It was a pleasure to watch the flight of these fire flies. These fiery flies sometimes flew into the collar of my rough light brown overalls, like a tarp, and burned my neck. Sometimes they fell directly into the shaft of my boots, and I jumped from the burn from the unbearable pain in my legs, like a prisoner-a partisan who "dances" under automatic bursts to the laughter of the Nazis. Overalls made of rough tarpaulin, too, were badly damaged by fire flies flying into them. My overalls looked like the clothes of a man who was shot with an automatic weapon by the legendary American gangsters, who let the whole clip into the body of the victim. But despite all this, I loved my job, loved the smell of carbide, like the smell of rotten onions, which many do not like. And I loved that smell, struggling smelled smoke grey carbide, like a fragrant rose of Shiraz, while expanding the nostrils. I worked day and night, even on vacation days. I made good money and sent it through Western Union to my uncle. At that time I had a big house and two cars of foreign production in my homeland. My mother lived in this house in luxury. But one day, when we were working on a high construction site, an oxygen tank exploded and all the guest workers who worked with me were killed. The blast tore them to pieces and scattered them in different directions. Since I then worked behind a thick brick wall away from the oxygen tank, then miraculously survived. But received strong burns and bruises varying degrees and, of course, concussion. I was in a coma for a long time. The police sent my family the news that I also died in the crash. When my uncle came to pick up and take my body, they let him into the morgue to identify the corpse of his nephew, that is me. There then lay bodies of the dead, and it was difficult to identify them. At the request of my uncle, he was given the body, which he randomly chose and put in a sealed coffin, tightly secured the lid. My uncle came home and buried me with all the honors in the local cemetery. He put a granite tombstone with my picture on it. And documents on my death which he received from militia, sent to Department of internal Affairs and to mahalla Committee. A few years later I got on my feet and came here. Seeing me, the villagers fled in horror in different directions. Even my own uncle. It appears, my uncle with his wife already managed to sell through the notary to buyers my house and my car. He, said, nephew, dont worry about it. Because now you don't need a house or a car. I say, how is that, uncle? I'm alive and well. I breathe, eat, laugh, sleep and talk to you sometimes and cough.
He says, it only seems to you that you are alive. You're actually a dead man. But don't be discouraged, you'll get used to it. Well, business. Am I dead? And where my mother speaks. It turns out that the poor were sent to the nursing home where she still lives. Still visits me twice a week, brings food. Poor woman spends her pension on me. Only she believes I'm alive and well.
In the first days of my arrival I visited and encouraged her, saying, do not worry, mother, everything will be fine. I'll go to the Bank, get a loan and open a farm. I'll make some decent money and get our house back, and we'll buy a new car. My poor mother cried, she said, why do I need a house and a car. Most importantly, you came back from the dead alive and well, son. And I decided to go to the Bank to get a loan and start all over again. You know what happened at the Bank. After all this, I began to doubt myself that I was alive. And in order not to irritate the population, I came here and settled like a Genie in the hollow of this mulberry tree. Who knows, maybe I'm not really alive, I mean, dead. Maybe after death a person feels that he is alive, and he does not remember when, how and where he died. If you consider that the dead can only communicate with the dead, it is not difficult to guess that you are also one of those who are no longer alive - said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
After hearing all this, Sarvigulnargis began laughing again.
- Do not try to frighten me, comrade dead. The dead don't feel pain. Let me check - she said, and, holding his long hair Sarvigulnargis, began to pull.
- Oh, it hurts! What do you do for Sarvigulnargis, let go! - pleaded Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
Sarvigulnargis let go of his hair.
Are you alive?! - she asked, laughing.
- Yeah, really. It turns out that I haven't died - said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
Then suddenly grabbed the hair of Sarvigulnargis and began to twist them.
- Let me check on you too, Mrs. You never know. And suddenly you will find yourself a living dead - he said.
- Oh, what do you do, Mr. writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich! Let go! It hurts!- cried Sarvigulnargis, distorting her face in pain and laughing at the same time.Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich handed the woman to him and kissed her on the lips. Sarvigulnargis tried to resist, but the strong hand of Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich that held her hair would not allow her to escape from his grasp. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich let go of her hair, she straightened up and gave him a slap in the face that he started to see stars around his head.
- Fool! How dare you, shameless one! - said Sarvigulnargis in a rage and, turning, ran toward the field camp. She ran crying.
Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, feeling his face did not know what to do.
- Wait, Sarvigulnargis! I'm joking! Don't you get the joke?! Stop! - he shouted after Sarvigulnargis.
But Sarvigulnargis did not stop. On the contrary, ran even faster.
Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich realized that to run after her was useless, and that he made a stupid mistake.

 

 

Chapter 10

Wooden handcuff





Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich was sitting in his office in the hollow of the mulberry tree, sipping strong rice vodka and thinking about the beautiful Servicelines. Thus he executed himself, sitting in the light of a kerosene lamp suspended from the ceiling of a hollow, for the stupid mistake he had made, and could not forgive himself. All these years he lived alone as a hermit monk in the mountains, but today he is alone not only in the village and in the world, but in the whole universe. This total solitude inspired Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich as ever, and he wrote the following lines in the haiku genre.


Who's knocking?!  I asked.
Sitting in the hollow of a mulberry tree
Turned out to be woodpecker...


-Well, thought the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich - let women now leave me. The time will come when I will be the richest writer in the world. Then Ulpatay with Survivalware will beg me to bitter tears, so I forgave them and married them. But then it will be too late. Because when they come, they'll see me with a beautiful, young wife, swimming in a huge pool of a magnificent hollow of a giant mulberry tree. They will also see my children, who will have all thirty-two teeth in large gold crowns, and from envy they will win.
With such thoughts, Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich drank another portion of strong rice vodka, which he prepared from rice. Deep down Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich rose again Typhoon inspiration as in a stormy sea, raising waves over which quarrelsome gulls shouted in unison.


In autumn plowed field
I collect cotton firewood alone
Caws of a crow in the fog...


Inspiration in the shower Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich was still stormy.
Then he wrote another haiku.


In a deserted field autumn wind
It tore off my skullcap, and it rolled.
I ran a long time for the skullcap and barely caught it...


Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich began hastily to write the fourth haiku:


Blind wind in a deserted field
It felt my face and began to cry.
Grass, too, cried, dropping dew...


The final, inspiration was released, and Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich  fell silent. After another stack of strong rice vodka, he became drunk, and he began to tend to sleep. He fell asleep. In the dream Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovichagain drove earnings in distant Russia, along with his countrymen, who had long worked there as a janitor. That Uzbek, who returned home, advised him to go with him to Russia, promising him a prestigious job at a construction site where a qualified gas welder was required.
- I don't think that's a bad idea. Make lots of money, and the money to publish their books in major publishing houses of Russia - thought Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
And together they went by train to Russia to work. They got off the train at the railway station of the city of Sverdlovsk, and then they were approached by two policemen patrol. Posing and saluting, they politely asked Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich and his countryman to show ID,such as their passport. The police released them, as they have since the documents were all in order, but then one of the policemen abruptly turned pale, and, pointing to the shop window, said:
- look at that, Volodya, on the glass window is not visible reflection of this Uzbek!
A policeman named Vladimir turned and looked at the window, dumbfounded with surprise.
- Really - he said, and was about to turn to Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, he suddenly ran to run that is urine and disappeared from sight literally in a few minutes.Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich disappeared in a thick Russian fog, which swirled on the platform of the railway station. Frightened police officers do not even have to chase Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
Meanwhile, he was running along the misty platform, looking back. He was almost hit by a freight train that had just started, whistling shrilly. But still he hit his head on a cast-iron pole and hurt himself. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich immediately got up and ran on, along the way, thinking to find some shelter to escape from the police patrol. After a long run he found himself in a snowy forest, where fog and silence reigned.
Finally, Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich found a suitable shelter with the old trees. It was not difficult for him to climb the tree, leaning on his foot and clinging to the shaggy branches of a high mighty green tree covered with a thick layer of snow. Although Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovic ploughed into the tree, a hollow old tree on his happiness was quite spacious and cozy. That is, it was much warmer inside than outside. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich thanked God for giving him free shelter. If it hadn't been for the hunger he began to feel, he would have sat there until spring, without leaving the hollow. Here the man is not thirsty, because he can quench it by eating snow. But to satisfy hunger with the help of snow is impossible.Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich was afraid to get off the tree even in about half an hour, not that there is to look for something edible, but in great need too. Fearing the police, he emptied his bladder, sitting in a hollow. After he fixed his little need of a snowdrift at the bottom is noticeably yellowed. At this point Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich saw a squirrel on the branch of a huge pine tree that grew opposite. He knew perfectly well that in the hollow of a nearby tree sits a hungry guest worker from Central Asia, and defiantly and brazenly gnawed a fir cone, constantly moving her small ugly jaws. Looking at the squirrel with contempt, Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich remembered his teacher of Zoology companion Samaganov. A friend of Samaganov once said in the classroom about the fact that proteins are very Thrifty animals. They whole summer collecting pine cones, assorted mushrooms and tossed in his hole, stocking up on food for the winter. With these thoughts Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich involuntarily mouth is watering. Then he came up with a unique idea: he decided to Rob the hollow of a squirrel that did not want to share food in a good way with a poor guest worker who came from Sunny Uzbekistan. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich stepped out cautiously from the tree and stepped foot on the branch of a nearby tree. When he started to move to the next tree, squirrel lightning flew into the hollow and disappeared.
- Well, run, run, you greedy little animal. Now I will crush your miserable lodgings and taken away the entire stock of food that you collected from spring to late autumn thought Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
Finally successfully climbed to the next tree, he put his hand on the elbow hollow of the greedy squirrels. And then something terrible happened. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich hand got stuck in the hollow. He tried his best to get rid of the wooden handcuff, but, alas, all his attempts were unsuccessful. And the cold was getting worse by the hour.Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich hung on a tall tree like a monkey an orangutan. He didn't know what to do. Shouting for help was also equal to death. Well, the handcuff - he thought - Every type of police from all countries even in a dream perhaps never dreamed of such a unique durable hardwood, it's also completely free handcuffs - thought Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich and quietly wept.
- Why did I even come here? What will happen to me now? Will I die here and hang until spring without a grave, without a shroud and without a coffin, like a souvenir, like a Christmas tree decoration? Damn you, teacher Samaganov, who told us squirrels can be Thrifty! I hope you get cursed by the devil himself! - wildly yelled in a loud voice and he woke up, frightened by his shouting in the hollow of a mulberry tree where he fell asleep a while ago.

