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Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Chapter 14 of the short novel of Holder Volcano


The idea

 



The long autumn night, the fog and the dead silence. The ghostly silhouettes of houses and trees dissolve in the mist, and the neighborhood slowly begins to float, as if in milk. Khurshida"s ear caught the distant roar of a lone tractor, deaf and distant dog barking. A long time she lay in her room, thinking about the tractor driver Sultan, and she wanted to get up and go to the field, to his beloved man, the tractor driver Sultan, who works in solitude on his tractor. She decided to read a book before bed and took a collection of short stories of the writer Abu Devar Darmeyan. His story "the Birdhouse" begins with these words.
From General round-up of the new government saved me my birdhouse. That is, seeing that I live in the birdhouse, people thought I was insane, and the authorities have released me from military service in the army, was then late in the fall. The day was frosty. The bare branches of trees were buzzing on the cold winds.
By evening, the smell of snow, and at midnight the large flakes began to fall snow. Snowflakes swirled lazily as down shot of white swans in a snowstorm. Then the snow gradually intensified and turned into a soft and silent snowfall. Deserted midnight streets, trees, rooftops, parks and boulevards, groves filled in the white silence, like a dream. The snow was falling, whispering mysterious prayer snowflakes swarms swirled around the street lights, who bowed, like a table lamp over white paper snow. Although he dominated the blue gloom, but there was light from snow as in the white nights of the Northern countries. This night reminded me of the Laundry of the hospital the beginning of the twentieth century, where nurses on the tense rope hung wash pillowcases, sheets and white coats. I was lying on a makeshift bed in my bedroom the birdhouse, looking through the window at the falling snow. I felt alone, the only living person in the world as people slept soundly this white silence, you could hear the whisper of falling snowflakes. Through snowflakes in a Blizzard, I saw the glowing Windows of the birdhouse, which housed the library, where worked a girl named Bahorshamol Oyshu"lanafis Guzalgultozan.I opened the hatch and walked out of the birdhouse. Down I went, stumbling in the snow, to the side of the birdhouse, where was located the library. I was walking up the stairs as it creaked; I knocked on the door, which was opened by a beautiful librarian named Bahorshamol Oyshu"lanafis Guzalgultozan.
-Hello, Bahorshamol Oyshu"lanafis Guzalgultozan! - I said, wiping and brushing boots at the door.
- Oh, it's your neighbor? Well, come in - said Mrs. Bahorshamol Oyshu"lanafis Guzalgultozan, smiling cheerfully.
Going to the birdhouse library, I immediately felt the smell of books and walked closer to the shelves. Bahorshamol Oyshu"lanafis Guzalgultozan sat down in her chair and began to write something in the card. Her thick black gentle hair fell from her delicate shoulders, touching the table.
- Well, what books we intend to read, dear neighbor? - she asked, not looking up from her work. In her gentle arm the handle was swaying like a drunk. Her long white smooth slim and delicate fingers, smooth neck and chins with infant skin, unpainted lips that resembled rose petals, cornflower eyes, white teeth, and charming smile drove me crazy.
-Dear neighbor Bahorshamol Oyshu"lanafis Guzalgultozan, do you have the novel writer of Cardinal Sharle Carboran "Silence in the mist"? - I asked.
- Yes, of course! Here it is on my Desk! Not only is Karon our library, but my favorite cookbook! I always carry with me clutching, I read again and again and did not read a lot. Read even when eating, leafing through its pages, and they rustle like fallen autumn leaves. If I do not read it at night before bed, I can't fall asleep. Every time I read this novel, I cry, shedding tears from the eyes into the pillow. And in some places laugh loud and long, putting a pillow to your mouth to neighbors in other birdhouses woke up at midnight when quietly roaming the sky lonely moon and fire of a distant star, to read these books for a night of fun. What