 



Chapter 11

Drones and bombers





When Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich woke up in the hollow mulberry tree, on the street was a curve in the snow. This anomaly has not been observed for a long time. Fields already lay under a white fluffy thick blanket of snow. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich was glad that this snow can help to make peace with Sarvigulnargis.
With these thoughts, he came out of the hollow and jumped down like an astronaut who jumps from a spaceship to the surface of the moon.
- What beauty, my God! First snow! it looks like a first love! There is not a single trace on the smooth surface of the field! White silence! Even nature has lost the power of speech from surprise, looking at the white!  thought Horuhazonov Pahtasezonovich and washed his face with snow. Then he ate some snow and went stumbling in the deep snow towards the field camp. Before he reached it, he stopped. He took it into his head the idea to write "Sarvigulnargis" in the snow making it out of his footprints . He did. Stepping on the snow, in very large letters, he wrote the word "Sarvigulnargis, I love You!". Then went on to the field camp to report the unique inscriptions of Sarvigulnargis, not knowing that the first snow fell. When Sarvigulnargis will come out of the field camp, seeing a huge inscription, she blushes and smiles because of Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich like last time. Or maybe they'll roll a snowball together and make a big snowman.
With these thoughts Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich kept going in the direction of the field mill, where now slept, his beloved Sarvigulnargis. But when he approached the field camp, he learned that the people who had come from the city to help cotton growers had left. upon hearing this, Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich , from weakness, was on his knees, like the man who crouches at a grave. Then he fell face first into the snow and wept bitterly. He cried, shaking his shoulders, lying in the snow. It seemed to him that the entire population of the planet was extinct, and only he remained alive. Some endless emptiness was in his huge eyes and was silent. He didn't care now. He was not even afraid to freeze here right on the cotton field, like a mammoth. Because of carelessly uttered dashing words, he lost such a beautiful and talented woman. What a brainless fool he is!
- Ah, Sarvigulnargis, what are you, huh? She left without even saying goodbye! I wanted to make a joke and you didn't understand! Well, then why didn't I run after her and stop her?! Why am I so unlucky in General, my God!  he cried.
Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich didn't know how long he had layed on the cold snow, but when he was slowly freezing, he began to lose consciousness, he heard a familiar scream of his mother Kupaysin.
- Son, why are you lying there?! What's wrong?! Are you sick, my lamb? - she screamed.
Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich somehow had the need to laugh. But he couldn't laugh. From powerlessness he could only weakly smile.
- It's a near-death hallucination. This is a good thing. It'll be over soon. His body will freeze completely, and he will get rid of worldly worries-troubles once and for all. His soul will rest forever. But one pity. Orphaned of his works, which lie in the hollow of a mulberry tree in the form of manuscripts.
This year winter came early and snow fell prematurely. This means that people to stay warm, families will come here in search of firewood and see a mulberry tree, in the hollow of in which the great poet of the twentieth and twenty-first century Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich lived. And then, spitting in the palm of their hands, they will take an axe or a saw, fill up the mulberry tree, where my office is with a priceless manuscript. When they saw the wood, they would find the manuscript and thank God for giving them wood and paper to make it easier to build a fire in the hearths - he thought - they did not understand and do not understand the intricacies of haiku. Reading the word "haiku", they immediately think of hockey, as his ex-wife Ulpatay...
Here the voice of Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich's mother, came again  and he continued to think he was imagining it. Probably Azrael alaihissalam is in the form of my mother, to send my soul to the altar of God...
With such thoughts Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich lost consciousness. He did not know that his mother Kupaysin actually came skiing with a backpack on her back. Poor Kupaysin wept bitterly when she saw her son the poet, who was frozen on the edge of a snow-covered field. Dropping bitter tears, and holding tightly to her son's coat, she dragged him towards the mulberry tree, like an ant that carries the wings of a butterfly.
- Be patient, my poor son, be patient and don't die! I'll make a fire and you'll warm up. Thank God I came in today - she said, striding across the snowy field, puffing and panting.
Finally she managed to drag Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich to another edge of the cotton field where stood a mulberry tree, in the hollow of which her son lived. Kupaysin, despite the fatigue, quickly gathered dry wood and started a campfire next to the frozen Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich . A flame of fire, trembled, licking the cold air with its huge fiery tongue orange-red. Kupaysin, throwing wood into the fire, began to massage his son, wanting to bring him to his senses. She tried and finally Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich stirred and opened his eyes. Kupaysin was delighted.
- Awake, son?! Well, thank God! -  she said happily.
She took a thermos of tea from her backpack. Then she poured the tea into the lid of the thermos and, cooling it, brought it to her lips.
- Drink my baby, drink up, my son - she said.
Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich drank the tea in small sips, and all the fire from the crash burned like a fireplace in a cozy house. An hour later, the buttermilk Season was fully recovered.
- Well, thank you, mother! It was good that you came. I heard you scream, but I didn't believe that strange voice was really yours. I thought it was a Mirage, a hallucination. If you hadn't come, I would have died of the cold. Thank you very much once again, mother, you helped me out again, as always - he said.
Kupaysin, throwing twigs into the fire, began to speak:
- Yesterday, I received a pension and buying products, I cooked food and rushed here to see you. Apparently I was sent by God. Thank God you're awake. I was afraid - said Kupaysin, stroking the long unkempt hair of his son.
The mother and son talked for a long time around the campfire. During the conversation, Kupaysin remembered Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich's childish pranks. She stared at the fire, dulling her brooding gaze, and continued to speak.:
- You and in childhood, too, were a stubborn boy. One day I got a phone call from the headmaster and I started talking to him.He said - hello, this is the headmaster comrade Chotalov I am worried - he said - the fact that your son has a very difficult character. I'm sorry, but I have to tell you the truth. Your son should be brought up not in school, and in penitentiary institution, that is in a children's educational and labor colony. Your son Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich tore pages from his notebooks and books and turned those pages into paper planes!
- Don't you worry over nothing, comrade Chotalov, we'll pay for torn books, and buy our son a new notebook. Especially if he made paper airplanes it is to be welcomed, not punished. It means, our son Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich will be a great aircraft pilot in the future - I replied.
"You are not jumping to conclusions, my lady. The scope of your son's crime is much broader than you think. He, that is your son Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, made paper airplanes not only from the pages of his books and notebooks, but also tore the pages of books and notebooks of his classmates. He didn't even leave the cover, you know?! Then, when we ran out of books and notebooks, your son taught students in other classes to make paper airplanes, too. As a result, the whole school tore up our books and notebooks. They made paper Airplanes and military supersonic bombers out of them. There's more. Your son's pranks, which have no end, spread like a bubonic plague to other schools of our "Yakkatut" district, and then to the whole region. Now, the students of all schools, gymnasiums and lyceums of our vast country were left without books and notebooks! All books and notebooks turned into paper airplanes! It is said that schoolchildren in European countries are also tearing up their books and notebooks to make paper bombers and make reconnaissance drones out of them. The most tragic incident happened at our school. When children ran out of books and notebooks, your son, the maladjusted student Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich , invited other children to take library books home. In short, they went to the school library, which was managed by poor Manzurakhon, so skinny, cross-eyed and limp in one leg. She was terribly happy to see the school-book lovers and gladly gave them books. Students emptied the shelves of the school library in minutes. Poor Manzurakhon did not even have time to write them into the file Cabinet. And these students, bastards, tore up all the books and made paper planes out of them. Seeing this, the poor Manzurakhon was in horror as pale as lime. After all, she committed suicide. That is, she hung herself with her delicate silk scarf, which she loved to wear. The poor girl hung herself directly into her empty stellarisware library. A kingdom of heaven to her, in the name of the father and the son and the Holy spirit, Amen. May she rest in peace. She would never have hung herself, and would have lived in peace, and died to old age, as it is a library, where it always reigned cemetery silence. The fact is that in the school library, which she was in charge of, were the works of the greatest writer in the world - the book of our irreplaceable President, who rules the country for forty years. Manzurakhon didn't mean to kill bedbugs and lice in the barracks of the famous in the world of the concentration camp named "Jaslyk", which means "Youth". She chose to hang herself than to go there - said the Director of the school comrade Chotalov. I almost had a massive heart attack. I started crying. Then I started crying with hopelessness. Then the headmaster comrade Chotalov began to laugh. I thought he was crazy after your crime ruined the world. But he suppressed laughter, said he was joking, they say, today is the first of April, the holiday of liars. The day in which the leader of the poor, comrade Lenin, also deceived people - she apologized. Here's a funny story that happened then, son -  Kupaysin said smiling.
- Yes, there were times like that, mom - said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, looking at the burning fire with a wistful smile on his lips.

 

Chapter 12

Guest worker Abessalom





It was late autumn. The silhouette of the autumn "Tappicasod", with its low huts, trees and telegraph poles, seemed to move ghostly through the dim, thick, cold fog.
On a ploughed field, the furrow, with the crackle of burning fire, Dalakazan was sitting, poor, half-crazed after the forced treatment in a mental hospital, where he took handfuls of miracle tablets daily. Next to him sat his students, led by the head of the class, the pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and a student's bag on his shoulders. Although Dalakazan only imagined that birds speak, but trusting the people of "Tappicasod" considered him the ability to understand bird language as the gift of God, and firmly believed in his words. Some of them even sent their children to his closet-school, so they learned to translate the bird's language. In fact, Dalakazan  not taught neither English nor French nor the Russian language. He taught the bird language, which mankind has always dreamed of mastering. Some daredevils even tried to fly like birds, making homemade wings for themselves. How many people died at different times, jumping from towers and high cliffs into deep canyons! As a rule, those wishing to fly off the wings, and often they broke to death, hitting a rock or falling from a great height to the ground. But even the death of people could not stop the curious humanity. In the end, it flew into the air like a bird, and still flies on airplanes and spaceships across the expanses of our Universe! Today, people are launching research aircraft such as Lunokhod, Mars Rover, and so on. Mankind has learned to fly from birds! Therefore, the inhabitants "Tappicasod"close interest in bird language.People of "Tappicasod"well knew that of all the great people in life considered crazy, even declared enemies of society, and publicly executed on the scaffold, chopping off their heads with an axe, hung them and castrated. Over time, they were justified, and they became outstanding scientists and founders of science and literature. The people of "Tappicasod" thought Dalakazan was also one of such great scientists, a doctor of space science, but unrecognized for its age. The people trusted Dalakazan more than a stupid rulers and stupid officials in the country.
Today national teacher Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa out with their students in practical classes.
- Comrade teacher, let me gather some dry leaves and dry stem of a cotton plant for a fire in your appearance student's bag?! - suddenly asked the pot-bellied the student with a bald head and with the school bag on his shoulders.
- Yes, pot-bellied, student with a bald head, with the school bag on the shoulders, it is possible, I'll allow it - replied Dalakazan staring at the burning fire.
The pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and with the school bag on his shoulders began to collect firewood, folding it into his school bag, made of fake leather. In the thick fog, he looked like a Ghost hiding behind a curtain. Suddenly he heard the hellish cry of a crow and became afraid. It was sitting on a hill not far from the potbellied policeman with a bald head and a student's bag on his shoulders, and the crow was crowing on the entire furrow, shrouded in thick fog.
- Comrade teacher! Can I translate the crow's words?! - the short and pot-bellied disciple with a bald head and a student's bag on his shoulders asked.
- No, my dear pot-bellied, student with a bald head and with the school bag on the shoulders, continue to collect twigs in your leather school bag! I will personally talk and translate with this crow, so that You will finally learn how to pronounce the words of the bird's dialect and learn the grammar of the language of birds! - said teacher Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa.
With these words Dalakazan started a discussion with crow.
- Caw! Caw! - he said, and immediately translated his greeting and his question.:
- Hello, dear crow! Welcome to our Happiest! I am a teacher of bird language and literature Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa, working as a teacher in an independent Cabinet-school. Do you mind if I ask You a few questions as an exclusive interview?! The crow grunted loudly, staring with wide open beak:
- Caw caw! Caw caw!
Teacher Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa continued to translate words of the crow:
- Well, I agree, but not for publication on the Internet. You know, I'm a humble bird and I don't want to get caught. I am ready to enter into a controversy with you, but without provocative questions! - said the crow.
- Thank you, Madam, for agreeing to let me interview you! Then my first question is:
-Is it true that you crows have lived for three hundred years, and what is the secret of your longevity?! What do you need to eat to live long in this world?!
- Well, the question is not stupid - said the crow - Yes, we live a long time, up to three hundred years. Although the secret of our longevity is a commercial secret, but I will share with you this secret, dear Teacher Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa. In our longevity plays an important role healing food. I mean, we crows mostly eat manure. That's the secret. I understand that my words about the secret of longevity can make you and your students laugh loud. Especially the fatso student with a bald head, with a school bag on his shoulders, which in thee fall foggy day collects  twigs in its appearance the student's bag. But I have to say that the manure we crows eat is a million times cleaner than the expensive black and red caviar and other various delicacies that some dishonest executives and their families eat. They can afford it because they are corrupt money-grubbers who launder dirty money through the world's banks, plundering the natural wealth belonging to the people - gold, oil, gas, uranium, cotton, silkworm cocoons and everything else.
Dalakazan asked the crow the next question:
- The second question which interests me, too very sharp, is a question of your reproduction. I do not know the exact number of crows in the world, but I am personally interested in where crows build their nests and manage so quietly to multiply?! I've never seen your nests in our Tappicasod. Please, a few words about all this.
- I see you're a very observant teacher. Yes, we do not build nests in these warm regions. We nest mostly in the North, where winter is raging Blizzard, howling hungry wolf winds, where cold fall to forty, fifty degrees below zero. Severe winter, snow, blizzards, which are afraid of the Northern people, for us - just Paradise! And the heat that southern people love is hell for us! Such a paradox. Therefore, when spring comes to the North, we fly to the South, where at this time it is noticeably colder. We, the crows, prefer the cold. We love snow-covered coniferous forests! In the North, I have seen many migrant workers from Central Asia like you, and it is sometimes very difficult for them to adapt to the harsh conditions of the North. Many in Russian - no belmes, and for this reason they can not find a decent job. For this simple reason, they are forced to work on construction sites and garbage dumps or to be janitors. I saw one young migrant worker, an Uzbek, named Abessalom, who worked in construction. He carried the solution in buckets to the eleventh floor, up the stairs, no Elevator, can you imagine?! I once listened to his conversation with his countryman, and he said that for the sake of saving money, which he sent home to his parents, Abessalom poorly fed. That is, he ate only black bread and onions. As a result, his body weakened. In short, this guest worker Abessalom once went up the stairs with two heavy buckets filled with mortar. His neck arteries swelled from fatigue and tension. When he reached the tenth floor, he suddenly lost his balance, fell and rolled down the stairs. His head cracked like a pumpkin. He twisted his leg. But this guest worker, named Abessalom, rallied forces and continued to climb to the top with the full buckets. And continued work. What do you have to do? You stop working , you get fired. And without work there is no money. No money , no life. And Abessalom need to marry. How can you marry someone if you have no money?
- I was particularly struck by the conversation I heard him on the phone with his parents. The mother of Abessalom asks him with tears why, they say, you damned little send money via "Western Union". I bet you spend all your money on booze, go to expensive restaurants with girls of easy virtue and visit brothels! Why, I was a fool to give birth to you! I should have killed you in the hospital, strangled you with a pillow, in the absence of the ward medical staff!
Abessalom silently cried in the telephone booth, wiping his tears with a dirty fist. It was snowing heavily outside. He came out of the phone booth and walked through the thick snow, weeping and stumbling, and dissolving in the swirl of snow flakes. Poor hungry Absalom walked through the Blizzard on the sidewalk, lit by dimly glowing street lamps. As he was turning into Friendship of Nations street, he saw a group of shaven-headed guys. They were drunk, and one of them saw Abessalom and stopped him.
- What are you doing here, you black?! - he shouted.
- I came from Central Asia and work at a construction site. My name Abessalom - replied Abessalom, cautiously looking at the drunk guy with a shaved head.
- What?! Abessalom?! Holy cow! Are you Jewish?!  the shaven-headed man yelled.
- No, I'm Uzbek - told Abessalom.
- Who are you kidding, narrow-eyed?! Uzbeks do not have the name Abessalom! It's a Jewish name!! We hate jewish people! You're dead, Abessalom! Pray! - said the drunk skinhead and started hitting him with a baseball bat. He was joined by his friends shouting racist slogans and began to kick Abessalom everywhere. Defensively hands and feet, Abessalom cried out for them to not beat him and that his real name is Abdusalam, but the fault of the employee of the village his mother was given a birth certificate, writing his name with error "Abessalom".
- I shouted "caw! caw!"do not hurt him, telling him he is honest and diligent migrant worker from Central Asia! But the drunken shaven-headed guys, unfortunately, did not know the bird's language, especially literature, and as a result they killed poor Abessalom, who, working on an empty stomach at the construction site, sent money to his parents. Then they threw the corpse of Abessalom into the ditch, where the next morning we crows ate it, so as not to waste the flesh of such a good, hard-working guest worker from Central Asia. Weeks later, we ate the corpse of that shaven-headed guy who killed Abessalom with his racist gang for Breakfast. His body was down the highway. It is interesting that he was killed by his pals the neo-nazis -said crow, - its a terrible story. - then the crow said goodbye and flew away.
Dalakazan Osa ibn Cosa sad, thinking about the poor migrant worker Abessalom, who was a victim of racism in time of peace. The students of Dalakazan too deep in thought, looking at the fire, which was burning with a bang, throwing in the misty and cold air red sparks, like stars.

 

Chapter 13

Fortuna





Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich buried in the clover hay in the hollow of a mulberry tree, he layed thinking only of Sarvigulnargis. He's never been in love so much with Sarvigulnargis. These days from separation Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovic became ill, and turned yellow and was much thinner. If not for his mom Kupaysin, he would come to an end. She, not thinking about herself and in spite of the difficulties, came on a homemade ski moving through the snow through the shifting fog, as a lover of skiing, with a backpack on her back, brought Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich food with hot tea and encouraged him.
One day, when Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich temperature rose sharply, she called the ambulance workers, who came on foot with a huge suitcase, which swung in the hands of a nurse. A doctor and a nurse who wore white robes over their padded jackets and white caps with ear-flaps, they came, crossing the snow-covered field, walked to the mulberry tree, in the hollow of which layed khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich they looked in the hole like it was a den of a bear. Outside, the thirty-degree frost crackled and the wind howled. A doctor with a nurse stumbled into the hollow of a mulberry tree and examined Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, diagnosed him, gave him injections and prescribed medication. The doctor listened to Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich's  heart with a homemade wooden stethoscope which was similar to that of the fakir's flute, playing a tune causes, a poisonous snake Cobra in the distant Indian subcontinent to dance in a basket. The nurse measured his blood pressure with a mechanical tonometer, winding a cuff around his arm and pumping air with a pump, looking carefully at the pressure gauge.
- I know you, Mr. poet. I read your wonderful stories about love, which were published in the newspaper "Economics and state statistics". There I saw your picture and never thought that someday I would meet you in such an environment and in such a magnificent hollow of a mulberry tree. It's just a gift of fate that I met you and for me it is a great honor to speak to such a great poet of our planet as you - she said with admiration.
- Thank you, ma'am - said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, rhythmically stony and barely licking his dried, cracked lips, similar to the bark of ripe melon.
- You're welcome, poet. This is our direct responsibility, so to speak. You have normal pressure, and I hope, you soon will recover, Monsieur - told the nurse, with amazement looking around.
And continued:
"Ah, that's how our poets live! Romance! A bed, you know, a bed of creaking clover hay! A pillow from a bag filled with straw. In one word! Look what a portrait hangs on the wall of the hollow! This is not a hollow, but an art gallery, a Vernissage! The portrait of our great leader, the false democracy of the country, hangs in the light of a hanging antique kerosene lamp, similar to the magic lamp of Aladdin in distant Arabia! Life of the great poet of our country on the edge of snow-covered cotton fields, even in the hollow mulberry tree, my God! How I envy you in white, Mr. poet! Living in such romantic conditions, it is a sin not even to be a poet!  she said.
Thank you again, for cardiovascular words Duchess - said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, loud coughing and gasping.
- Breathe in, breathe deeper, dear - said the doctor, listening to the lungs of Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich. When Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich took a deep breath, his throat whistled like a distant freight train approaching the station, like a kettle with boiling water in the kitchen.
- Eah, you have a cold. It's okay, Monsieur, don't worry, everything will be fine. It's a cold even for you in the sense... grief and suffering, poverty and disease inspire the poet, we know that. You must follow a diet. Don't eat snow and icicles for two weeks. So, I am glad to hear the heart of the fiery poet of our universe and its light, so to speak, the other inside the body! I almost forgot. Call me Satemov Patheddun. In short - Dr. Satim Pati. Eah, Monsieur, you can call me Mr. Satim Pati. Or just Paty. And this is my assistant Donna Fortuna Suitcasecarrier.
- I'm glad to meet you, too, if I may confess, Mr. Dr. Satim Pati and Donna Fortuna suitcasecarrier. May God grant you good health- Uhhuv -uhhuv! Uhhhuv - uhhuv -ihhm! Uhhhh - uhhhh - uhhhh! -  said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich coughing loud, and blushing from the strain. Then he continues:
- Excuse me, do you know a woman named Sarvigulnargis? Well, so, pretty, nothing. The singer with a magical voice, like the ringing of a silver bell, which hangs on the neck of the horses of the Russian Troika. By the way, she is also a health worker, that is, your colleague. She works at the dental clinic - asked Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
Hearing his words, the doctor and the nurse looked at each other, and Donna Fortuna Suitcasecarrier hastily began to speak.
- How the hell do you know her? She's a close friend of mine. Works as a cleaner in the clinic at the dentist Kelsinbay - said the nurse Donna Fortuna Suitcasecarrier.
- Yes, Yes, exactly she! You know how to explain it to You... Well, I'm the one... among cotton... anyway, she's a friend of mine. We met her right here in the cotton field, when she came from the city with her team to help the farmers in the cotton harvest. Oh, how she sang, Opera arias, how she sang!.. Well, thank You, my dears, for coming. If it wasn't for You, I'd be in a ditch, honestly! Even Your medications are not even able to save me. I thought I'd lost her forever. Because she left without saying goodbye to me or even leaving her address. And I, the fool, did not ask her where the office in which she works is. It seems that the Almighty himself has sent you to me. Ms. Donna Fortuna Suitcasecarrier! Please, write your friend's adress down - said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, continuing to cough and handing the nurse a paper with a pen.
- Well, sure - said Donna Fortuna Suitcasecarrier and wrote on the paper difficult legible Latin letters the address of the clinic where she worked services large of the main cleaner.
Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich thanked her for the honor. And at that time the ambulance doctor's, eyes were dim, through the cracks of hollows on snowfields. Then he spoke thoughtfully:
- God, I love snow! He is our colleague in a white coat, who, lying on the ground, listens to the heartbeat of the planet in an antediluvian way, like a ninja listening to the earth, catches the distant trampling of the horses of his potential victims. Snow lowers the temperature of nature, which suffers from environmental pollution and ecological disaster. When he falls, the neighborhood mysteriously subsides and trees, fields, houses and roads become fabulous. Snow, which looks like a white sheet of clean paper, a recipe, notifies a person of the approaching danger.It is possible to read the important alert messages in the form of traces of the arrival of your enemies and you can even hear his careful secretly ominous creaking steps. Here's a dumb, deaf, but loyal friend, the snow. But this loyal friend, that is, white pale snow like a hopelessly sick man can betray you to your enemies with all the guts, showing them the direction of your tracks. This means that the snow is our friend and at the same time the number one enemy - concluded Dr. Satim Pati.
The mother of Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, Kupaysin before leaving long blessed physicians, and saying goodbye to her son, went back to the nursing home with a doctor Satim Pati and a nurse Donna Fortuna Suitcasecarrier, stumbling in the deep snow.