novel, my God! What a great writer this with a well known name, Sharle Carboran! Characters I love: a poor shepherd, the protagonist of the novel, Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi and his beloved beauty Sabo Zulfiparishan! How they love each other, as they meet under the bright moon on the edge of the field and as they kiss, lying on the haystack, like a soft, squeaky, sleeping bed! Although the writer does not describe the romantic scenery, but I read it excitedly work, you begin to clearly perceive the monotonous chirping of crickets, a chorus of croaking frogs in a pond, distant and deaf dogs barking and, of course, to feel the heavenly aroma of sweet clover under the moonlight where lovers kiss haystack Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi and incomparable Sabo Zulfiparishan. With all this, I gaze into the star-strewn infinite, the Milky Way, which shimmers in the sleepy sky,
Like a baby in the cradle. The matter does not end there. I start to dream about the characters in the novel "Silence in the fog" my favorite writer Monsieur the Cardinal Sharle of Carboran. I see that as a reality, a solitary shepherd Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi, who is tending a herd of wild antelopes and tapirs in the desert, where the swaying sea of silky grasses. He sits on one of the tapirs and galloping across the steppe, driving long whip of a huge flock that's running, circling, and looks like a giant whirlpool. The lonely shepherd Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi continues to ride on the tapir, stubbornly and constantly thinking about his beloved Sabo Zulfiparishan and her words. Father of Sabo Zulfiparishan said, stroking her hair and being afraid to drop the trembling tears in her eyes:
- Daughter, I can't marry you to Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi. Because he is a shepherd and herding in the steppes of the vast herds of wild antelopes and Tapir free. I know a simple man who makes a Scarecrow for the vegetable gardens of old, ragged clothes. I know I sometimes bitterly cry alone, at the edge of autumn rice fields at the feet of the scarecrows, which he made out of rags and straw. Crying, saying to them:
- Oh, my Scarecrow, you never asked me! I know in the world you are a lot! But unlike the human made by the God Almighty, you will never cheat each other, not fighting each other and not kill anyone, even a fly, not destroy the city for the sake of gain, made a beautiful flag from false slogans! We, the people whom God has created, ask the Creator every day money, gold diamonds and power! Here I look at you and think about something else. On a political Scarecrow in the world, which is languishing in deep mines on the territory of all nuclear powers? Using nuclear power scared people. And your shepherd Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi has no idea about the Scarecrow. Chasing a crazy flock of antelopes, and tapirs in the boundless steppes with a long whistling whip.
Hearing these words, the poor clogs Sabo Zulfiparishan, cried and flew into the street. She ran, tightly clutching the novel-bestseller "Silence in the mist" great writer of our time of Cardinal Sharle Carboran and cried. She hurried towards the steppe, where he herded a herd of wild sagas and tapir his beloved Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi, sitting on the tapir, driving long whip humming and rotating, like a giant whirlpool, a herd of tapir steppe and saga. When they reached the steppe, saw from afar the shepherd Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi and rushed to her tapir. And they hugged each other.
- Come, my wonderful one! How I've missed you! - said the shepherd, Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi, kissing Sabo Zulfiparishan lips, eyes, chin and neck.
- I missed you too, my dear shepherd Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi! I can't live without you! I asked permission from my father, but my father refused. I cannot, says he, my child, you marry the shepherd Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi, who has no idea about the Scarecrow. He, says he, only knows how to drive a herd of antelopes and tapirs in the boundless steppes with a long and whistling of the whip. Tell me, my dear, Sahib Mustafa Suleiman Karbalayi, why the fate of the people in my life are not like the fate of the characters of the novel ""Silence in the mist"" our beloved writer Cardinal Sharle Carborane, because the novel is written? Why did you become a shepherd as a character of this novel, which I always carry with me and read to the holes? What do we do now? - cried Sabo Zulfiparishan.