 

Chapter 14

Birdhouse on a high pole




during spring students of the bird language and literature teacher Mr. Dalakazan Osa ibn Cosa set the birdhouse on a high pole and secured it to the roof of his closet - school. A day later, a pair of starlings moved into the birdhouse. Seeing this, the disciples Dalakazan terribly happy. A student, a pot-bellied policeman with a bald head with his school satchel on his shoulders, even in tears, secretly wiping away tears with the sleeve of his shirt. And the starlings, thinking that bipeds don't know bird language, began to speak bird language.
-Come on, students - said the potbellied policeman with the bald head with his school satchel behind his back, quickly translate the starling's conversation ! - ordered Dalakazan Osa ibn Cosa.
- Okay, comrade teacher! - said a high achieving student to the pot-bellied policeman with a bald head with his school satchel behind his back. Then he began to translate.
-Look, how happy these foolish two-legged students and his naive teacher in a ragged striped pyjama is. But appearances can be deceiving, it is impossible to trust them. They only look naive. In fact, man is the most dangerous and treacherous creature in the world. According to my father, it was these two-legged people who built the Nuclear power Plant in distant Chernobyl, where we hatched. April 26, 1986 at the 4th unit of the Chernobyl nuclear power plant there was the worst man-made disaster in the history of the planet, throwing 190 tons of radioactive substances into the atmosphere!Can you imagine? As a result, millions of people were disabled for life and died after receiving a lethal dose of radiation. The worst thing is that the leader Gorbachev ordered authorities and an army of young soldiers to eliminate the accident at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant, not their favorite children, and these soldiers worked there for five hours, in three shifts, receiving high doses of radiation, removing radionuclides on the roof of the power unit manually, as in a nightmare.
Millions of people have become refugees from their homes where they were born. They left their favorite region, where they spent their childhood and youth, where they fell in love, married and raised children. Chernobyl turned into a Ghost town. These evil and stupid bipeds still continue again and again to step on the same bloody mistake - never to learn wisdom. They think that Chernobyl is far from them and what is happening there does not concern them.They do not even think about the animals that migrate from the exclusion zone to the unpolluted forests and meadows of neighboring countries.For example, wild boars, deer, elk, and even bison. And there the hunters hunt them and their meat, stuffed with radioactive nuclides which are traded in the markets. Accordingly, wild boars, deer, elk and bison living in non infected areas of neighboring countries of Europe also migrate to the exclusion zone of Chernobyl and while eating grass, also receive a high dose of radiation.They won't be stopped by barbed-wire fences. Especially fish that swim in the infected tributary of the river "Pripyat". They say that in the Pripyat river, which crosses the exclusion zone, the fishermen engage in illegal fishing for contaminated fish, and tones of these fish are smuggled onto Russian and European markets. In the Pripyat river and other water bodies of Chernobyl is inhabited by giant fish - mutants, the size of a shark. What if this contaminated seafood is transported around the world in refrigerated trucks? After all, before such large and cheap fish, buyers simply do not have the strength to resist the seafood markets of the world. Who knows, maybe broconiers provide European stores not only mutant fish, but also calves infected with radiation and there is no guarantee that these eggs are not on the shelves of supermarkets in Western countries. Here is quite recently in Japan, too, nuclear power Plant reactors exploded in "Fukushima" after, a powerful tsunami, struck on the coast. Then the tsunami and earthquakes killed 15 thousand people. More than half a million people were left homeless. Also a terrible accident, the consequence of which experiments have not been eliminated completely. This is nothing compared to the secret test sites of the so-called nuclear powers, where new and new super-powerful thermonuclear bombs are being tested, polluting the air and the environment. If things go at this rate, soon our planet will turn into a giant burial ground of nuclear waste. That's why every year in the world 8 million people die from cancer!That's why birds die from bird flu! Radiation is the invisible enemy of all living things living on our planet! I wish people could understand our language. Okay, I'm flying. Caught a couple butterflies and a dragonfly for Breakfast - said the Starling.
Hearing the words of Starling in the translation of the disciple - said to the potbellied policeman with the bald head and with a school satchel behind his back, the teacher Dalakazan Osa ibn Cosa thought.
- What a wise bird!  he thought. Then loudly shouted:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
Hearing his cry, the female starling, who was sitting over the roof of the birdhouse, was very frightened and flew away.




Chapter 14

The interesting story




The writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich stood in flight meadow waist-deep in tall grass, listening to the trills of larks which sang enthusiastically over a flowered meadow called "Tappicasod", where a swarm of fluttering butterflies carefree , whiling away their life, feeding on the nectar of white daisies and blue cornflowers.They flew through the air, staggering like drunks. Suddenly there came a cheerful and joyful cry of Dalakazan:

-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!

He ran screaming across the meadow barefoot, in striped pajamas and with a heavy wardrobe on his shoulders.
Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich wanted to communicate, to talk with this strange man and called him:
-Sir, can I have a moment?!
Hearing his cry, Dalakazan stopped.Then came running to him with its wardrobe on back.
-Hello, Mr. writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich!Well, how are you doing, non-criminal, of course? - said Dalakazan , breathing heavily.
-All right, sir, thank God, I can't complain - said modestly Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.Then he continued: "Are you not in a hurry, that is, do I not take your precious time? - he asked.
-No, Mr. writer. Right now, my students are resting. Do you write all poems, stories and novels in a luxurious hollow mulberry tree? - Dalakazan said, smiling politely.He sat down wearily, wiping the sweat from his forehead into the sleeve of his striped pajamas.
-Yes, Mr. teacher, I write all the time in my mulberry tree. Last night I wrote a very interesting story about a guest worker from our region, who went to work in distant Russia. Want to read it? It's is now with me here in this sack - suggest Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
-Of course I want to read it- answered Dalakazan.
The writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich took the manuscript out of the sacks and began to read.

Fourth justice

(The story)


- Where are you going for the night?! - Larisa's mother screaming - this time on the streets hanging around all sorts of bad people and rapists, my daughter!.
- Mom, I have to go! - Larisa began to explain a situation. - One guest worker from Uzbekistan, who works with us, got into trouble. That is, the family has happened that something was wrong. This guest worker named Isam is a very good man. He's in such a state right now, poor guy, he could kill himself, you know? So I'm worried about him. The fact is that he recently sent a letter about his wife, who cheated on him.Since then, this poor the guest worker Isamlost his peace and began to drink, as if trying to drown his grief in vodka. He is now dangerous to be alone, because in his position a person from despair can do anything, up to suicide. I want to go to him and try to comfort him in his hour of need. I don't know how but... After all, you know, not good to let down the person who has no relatives here. He's human, after all.
- Come On, Larisa! You're not going to see a woman in the dark! If this man is from Central Asia, he's all the more dangerous! They say that labor immigrants attack girls and rape! - Larisa's mother was worried.
- Don't worry, mother, you know me. I was engaged in kickboxing, and if that - I can stand up for myself! And rapists do not have a nationality, they are everywhere. In all countries thereare scum, and there are heroes. And honest and decent people among all people - the majority. You can't throw mud all over the people because of two or three scoundrels. In fact, Uzbeks are very friendly people. - said Larisa.
She went out into the yard and, walking quickly, disappeared into the night whirl of white snowflakes.
- Well, stubborn, naughty girl, be careful! -  her mother shouted after her.
There was no one at the bus stop. Larisa caught the night bus and took a window seat. In a bright room of people was not enough. While driving, Larisa was thinking about the janitor named guest worker Isam. Outside the window, through the snow flakes dimly flashed houses, glowing Windows of shops, restaurants, night trees, deserted streets, sidewalks and street lights. When the bus stopped at the bus stops, the doors of the bus opened like the jaws of a fantastic beast, passengers entered the cabin, and behind them flew clouds of spinning snowflakes. The night bus, the quiet snowfall, the street lights, the tired, yawning last passengers seemed to be thinking about the same thing as Larisa, that is, about her lovers. The conductor with wide eyes approached Larisa and asked her to buy a ticket. Larisa showed her pass, and she went back to her seat near the driver. At the third stop, Larisa got off the bus and walked along the snow-covered sidewalk towards the house where the the guest worker Isamtemporarily lived. This low, old house, the window of which grew a birch, belonged to an old woman named Lyudmila Mikhailovna.
He was not at home.
- He's in College, I mean the boiler room! Sitting there with Zahar! Well, with this Stoker - alcoholic - said Lyudmila Mikhailovna. Larisa went to the side of the boiler. There she looked in the dusty window and saw the janitor, who was drinking vodka with the fireman Zakhar Dmitrievich and was pretty drunk. The male grabbed a glass of his hairy hand and said:
- Come on, Basmach*, cheers! You know whose sins we suffer in this world. God would not have expelled our forefather Adam from eternal Paradise if eve had not persuaded Adam to taste God's forbidden fruit. Here we are, men, since then, and suffer because of women! A woman is a mysterious, insidious creature! There are very few good women in this world, very few, he said! Here I, for example, i work like a donkey whole nights in this boiler room, swallowing coal dust, and as I step over the threshold of the house - my wife Klava begins to scold me, without stopping for a moment. Why, did I marry you?!- she says. - I'd rather be an old Lady with no husband! Decent men go in tuxedos, ties, shaved like cucumbers, neatly combed. They drive their own cars, each with a fat wallet stuffed with dollars. What about you?! Look, in the mirror of our Stalin-era wardrobe with a hole in the back, and you are afraid of your own reflection! Well, look! Afraid, huh? That's it! Do you, know who you look like? - I say no, what do I look like? - she, says you are the devil, hell in the boiler room! She, says , unshaven! You smell of sweat, burning coal, vodka and garlic! If, she says, I don't buy a gas mask right away, one day I'll suffocate from the lack of fresh air and I might die! I said, what's wrong with that?! By the way, the smell of garlic protects people from evil forces and vampires! Here, she says, you see, even the impure forces are afraid to approach you, for fear of Contracting dangerous diseases! And I ?! I, a fool, live, for so many years with you under one roof! You work in a boiler room, you get a meager salary, and then - not money, but coal! When are you ever going to find a prestigious job like all normal men, huh?! I would go to work, for example, in Uzbekistan! Picking cotton on the plantations! No,you, are afraid of work!.. - Then she starts crying. You know, Basmach, lately I've even been afraid to come home. Sometimes, especially when she sleeps next to me, snoring loudly, I have a desire to strangle her just like Otello stangling Desdemona, but - I can not. In short, I'm sick of it! I will go to your Uzbekistan, they say, there is justice. Let's have a drink for us! To friendship! - Zakhar Balalaikin said, completing his sad monologue.
The guest worker Isam lazily took the glass with vodka in hand and, in one gulp gulping, put its back on the table. Balalaikin also drank and began to eat, shoving a crust of bread with herring into his mouth .
- You, come on, eat, Basmach - he said chew your food.
- The falcons even after the thirteenth glass bites! Dimitrich, pour more - said guest worker Isam.
Balalaikin filled up the glasses with transparent burning with moisture, which is called on its slang vodyary.
- Well, then let's go! - said  Zakhar Dimitrich and, looking at the blackened concrete ceiling of the boiler room, splashed vodka from the glass into his wide-open mouth and took a sip at once. And again took a bite, wincing from burning vodka  -  said guest worker Isam, and took the glass and began to complain on fate:
- Oh, how I believed her, how i believed ! Ah, why did she cheat on me, Dimitrich?! I never cheated on her! Is that fair?!.. I even had one stupid dream, to give her my own heart for the eighth of March -holiday of the women! I loved her! - with these words the janitor said and drained the glass and put it on the table.
- Hey, basmach, eat something quick or you will become drunk- said Balalaikin.
- No, I'm not eating. I want to get drunk and go into oblivion! I am no longer interested in this world, which is full of betrayal, betrayal and injustice!
-Do not seek justice in this world, uzbek! Justice is here in this bottle! we will need to drink and feel the taste of this justice! -said Zakhar Balalaikin, removing the empty bottle. Then adding:
- And we have again, as always, justice.
- You, dont worry, Dimitrich, I have still one justice - said guest worker Isam, pulling out from his pocket a bottle of vodka. He put it on the table with the look of a grandmaster who is matting his chess partner with an ivory knight.
At the sight of vodka dimitrich was stunned with joy.
- Wow, this is our fourth justice! - he said, taking the bottle in his hand and kissing it like a beautiful girl.
- Come on, Basmach, first drink the rest of justice, then open the fourth truth - said Balalaikin.
- Let's go!  - said the guest worker Isam, and they drank to the bottom.
When Dimitrich began use his teeth to uncork the next bottle, Larissa could not resist. She burst into the boiler room and shouted:
- Stop! Come on, stop drinking now!Seeing her, Balalaikin was frightened. He immediately hid the fourth bottle behind his back and said:
- Oh my god, here comes you wife from your sunlight Uzbekistan!
The guest worker Isam smiled sluggishly:
- Dimitrich, what are you talking about? She's not my wife at all! She's Larisa! We work together in the same company... she works as a felter, and I'm a janitor, right, Larisa? Sit down to drink fourth justice, then fifth, sixth and so - endlessly! - he said.
Then, looking at the hair of Larisa, who stuck out her shawl again spoke:
- Larisa, wow you scared me, huh?! I was afraid I thought you'd turned gray, but it turns out... it's not gray, it's snow! Is it snowing outside?! - he asked.
- Yes, Isam, it's snowing! Let's get some air! - Larisa said. - Yeah, good idea, go Dimitrich, lets build a snow-woman! But only a dedicated woman not cheating on her husband - guest worker Isam, with difficulty rising.
- And justice? - Balalaikin said.
- You put this justice on the table, Dimitrich, then we will drink later - said the guest worker Isam.
- Well, Basmach - said Balalaikin and followed Larisa, and tripped over a shovel that lay in his way.
They came out of the boiler room. The street was quiet and there was heavy snow.
-Ha - hah - hah hah - haaaah! Look, Dimitrich, what beautiful snow! - the guest worker Isam shouted with a laugh, looking up at the night sky, where countless flakes of snow were falling from.
- Yes, it is similar to justice!  - Zahar replied, also laughing.
- Well, let's roll out a snowball for the snow woman! - guest worker Isam said, and the three of them began to roll out a snowball. Then they built a snow-woman. Larisa brought a bucket and two pieces of coal from the boiler room. They put a bucket on the snow woman's head, and made her eyes out of the coals. After that, Larissa inserted into the sides of the constructed 'sculpture' dry branches - it was hands - and the sticks turned out a beautiful nose. The guest worker Isam took off his scarf and wrapped it around the snow woman's neck.
What a sculpture!! - he said, looking at the snow statue.
- Is it urgently needs to be washed! - said Zakhar Balalaikin.
- Yes, perhaps - guest worker Isam supporting his idea.
- Now, I'll be back! - Zakhar said and ran after the vodka, scraping and stumbling in the snow.
- Come on, Isam - said Larisa, taking him by the sleeve of his coat.
- Where? - said guest worker Isam.
- Where? Homeward. Grandma will be worried. Remember you walked me home once? Well, now it's my turn. Today I'll walk you home. - said Larisa.
- And justice?! As without the fair?! Badly...  - said guest worker Isam.
- There's no more justice! Your friend is looking for the vodka. Still won't be able to find it. I broke it! - Larisa said.
Then again, drew guest worker Isam's sleeve.
- Yeah, leave me alone, I'm not going anywhere... hick... I want vodka! - he said.
- No, that's enough, you won't drink anymore! You're coming with me now! - Larisa said.
- Yes, let go, I tell you, woman! -  the guest worker Isam said, and jerked his arm so hard that the sleeve of his coat came off.
Larisa fell into the snow with his sleeve in her hand. guest worker Isam had swung heavily and stared at the snow woman.Then he kicked her as hard as he could. -I hate women who cheat on their husbands! -he shouted and trampled the snow-woman with contempt to break it.Then he stumbled and fell. Larisa ran up to him with a sleeve in her hand. The guest worker Isam lay looking at the dark sky, and carelessly falling snowflakes.
- Sorry, Isam, sorry, I didn't mean to... said Larisa, and asked:
- You're not hurt, are you?
Making sure the guest worker Isam was alive, she tried to lift him.
- Get up, guest worker Isam, come on, you'll be at home... Otherwise you'll freeze here like a mammoth in the permafrost! It's freezing...  - she said.
- Stupid woman, why are you attached to me?! Leave me alone! I'm here to stay! You go... I'm not going anywhere - said guest worker Isam.
- Then I'm not going either! We'll freeze together! - Larisa said, and lay down beside Isam.
- Go away, you stubborn woman! - guest worker Isam, pushing her away.
With great difficulty he rose. Then, staggering, he began to leave saying:
- Oh, how I loved her! As love-and-Il, my God!..
He cried. Larisa took his cap and torn off sleeve and followed him.
End.
- Well, teacher, did you like the story? - asked the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
-Yesss, a good story - said Dalakazan sad sighed.

 

Chapter 15

The interesting story





The writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich stood in flight meadow waist-deep in tall grass, listening to the trills of larks which sang enthusiastically over a flowered meadow called "Tappicasod", where a swarm of fluttering butterflies carefree , whiling away their life, feeding on the nectar of white daisies and blue cornflowers.They flew through the air, staggering like drunks. Suddenly there came a cheerful and joyful cry of Dalakazan:

-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!

He ran screaming across the meadow barefoot, in striped pajamas and with a heavy wardrobe on his shoulders.
Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich wanted to communicate, to talk with this strange man and called him:
-Sir, can I have a moment?!
Hearing his cry, Dalakazan stopped.Then came running to him with its wardrobe on back.
-Hello, Mr. writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich!Well, how are you doing, non-criminal, of course? - said Dalakazan , breathing heavily.
-All right, sir, thank God, I can't complain - said modestly Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.Then he continued: "Are you not in a hurry, that is, do I not take your precious time? - he asked.
-No, Mr. writer. Right now, my students are resting. Do you write all poems, stories and novels in a luxurious hollow mulberry tree? - Dalakazan said, smiling politely.He sat down wearily, wiping the sweat from his forehead into the sleeve of his striped pajamas.
-Yes, Mr. teacher, I write all the time in my mulberry tree. Last night I wrote a very interesting story about a guest worker from our region, who went to work in distant Russia. Want to read it? It's is now with me here in this sack - suggest Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
-Of course I want to read it- answered Dalakazan.
The writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich took the manuscript out of the sacks and began to read.


Fourth justice

(The story)