I'm not a shepherd by profession - said Mustafa Suleiman Sahib Karbalayi.
-Who are you then? - surprised Sabo Zulfiparishan.
- I will not say, because you don't believe me - said Mustafa Suleiman Sahib Karbalayi.
- No, you tell me - insisted Sabo Zulfiparishan.
- Well,- said Mustafa Suleiman Sahib Karbalayi and continued - just promise me you won't faint.
- Agreed - said Sabo Zulfiparishan.
- Then listen. I am the same writer who wrote the novel "Silence in the mist" under the pen name of Cardinal Sharle Corburan! That is, I'm your favorite writer, who wrote the book you always carry with you and read to holes. Give me that book, I'll write you an autograph for memory - said the shepherd of the steppe antelopes and tapirs Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi. From this news, poor Sabo Zulfiparishan dizzy, and she fainted. Here's an interesting book, a novel by my favorite author Cardinal Sharle Carboran - said the librarian Bahorshamol Oyshu"lanafis Guzalgultozan.
- Yeah-aah, really, a novel, exciting and breathtaking ' I said, glancing furtively glance on an elastic half-naked breast of librarian Bahorshamol Oyshu"lanafis Guzalgultozan. These are the things I love. I put on this point, to new writing meetings.
Sincerely, Kosakalparazit Patrontash Partizanuvuch.
The most interesting part of the story of Cardinal Sharle Carborane,Khurshida fell asleep.
It woke Raheela and began to speak.
Oh, I have, among other things, a unique idea - Raheela smiled.
- What is the idea? - Asked Khurshida.
Rahila, in a low voice, whispered in the ears of Khurshida.
- What if I, too, run away with you huh? The three of us would live happily and freely, where we can't find your father she said.
- Yeah, not a bad idea. Brilliantly! Why we previously didn't think about that, Yeah, run away, the three of us said Khurshida rejoicing. After that, they spent the night preparing to escape, by collecting the right things in the hay bales. In the morning departure of Abduljabbar to work with Raheela Khurshida closed the building of the castle and cautiously went outside. The street was still hazy, and this weather condition just contributed to them. They quickly walked through the fog towards the field, hiding from the strangers eyes.
- Learning about our plan, Sultan will be happy - said Khurshida, walking briskly.
- Yes, I think so too, said Raheela and continued:
- I'm not running away from your father, no, I have long ceased to fear him. I think only of you, daughter. I'm ready to die, seeing that the day you'll find happiness. Why would I want to become close with the rich officials, if you don't like the guy getting married? It is not in money and not in luxury - she said.
Now Raheela with Khurshida barely walked in a furrow among the layers. They walked for a long time, then stopped and listened carefully to the silence. If any of the silent fog they could see the tractor driver Sultan, even if he was fixing it somewhere. And then they went blind.
- Oh, my God, there's no Sultan, or today for his day off, and suddenly he... God Forbid he got sick - said Khurshida.
- Can he repair his tractor? Sitting or sleeping in the cab of the tractor, hard man all night to work but still in a dense fog, alone. Even the robot, and then breaks down at such hellish work. You call him sweetheart. If he hears your voice, it will respond - advised Raheela.
- What is possible and to call, as these fields right now nobody but us no -said Khurshida and started screaming, calling her beloved kid.
-Sultaaaaaaaan! Ahh, Sultaaaaaaan! Where Are You?! Respond, my mother came! We have a very good idea! - she screamed, but the tractor driver Sultan did not respond.
Finally, they understood that the tractor driver Sultan is not in the field there. Khurshida, after losing all hope, threw herself into the arms of his mother and again wept bitterly. Raheela too.