- Where are you going for the night?! - Larisa's mother screaming - this time on the streets hanging around all sorts of bad people and rapists, my daughter!.
- Mom, I have to go! - Larisa began to explain a situation. - One guest worker from Uzbekistan, who works with us, got into trouble. That is, the family has happened that something was wrong. This guest worker named Isam is a very good man. He's in such a state right now, poor guy, he could kill himself, you know? So I'm worried about him. The fact is that he recently sent a letter about his wife, who cheated on him.Since then, this poor the guest worker Isamlost his peace and began to drink, as if trying to drown his grief in vodka. He is now dangerous to be alone, because in his position a person from despair can do anything, up to suicide. I want to go to him and try to comfort him in his hour of need. I don't know how but... After all, you know, not good to let down the person who has no relatives here. He's human, after all.
- Come On, Larisa! You're not going to see a woman in the dark! If this man is from Central Asia, he's all the more dangerous! They say that labor immigrants attack girls and rape! - Larisa's mother was worried.
- Don't worry, mother, you know me. I was engaged in kickboxing, and if that - I can stand up for myself! And rapists do not have a nationality, they are everywhere. In all countries thereare scum, and there are heroes. And honest and decent people among all people - the majority. You can't throw mud all over the people because of two or three scoundrels. In fact, Uzbeks are very friendly people. - said Larisa.
She went out into the yard and, walking quickly, disappeared into the night whirl of white snowflakes.
- Well, stubborn, naughty girl, be careful! - her mother shouted after her.
There was no one at the bus stop. Larisa caught the night bus and took a window seat. In a bright room of people was not enough. While driving, Larisa was thinking about the janitor named guest worker Isam. Outside the window, through the snow flakes dimly flashed houses, glowing Windows of shops, restaurants, night trees, deserted streets, sidewalks and street lights. When the bus stopped at the bus stops, the doors of the bus opened like the jaws of a fantastic beast, passengers entered the cabin, and behind them flew clouds of spinning snowflakes. The night bus, the quiet snowfall, the street lights, the tired, yawning last passengers seemed to be thinking about the same thing as Larisa, that is, about her lovers. The conductor with wide eyes approached Larisa and asked her to buy a ticket. Larisa showed her pass, and she went back to her seat near the driver. At the third stop, Larisa got off the bus and walked along the snow-covered sidewalk towards the house where the the guest worker Isamtemporarily lived. This low, old house, the window of which grew a birch, belonged to an old woman named Lyudmila Mikhailovna.
He was not at home.
- He's in College, I mean the boiler room! Sitting there with Zahar! Well, with this Stoker - alcoholic - said Lyudmila Mikhailovna. Larisa went to the side of the boiler. There she looked in the dusty window and saw the janitor, who was drinking vodka with the fireman Zakhar Dmitrievich and was pretty drunk. The male grabbed a glass of his hairy hand and said:
- Come on, Basmach*, cheers! You know whose sins we suffer in this world. God would not have expelled our forefather Adam from eternal Paradise if eve had not persuaded Adam to taste God's forbidden fruit. Here we are, men, since then, and suffer because of women! A woman is a mysterious, insidious creature! There are very few good women in this world, very few, he said! Here I, for example, i work like a donkey whole nights in this boiler room, swallowing coal dust, and as I step over the threshold of the house - my wife Klava begins to scold me, without stopping for a moment. Why, did I marry you?!- she says. - I'd rather be an old Lady with no husband! Decent men go in tuxedos, ties, shaved like cucumbers, neatly combed. They drive their own cars, each with a fat wallet stuffed with dollars. What about you?! Look, in the mirror of our Stalin-era wardrobe with a hole in the back, and you are afraid of your own reflection! Well, look! Afraid, huh? That's it! Do you, know who you look like? - I say no, what do I look like? - she, says you are the devil, hell in the boiler room! She, says , unshaven! You smell of sweat, burning coal, vodka and garlic! If, she says, I don't buy a gas mask right away, one day I'll suffocate from the lack of fresh air and I might die! I said, what's wrong with that?! By the way, the smell of garlic protects people from evil forces and vampires! Here, she says, you see, even the impure forces are afraid to approach you, for fear of Contracting dangerous diseases! And I ?! I, a fool, live, for so many years with you under one roof! You work in a boiler room, you get a meager salary, and then - not money, but coal! When are you ever going to find a prestigious job like all normal men, huh?! I would go to work, for example, in Uzbekistan! Picking cotton on the plantations! No,you, are afraid of work!.. - Then she starts crying. You know, Basmach, lately I've even been afraid to come home. Sometimes, especially when she sleeps next to me, snoring loudly, I have a desire to strangle her just like Otello stangling Desdemona, but - I can not. In short, I'm sick of it! I will go to your Uzbekistan, they say, there is justice. Let's have a drink for us! To friendship! - Zakhar Balalaikin said, completing his sad monologue.
The guest worker Isam lazily took the glass with vodka in hand and, in one gulp gulping, put its back on the table. Balalaikin also drank and began to eat, shoving a crust of bread with herring into his mouth .
- You, come on, eat, Basmach - he said chew your food.
- The falcons even after the thirteenth glass bites! Dimitrich, pour more - said guest worker Isam.
Balalaikin filled up the glasses with transparent burning with moisture, which is called on its slang vodyary.
- Well, then let's go! - said Zakhar Dimitrich and, looking at the blackened concrete ceiling of the boiler room, splashed vodka from the glass into his wide-open mouth and took a sip at once. And again took a bite, wincing from burning vodka - said guest worker Isam, and took the glass and began to complain on fate:
- Oh, how I believed her, how i believed ! Ah, why did she cheat on me, Dimitrich?! I never cheated on her! Is that fair?!.. I even had one stupid dream, to give her my own heart for the eighth of March -holiday of the women! I loved her! - with these words the janitor said and drained the glass and put it on the table.
- Hey, basmach, eat something quick or you will become drunk- said Balalaikin.
- No, I'm not eating. I want to get drunk and go into oblivion! I am no longer interested in this world, which is full of betrayal, betrayal and injustice!
-Do not seek justice in this world, uzbek! Justice is here in this bottle! we will need to drink and feel the taste of this justice! -said Zakhar Balalaikin, removing the empty bottle. Then adding:
- And we have again, as always, justice.
- You, dont worry, Dimitrich, I have still one justice - said guest worker Isam, pulling out from his pocket a bottle of vodka. He put it on the table with the look of a grandmaster who is matting his chess partner with an ivory knight.
At the sight of vodka dimitrich was stunned with joy.
- Wow, this is our fourth justice! - he said, taking the bottle in his hand and kissing it like a beautiful girl.
- Come on, Basmach, first drink the rest of justice, then open the fourth truth - said Balalaikin.
- Let's go! - said the guest worker Isam, and they drank to the bottom.
When Dimitrich began use his teeth to uncork the next bottle, Larissa could not resist. She burst into the boiler room and shouted:
- Stop! Come on, stop drinking now!Seeing her, Balalaikin was frightened. He immediately hid the fourth bottle behind his back and said:
- Oh my god, here comes you wife from your sunlight Uzbekistan!
The guest worker Isam smiled sluggishly:
- Dimitrich, what are you talking about? She's not my wife at all! She's Larisa! We work together in the same company... she works as a felter, and I'm a janitor, right, Larisa? Sit down to drink fourth justice, then fifth, sixth and so - endlessly! - he said.
Then, looking at the hair of Larisa, who stuck out her shawl again spoke:
- Larisa, wow you scared me, huh?! I was afraid I thought you'd turned gray, but it turns out... it's not gray, it's snow! Is it snowing outside?! - he asked.
- Yes, Isam, it's snowing! Let's get some air! - Larisa said. - Yeah, good idea, go Dimitrich, lets build a snow-woman! But only a dedicated woman not cheating on her husband - guest worker Isam, with difficulty rising.
- And justice? - Balalaikin said.
- You put this justice on the table, Dimitrich, then we will drink later - said the guest worker Isam.
- Well, Basmach - said Balalaikin and followed Larisa, and tripped over a shovel that lay in his way.
They came out of the boiler room. The street was quiet and there was heavy snow.
-Ha - hah - hah hah - haaaah! Look, Dimitrich, what beautiful snow! - the guest worker Isam shouted with a laugh, looking up at the night sky, where countless flakes of snow were falling from.
- Yes, it is similar to justice! - Zahar replied, also laughing.
- Well, let's roll out a snowball for the snow woman! - guest worker Isam said, and the three of them began to roll out a snowball. Then they built a snow-woman. Larisa brought a bucket and two pieces of coal from the boiler room. They put a bucket on the snow woman's head, and made her eyes out of the coals. After that, Larissa inserted into the sides of the constructed 'sculpture' dry branches - it was hands - and the sticks turned out a beautiful nose. The guest worker Isam took off his scarf and wrapped it around the snow woman's neck.
What a sculpture!! - he said, looking at the snow statue.
- Is it urgently needs to be washed! - said Zakhar Balalaikin.
- Yes, perhaps - guest worker Isam supporting his idea.
- Now, I'll be back! - Zakhar said and ran after the vodka, scraping and stumbling in the snow.
- Come on, Isam - said Larisa, taking him by the sleeve of his coat.
- Where? - said guest worker Isam.
- Where? Homeward. Grandma will be worried. Remember you walked me home once? Well, now it's my turn. Today I'll walk you home. - said Larisa.
- And justice?! As without the fair?! Badly... - said guest worker Isam.
- There's no more justice! Your friend is looking for the vodka. Still won't be able to find it. I broke it! - Larisa said.
Then again, drew guest worker Isam's sleeve.
- Yeah, leave me alone, I'm not going anywhere... hick... I want vodka! - he said.
- No, that's enough, you won't drink anymore! You're coming with me now! - Larisa said.
- Yes, let go, I tell you, woman! - the guest worker Isam said, and jerked his arm so hard that the sleeve of his coat came off.
Larisa fell into the snow with his sleeve in her hand. guest worker Isam had swung heavily and stared at the snow woman.Then he kicked her as hard as he could. -I hate women who cheat on their husbands! -he shouted and trampled the snow-woman with contempt to break it.Then he stumbled and fell. Larisa ran up to him with a sleeve in her hand. The guest worker Isam lay looking at the dark sky, and carelessly falling snowflakes.
- Sorry, Isam, sorry, I didn't mean to... said Larisa, and asked:
- You're not hurt, are you?
Making sure the guest worker Isam was alive, she tried to lift him.
- Get up, guest worker Isam, come on, you'll be at home... Otherwise you'll freeze here like a mammoth in the permafrost! It's freezing... - she said.
- Stupid woman, why are you attached to me?! Leave me alone! I'm here to stay! You go... I'm not going anywhere - said guest worker Isam.
- Then I'm not going either! We'll freeze together! - Larisa said, and lay down beside Isam.
- Go away, you stubborn woman! - guest worker Isam, pushing her away.
With great difficulty he rose. Then, staggering, he began to leave saying:
- Oh, how I loved her! As love-and-Il, my God!..
He cried. Larisa took his cap and torn off sleeve and followed him.
End.
- Well, teacher, did you like the story? - asked the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
-Yesss, a good story - said Dalakazan sad sighed.

 

 

 

Chapter 16

The moonlight night





Khurguldivan went around neighborhoods screaming, attracting the attention of citizens, in the hope of selling manure.
Who wants dung! Environmentally friendly fuel for the winter, dry and fragrant dung!If you don't believe me, you can smell them! Burns long and good!
She walked slowly, with a huge bag on her back. But, as always, she managed this time to sell only a meager part of her goods, gaining money which was barely enough for bread and a couple of candies for children. In the evening she returned home tired, and her children ran up to her  cheerfully shouting:

- Mom! Mommy's here!

Putting a sack of dung in the ground, Khurguldivan hugged her children and kissed their cheeks. Then she pulled out from the pocket of her cotton jacket, a paper bag with red candies, similar to males 'hursing' and give them to the children. The pale-faced, scrawny children cheered and began to lick the candy. Looking at the happy faces of their children, Khurguldivan shed tears.

- Khurguldivan, have you come, daughter?! - said her blind mother-in-law who remained with the children.

- Yes, mother, I came and brought bread! - replied Khurguldivan, wiping tears. Then took a couple pellets from business bags and brought them on a tray to her mother-in-law, and then proceeded to light a fire in the fireplace, she put on the fire kumgan and made some tea. After that she together with her mother-in-law and the children, began to eat bread on the table.

"Thank God," said the old woman, carefully placing a slice of bread in her toothless mouth with a shaking bony hand with bamboo-like fingers. She chewed the bread with her gums for a long time. When she chewed, her chin touched her nose.

- You, daughter, do not think about us, and in the city for lunch as it should. Because you are pregnant - told mother-in-law.

Khurguldivan said nothing in response.

Then there was her drunk husband alkagolik Tukhumboy who staggered and started screaming:

- Private soldier Khurguldivan, march to the song, and out of line!

Khurguldivan rose and went fearfully to her husband:

- What do you want? - she asked in fright.

- Like you don't know what I want, huh?! Or do you think I want to drag you to the mattress?! You're wrong, you naive fool!.. No, I see you're faking it again! Get your money over here! - shouted Tukhumboy.

Khurguldivan beginning to beg, as always, reporting as an accountant before the authorities:

- Oh, I couldn't sell most of the dung, honey! All day, walking around the city with a huge bag on my back, I barely earned enough money to buy bread and a couple of candies for our kids! If you do not believe my words, you can check the goods. I have left money on the road - said Khurguldivan, pulling out the remaining money for the trip from the inner pocket of her cotton jacket. Tukhumboy greedily took the money out of the hands of Khurguldivan, and said:

- It's not enough to buy vodka or wine! Find some more! Borrow from the neighbors! Quick!.. - screamed Tukhumboy, swinging his arms like a pendulum at the school in the study of physics. Taking a karate position, he with a battle cry attempted to kick his wife in the face, but missed and fell with a crash to the ground. Then subsided. Khurguldivan scared and stooping over him, listened to his heartbeat. He was alive. Khurguldivan calmed down and told her children to bring a mattress with a blanket and a pillow. Her daughter Zuleykha, and her son, Mikail dragged things that Khurguldivan requested . Then they all together difficultly put Tukhumboy on the mattress and, placing under his head a pillow, and covered him with a blanket full of holes. Suddenly Tukhumboy stirred, raised his head, and abruptly plunging onto his belly, uttered a sound: "Umkc!".

Khurguldivan immediately realized that Tukhumboy was sick, and he's going to vomit. She told the children to bring a bucket. The children brought a bucket. The bucket was old, crumpled and blackened. Khurguldivan with a soldier's swiftness put down the bucket, and Tukhumboy began to vomit, but not in the bucket and on the ground. From his mouth flew chewed pieces of potatoes and meat. Seeing this, little Zuleikha closed her eyes.:

- Meat!, potatoes! - with these words Zuleikha began to pick up pieces the of meat and began to eat it.

-  What are you doing, Zuleikha?! Drop it! Don't eat, it's Haram! - shouted Khurguldivan.

Zuleikha roared. And Tukhumboy calmed down and fell asleep. Khurguldivan expelling the children in the house, cleaning up the vomit of her husband, wiping his face with a towel full of holes burnt into it. The blind mother-in-law of Khurguldivan was crying, lying on the on the couch, seeing nothing.

Meanwhile, the moon was shining above the village sky, forming a huge circle around itself. In the distance, somewhere beyond the "Kashkaldak" river, stray dogs were barking, and somewhere beyond the fields, spring frogs were singing in chorus, bursting into trills. Khurguldivan got the kids to bed, and lied on the mattress near Tukhumboy where she went to sleep. She layed looking up at the moon and distant stars, thinking about the teacher of bird language and literature, Dalakazan who lives and works in his free wardrobe for school. As he runs across the expanses of summer meadows and fields, with a huge wardrobe on his back, in striped pajamas, barefoot, shouting loudly and cheerfully:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
Khurguldivan thought and thought and fell asleep, and closed her tired eyes. She dreamed Dalakazan sitting on the beach, where seagulls flew above the running waves of the coast, looking at the surface of the water in search of small fish.
Who wants dung! Environmentally friendly fuel for the winter, dry and fragrant dung!If you don't believe me, you can smell them! Burns long and good!
- Khurguldivan shouted, to attract the of attention Dalakazan.
Seeing Khurguldivan, the teacher of bird language and literature Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa .
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! - he shouted.
Then he raised Khurguldivan together with his huge bag and put them on a rack - the teacher with the birdhouse on his back, after which he began to paddle. Swaying on the high waves, they sailed towards an exotic island, where palm forests grew, over which green parrots and a flock of pink pelicans fly. On this island grew sequoias, eucalyptus trees, and on the vines swayed various monkeys, all sorts of monkeys, orangutans, Gibbons and chimpanzees, carefree eating bananas, and then examined each other's wool, in search of fleas, then they caught fleas and they ate like a man who eats roasted sunflower seeds. Khurguldivan and Dalakazan bathed in the emerald-green sea. She swam on the water with a huge bag on her back, shouting from time to time:
Who wants dung! Environmentally friendly fuel for the winter, dry and fragrant dung!If you don't believe me, you can smell them! Burns long and good! - shouted Khurguldivan, as if scaring off sharks while they were surfing with their fins on the sea surface, they swirled around her, hoping to eat it. Then she layed on the warm white sand near Dalakazan, who was lying there in his bathing trunks with flippers on his feet with a wardrobe behind. Two weeks later, both returned to the wardrobe school and settled in the castle. The next day Dalakazan bought a ticket to the theater, and together they went into the city for cultural events. The script of the play was written about the repressed poor poet during the Stalin regime. Because the poet was famous, there was alot of audience, which overflowed the hall. Finally, the music began, and the curtain opened. The audience applauded, seeing the repressed pale, stooped poet in a velvet skull-cap and canvas boots without soles, forty-eighth the size. His hair had turned gray from grief and suffering, for some reason the poet cried into a huge old, leaky, checkered handkerchief:

Good - bye, my poor verses! Farewell to my yellowed manuscript! I wrote poems all my life, I wrote poems and novels about the Motherland and the people, sparing myself! For this state, instead of giving me a one-room apartment, gave me the title of national poet, to award orders and medals, because I had repressed! Now they want to shoot! What blasphemy! No, no, it won't work! I will avenge them! What questions, the answer will be the same! I do not want my manuscripts to remain with the authorities, and that they after my death they will have built a monument for me by erecting an eight-meter bronze monument and perpetuating my memory, and made of my poems the flag of patriotism ideology! I'd rather burn them like janitors burn autumn leaves in a city park!  - he said.

Khurguldivan and Dalakazan thought the repressed poet in a velvet skull-cap and canvas boots was joking. But he took his yellowed manuscript from the top of his tarpaulin boots, size forty-eight, without soles, he then struck a match and burned them like an athlete lighting an Olympic torch. At this time, a man in a turban and a striped chapan ran from behind the scenes to the stage and began to beg the poet to immediately stop destroying the priceless manuscript and to stop the madness. Otherwise, it is not just a story. But the repressed poet was not joking. He was determined to burn the manuscript, and did not listen to the man in the turban. On the contrary, he pushed him away, keeping him away from the burning fire in which his priceless manuscript was burning. Here came a freckled prompter of small stature, forty-five years old, blond, also skinny, with short kangaroo hands and also intervened in the scandal. Apparently, the repressed poet used to box. He slammed the freckeled man in the area of the larynx. The freckled prompter of small stature, about forty-five, blond, and skinny like a smoked fish, short like a kangaroo with his hands and with fish eyes fell on the squeaky floor, where it was dangerous to walk.

- Men! Our friend is hit! - shouted someone from the orchestra pit, and the crowd of musicians led by the conductor attacked the repressed poet, with a pale face, in a velvet skull-cap and canvas boots for the forty-eighth in size with no soles. The musicians who were armed with a violin, someone was armed with a cello, another with a guitar, and one with copper and brass pipes. At this moment someone managed to hit the poet on the head with a balalaika, and the balalaika broke. The fight began. As the manuscript was smoldering, then suddenly broke out with renewed vigor, and the flames spread to the curtain, which caught fire. The audience thought that the actions were a conceived scenario. But there it was. A real fire broke out on the stage and in the hall. The Director with a tin funnel in his hands shouted:

- Citizens and supporters. Save yourself, of course, if you want to live! Our Drama and Comedy theatre, named William Shakespeare is on fire!

Hearing this, the audience rose from their seats and ran to the exit, trampling each other. The teacher of bird language and literature Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa with his cabinet at the back, leaving a burning room, a bullet flew through the window, breaking the glass into pieces. Khurguldivan, trembling with fear, lifted her huge sack of dung and headed for the exit. The theater was still burning, and the repressed poet laughed triumphantly, like the devil at the altar with an inverted cross. Khurguldivan also screamed in a piercing voice like the whistle of a train approaching the junction and awoke to her own scream.

Meanwhile in the West wandered the moon, high in the sky twinkled stars and came the distant barking of dogs.

 

 

 

Chapter 17

In search of beloved




Dentist Celsinbay tortured the client, drilling his tooth with the help of a boron machine, the tip of which buzzed like a bee, rotating like an airplane propeller, and the poor client screamed at the top of his throat when a jet of white smoke reached out of his tooth. Despite the wild screams of the client, Celsinbay worked quietly, like a geologist who drills wells in search of oil fields in the steppes. He worked as a guest worker with a jackhammer in his hands, who came to Russia from Central Asia for earnings. He treated the teeth of the client, and sang some creepy song, occasionally stopping and looking in the mouth of the client as well.
And at this time of Sarvigulnargis mopping the floors, using a mop and moving like attacking women's national hockey team "Andijanka". It is the same as the dentist Celsinbay, worked and sang their favorite songs adored. Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich went to the hotels in town to see her. Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich stood in the hallway, as if bewitched by the song of the wonderful singer that he loved dearly. There on the trestle beds, sat a customer who had a toothache. After finishing the song ""Otmagay tong"" from the opera "Takhir and Zukhra", Sarvigulnargis squeezed a dirty rag in an old rumpled bucket.
- Well, hello, Mrs. Sarvigulnargis! You didn't think I'd find you? And left, you know, without leaving at least a note and addresses, writing it with a stick on the first snow.
In the morning I came out of the hollow and gasped when I saw the snow that covered the cotton fields with a white fluffy blanket. White silence reigned around. Wanted then to shout in a voice something like "Hey-hey-hey-hey, Sarvigulnargis! Wake up! It's a sin to sleep on such a morning!". But I did not shout, thinking of Your reputation. Then I decided to give, I think, and will be Sarvigulnargis, and she is congratulating her with the first snow. With these thoughts I went in the direction of the field mill, along the way, continuing to think about what you are sleeping the sweet sleep, seeing me in my sleep. I came closer to the field camp and I see that there is not a single human trace on the snow. Well, I think, Holy smoke, did the townspeople still asleep, never knowing that the first snow fell? Well, now it will surprise them! With such happy thoughts I went to the window, looked inside the room, look - and there is no one there. Seeing this gloomy landscape, my heart skipped a beat, and the snow turned black before my eyes like the soot of a hellish cauldron.
Then all of a sudden I got sick. I'm lying in the snow, I'm sick and I think, well, it's over. Now there is no sense to return to the hollow mulberry tree of, in which I live and write haiku about being alone. Where can I go without Mrs. Sarvigulnargis? Now I don't care - I thought then. I don't remember how long I lay there in the cold snow, but I slowly began to freeze. It seemed to me that I was lying alone in the endless tundra, like a lone traveler Roal amudsen, who lost his dogsled, and there was no one around. Then I heard my mother's voice, and I began to smile, thinking that it must be the old woman as the grim reaper with a scythe in her bony hands, only in the form of my mother, who lives in a nursing home. But it turned out not so. Turns out the woman who called out to me was really my mom, and she saved me from an apparent death. She, it turns out, dragged me to the edge of a snow-covered cotton field and lit a fire. Then, having warmed me at a fire, brought, me in feeling, fed and gave me hot tea to drink . After these procedures, my mother and I had a long talk around the campfire, reminiscing about my childhood and all that. In short, I was miraculously saved. But the next day my temperature rose sharply, and I started coughing terribly. I lie in the hollow of a mulberry tree, buried in clover hay, and feverishly tremble like grass in the wind. My poor mother decided to call an ambulance. She put on her homemade skis and walked towards the village, through the snowy collective farm field, like a biathlete at the winter Olympics, which was held in Vancouver, Canada. I lie there, moaning, hallucinating, imagining you singing an Aria from the Opera Ave Maria, my temperature is high, I think, God forbid, that the clover hay from my heat did not light up and there was a fire in the hollow of a mulberry tree. Well, figure out for yourself how I could localize the fire in the hollow, if it was burning in hellfire. There, you know, there is no nearby not that there is a fire brigade, but also any neighbor who could come to the rescue, rattling buckets of water, hearing my cry for help. On the contrary, my envious neighbors, instead of extinguishing the flames, would have thrown gasoline or kerosene into the fire. Thank God, after ten hours came on foot ambulance workers, explaining his tardiness to a lack of gasoline for the ambulance. They carefully examined me, diagnosed me with acute double-sided pneumonia, prescribed medications, gave me several injections, and so I accidentally met them there. The doctor on duty was Dr. Satim Pati, if I remember correctly. And the nurse's name was Mrs. Fortune Suitcasecarrier. I cough, so I moan incessantly, thinking about you. Then he asked Mrs. Fortune Suitcasecarrier, they say, do you know by chance, beautiful woman with a divine clear voice on behalf of Sarvigulnargis, which operates the home as a cleaner in a dental clinic. And suddenly - on you. She, well a nurse by the name of Mrs. Fortune Suitcasecarrier, says Sarvigulnargis, that is, you - her close friend. I said, so can you write down her address of my beloved singer, Sarvigulnargis.  Mrs. Fortune Suitcasecarrier was a good woman and quickly wrote your address on this piece of paper, and I managed to find you. Now, I don't want you to kick me out with a mop to the head or smack me in the face with a dirty, wet rag, and that's it... - said Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich. Looking at it, Sarvigulnargis froze in surprise with a rag in her hands. Then she came to herself, and the first thing hastily covered the hem of her robe her bare, smooth as satin, white thigh, which passionately looked Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich like a hungry man who looks at a tasty Burger. She blushed:
- Oh, you came back, comedian actor? I suppose, you came to our city on tour to here, too, to arrange some free Comedy evening in the hopes to amuse the audience and at the same time earn money? And we have customers who have toothaches, and they are not laughing. Well, welcome, Mr. humorist. How do you all write funny three-lines in your mulberry tree hollow on the edge of a cotton field? And as for my leaving without saying goodbye to you and without leaving a note on the snow where I had to write my address with a stick, I'm sorry. First, I don't know you very well, and second, I have three kids, triplets, you know, the same age. They're in sixth grade, but they look like they're in tenth grade. I'm afraid that we have not put in the hollow of your mulberry tree - said Sarvigulnargis.
- No! Don't say that, Mrs. Sarvigulnargis! Going to fit! We'll fit! I am, by the way, a hereditary carpenter, and with a chisel and a hammer I can extend the hollow of the tree until our wedding. The main thing that in the shower was spacious. Here then not that there five people, even twenty people can be located in a narrow hollow and live in tolerance. Again I ask you, do not banish me, Sarvigulnargis lady, I beg you, don't reject my love, for Christ's sake! I love you more than life, Sarvigulnargis! I'll be lost without you! Believe the poor poet who lives in the hollow of a mulberry tree, on the edge of a cotton field! I came here today to ask for your hand and heart, you know?! - said Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich with a distorted bitter face, and, abruptly taking off his hat with earflaps, began to wipe his eyes full of bitter tears. The customers who were sitting on the trestles laughed, twisting their swollen faces from toothaches. Sarvigulnargis didn't know what to do. She felt sorry for Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich, and she looked at him with sympathy. Then, straightening her back, she began to speak in a soft mournful voice.:
- Well, Mr. Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich, now quit crying. You're just like a little boy, by God. Don't cry. Take it in your hands, you're a poet. The poet must not cry even when he is being hanged publicly drumming and playing a large horn that has a 3 meter pipe. The poet must go through life proudly, with raised head and rattling of iron chains on his feet, lifting themselves on high scene to their executions where the executioners with a black hood with only their eyes showing should enforce a harsh sentence commanded by a dictator king! Then, when the executioners start to put a white bag which is used to contain flour which was produced in the factory of "Saratov", they should shout something like: "long live democracy! Down with dictatorship!" - said Sarvigulnargis, while waving a doormat.
- Yes, you are right, Mrs. Sarvigulnargis  - agreed Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich, ceasing to cry.
He wiped away his tears quickly and put on his hat, which was half-eaten by mole... Having heard their strange conversation, clients began to giggle, having forgotten for a while about the toothache. But they immediately calmed down and froze in horror, when out of the office dentist Celsinbay heard the terrible cry of the patients.
- Wow, there's someone shouting for help! Need to bail out the poor man! - said Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich and ran into the dentist office of Celsinbay.
But his time kept Sarvigulnargis.
Dentist Celsinbay left the office with a pair of pliers in his hands, in a red robe and mask, covered in blood, like a butcher who works in a slaughter-house and asked:
- What's the buzz here?! Why are you making noise, customers?! Can you keep your voice down or not?! Why do you scream like a fisherman who lives on the coast of the Aral sea, where in stormy winds ten-meter emerald green waves beat against the centuries-old granite rocks and where a flock of gluttonous gulls stuns the neighborhood with their cries! Don't interfere with my work! And the fact that these rusty pliers will rip your healthy teeth without anesthesia - he shouted.
Seeing the bloodied pliers of the dentist Celsinbay, hearing his eerie words, Khoruhazon Pakhtasezonovich got scared.





Chapter 18

The letter



- Sir, in the past people would say the ambassadors would not be killed, so I have very important information for you -  said the pot-bellied policeman the student with a bald head, with a school backpack on his shoulders.
- Did the birds inform you about something? - asked Dalakazan.
-No, Mr. teacher. I don't even know how to explain it... Let me tell you in order. In short, I was doing homework in the meadow, at home the task of studying a dialect language of Skylark who sang, bursting into a loud trill over a flowered meadow.
I look, where the giant gas pipelines of friendship are laid, through which the gas of our homeland goes to other countries almost free of charge, one beautiful woman collects dung for the winter, putting it in a huge bag with numerous patches.What would you do, if in our "Tappicasod" with no gas or electricity. The poor woman, seeing me, began to run with a huge bag on her shoulders, like a smuggler with a bag of gold. I barely caught up with her when she tangled her feet in the thick grass and fell.
- Why do you fear me , trembling straight as a frozen old crone in the cold apartment in the dead of winter? - I ask her.
- How can I not be afraid? We are all afraid of the police. Comrade the pot-bellied policeman - student with a bald head, with a school backpack on his shoulders, please don't arrest me, for God's sake. I have small children. Im raising them alone. My husband left us and went to Russia, and got married there. I'm pregnant, she says.
- No, don't be afraid of me, my lady. I'm not a policeman like some others. I want people in our country, as in Western countries, not to be afraid of the police. Think about it, why should I arrest you? You didn't do anything illegal. I am now studying at the Academy of Professor Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa.I'm studying bird language and literature - I said.
Hearing this, the woman why then abruptly turned red, and started crying on the edge of a huge bag with numerous patches.
I said: - why are you crying, lady? Don't cry, I'm not going to arrest you and confiscate your dung. Collect on health, and do not blush or be embarrassed, pressed dung is free in our country.
-No - she says - I was confused from what I heard the good name of your teacher of bird language and literature Mr. Dalakazan Osa ibn Cosa. I respect this extraordinary teacher from the heart. At first I thought you were a birdman. turns out you are learning the language of larks and what a happy man you are, Mr. policeman - student with a bald head, with a school backpack on your shoulders. If that's not enough, you are the disciple of such a well-known teacher of language and literature of birds, Mr. Dalakazan. I've never felt as happy as today. How nice to meet you! I have half a year ago, I wrote the name of your teacher letter, and did not dare to give him to the Mr. Dalakazan? - the lady said ashamed. Could you give it to the teacher of bird language and literature Mr. Dalakazan Osa ibn Cosa, please? -  she said.
-Why not? I sure I will! -  I said.
-Well, only with one condition.You will not open the envelope of my letter - she warned.
-Well, of course, then I print the envelope of the note of a stranger and read it. That's not good - I said.
-Promise?  - the woman asked again.
I promise. After that she gave me her letter and I put it in my school backpack - explained the pot-bellied and old policeman, an excellent student with a bald head.
-Yeah? That's interesting. Come on, give it to me - said theacher of bird language and literature Mr. Dalakazan Osa ibn Cosa.
- Promise! - the pot-bellied policeman - the excellent student with the bald head, told and gave the secret letter of the woman to the teacher.
Dalakazan unsealed the envelope, and unfolding the sheet of paper and began to read.
- Hello, the theacher of bird language and literature Mr. professor Dalakazan Osa ibn Cosa!
My name is Khurguldivan. I am a widow with two children. My husband went to Russia, leaving us, and married there. After my husband left us, I promised myself I would never marry. But after that meeting with you, I broke my oath without even noticing it.Oh, how beautifully you ran then on the slope and in the meadows, with a wardrobe on your shoulders, barefoot in striped pajamas, shouting:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
I was collecting dung for the winter, where boys and girls in "Tappicasod" where cows grazed  and where sheep were on the meadow, which suddenly then a storm roared in, and it began to pour in buckets of noisy spring downpour. everyone ran to their homes. I didn't. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed. And you ran on a country road, crossing pools of rain, and danced with the inseparable closet on your shoulders, all loudly and joyfully shouting:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
After that, the river "Kashkaldak" came out of the banks, flooding fields, meadows and roads. People with families sitting on the roof of their houses and on trees, escaped from the flood, shouting for help and giving signals. Then your closet turned into a rescue ship and sailed to our hut on it, you saved me and my family. In the closet, then lay another man, who just in that night became ill with appendicitis and had to rush to the hospital. Otherwise, he was facing death. I remember him crying and begging for forgiveness from you when he found out that you shipped him to the mainland in your floating closet, where are you when - they found him naked with his ex-wife. After years, the authorities arrested the scoundrel and put him in prison for many years, for stealing people's money on a large scale. After the liberation of that person, he has become poor. How he begged your forgiveness then, how he begged you with tears in his eyes to forgive him! And you forgave him. I've never met anyone as noble as you. Since then, I've lost my peace forever. Day and night I think only of you. As soon as I close my eyes, you appear in front of me in striped pajamas, barefoot, with a huge wardrobe behind your shoulders.I despise those who think you're crazy and laugh at you. They're wrong. On the contrary, you are the kindest, cleverest, most wise, well-read and talented person in the world. Sometimes I cry into my pillow at night, thinking of you, imagining how lonely you are and sleeping in a cold cupboard on an empty stomach. You also don't have a wife who would wash your striped pajamas with patches and sew buttons to it, who would cook you food. Who knows, maybe you have already formed a mountain of unwashed dishes in the kitchen and crawling on the walls are hordes of cockroaches, moving its mustache and which attack you at night, when you sleep, opening your mouth wide, snoring loudly. In short, I do not know my life without you. I, as a lone charred tree on the rock that struck sarava molna, I want to work as a cleaner in your wardrobe for school and to learn from you, diligently studying bird language. The floors of your school closet will Shine like a paved street after a rainstorm. And clean dishes in the kitchen will Shine a dazzling light, like the midnight moon outside the window.In addition, we will develop a joint business with you, collecting dung in the summer in the vast meadows and fields of our independent country, bringing them home to our closet - with a cart with Bicycle wheels, and in the winter we will sell this invaluable fuel on the market, where they sell firewood. May God grant that the esteemed President of Our country and the current authorities consistently pursue the same policy as now, supplying free natural gas and electricity to our country's distant and neighboring countries. That's when our business will flourish like never before.
Waiting for the response letter from you, Mrs.Khurguldivan.
Reading the letter, Dalakazan thought about Khurguldivan.
After that he loudly shouted: - Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!