eb23ebae4e2f0a5747a3836a73a792433eb756231883193 (700x510, 39Kb)

 

 

132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Chapter 13 of the short novel of Holder Volcano


Kissing in the fog


 

-Are you dumb, you understand, I owe him not that there is a daughter, and a life of its own! The great Chairman, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch saved me when I was in his pickup truck accidentally knocked down an old woman on the road. Well, Yes, I was tipsy then, but this woman, very old, itself to blame. Instead of sitting at home, she wandered the streets in her old age. She died on the spot, died. Think? Tears hysteria, screaming, instead of thanking me for what I helped her to go to heaven, where she sought all my life. I was threatening to plant, hide in the prison for years, ungrateful creatures. But the world is still not fail the good people. One man approaches me, laughing, shaking his belly, cannot suppress his laughter. Hugged me fraternally and thanked. -Thank you, brother. I'll never forget, he says, forevermore. Finally, we are free from her, and she happens to be my mother-in-law. One summer, he says, I went on a picnic with our family. We sat, on the edge of our garden, where stood a Scarecrow, made of old clothes, all patched. Is the Scarecrow, thoughtfully looking into the distance with his eyes from under battered hats, made from buttons. His hands hang like a sausage in the Soviet era. Hair made from red straw. Flock of birds flew past our garden, for fear of thinking that living a farmer. Here I sit, means, fire frying on the fire skewers of bread sausage. Mother-in-law, he says, too, is about our canvas tents with us and eats bread sausage, unceasingly moving his false teeth. I hyperventilate as well, I think, to live in this beautiful world! Relax at picnics with members of his family plus mother-in-law!.. Then, he says, in a voice wildly cried:
-Heyheyheeeeeeey! I love you, my native land! Love your spaces, to the mysterious whisper of rain and the cheerful noise of green trees in the open wind! I like to go without an umbrella under a drizzle, soaked to the threads clothing by country road, when lightning and thunder!.. Here, he says, as if ordering around the dark suddenly appeared from the sky of all clouds, and, he says, a storm began. I'm even gladder, looking at the sky, where, he says lightning and booming thunder. Here, as it started to rain and my family members ran, back home, as there was no place to hide. Our canvas tent was demolished by the wind, members, my family fleeing. Mother-in -law, too. It is he says ran limping on one leg, still chewing a slice of toasted bread, incessantly moving jaws, like a gopher in the steppe, which, he says, feeds on plant roots. As the rain intensified and turned into a downpour. Half an hour later, water in the river rose and the flood started. Here then, I also had to run home, that is to swim against the current. I barely came to our house, which, he says already squinted to the side, from the window in a panic, shouts to my wife and my beloved children. My mother -in -law, too. She curses me, saying, you cursed caused this natural disaster. I knew that in such serious situations cannot do without the ark. Then, says he, took from the barn our large tin basin, that is, the trough in which we bathed with my wife after sex and sometimes bathe kids too. This trough we, says he, jokingly called "Titanic", and I told the members of his family, so they immediately boarded the schooner, as we need to depart from this ill-fated Harbor in the open ocean, where we can find some Pacific Atoll or a desert island for further accommodation. We sat in the ark, I too, and how otherwise? The ship's long voyage without a captain, it's still an ark without Noah. Well, we all took our seats. Here, my mother left behind since she was weighing almost half a ton. Well, where with the weight, judge, myself. The rain lashes with the wild noise of the Canadian falls of Niagara, and cry out: "cast off! To keep the rate between 60 degrees North and 19 degrees West longitude, they say, we sail! And mother-in-law mine arrived with a huge heavy square front of the Stalin era suitcase with a broken lock, without handle arm, made of plywood, and shouts, scolding me, trying to catch hold for our ship! I said, where you're going, lady! Do you see that schooner on the long voyage there is no free space?! Everyone is busy! And I'm afraid that there is not in the hold space for your huge the front of the suitcase Stalinist era, made of plywood without a handle that won't close. If we take you on Board, then overload our ship may capsize and we will sink into the depths of this raging ocean! Come from the screw! Who say?! - I shouted, waving the shovel he held in his hands, using it as a paddle. But, my mother-in-law desperately grabbed overboard my bony hands of the dead and tried to sit on the carriage, my wife all to help her. And I had, a couple of times to hit her with a paddle in the dome, well, I mean, with a shovel. My deaf belly from hard blows, and lost consciousness as a poor unsuspecting Dolphin in the coastal waters, of which the poachers hit with a baseball bat and, my mother-in-law, too, as the naive Dolphin, drowned in the raging muddy water. Finally, we managed to rid of a heavy burden, and I began earnestly to row, to sail, as they say away from sin. But, there to the great happiness of my silence, the rain abruptly ceased, and the water level began to decline. In an hour our tin boat ran aground. My mother-in-law all dirty with algae on the neck and ears is at the turn near the building of the post office, as elephant thrown ashore by a wave, while, strong sea storm. My wife ran there, the children, too. Well, I think, damn, that's not enough. Now we have to find the money for her funeral. But, there it was. You see, it breathes, his mouth wide open like a fish on the broken pieces in the aquarium, and even, he says, opened his slanted eyes. Well, thank God that you survived, dear mother I tell her happily. Then, she called in sick. Stopped eating and lost a lot of weight. Think, is it cancer? And then, in my head, was it a unique idea. I ran to the insurance company to fill necessary documents. Then went to the Bank, well, to get a substantial loan in the name of my mother-in-law, in the hope that when she dies, the state itself will pay for it, given the death of the creditor, proceeding from considerations of humanity.. I got a loan, but the mother-in-law, my instead of dying, recovered and started eating with great appetite, all of which can be eaten. It seemed that she was even much younger, gaining strength. And the interest with which I received the loan, he says, is inexorably rising. I did not know what to do. One day I caught her in a full moon in the garden, where she watched the shining Orb of the moon and read some magic spells. The time, I thought, and took twenty-five millimeter tube, and approached her quietly tiptoe back, and hit her head hard. Came the sound knocking like "Klang!" and the pipe was bent in the letter "G", she didn't even notice. Sitting and casts spells. After that, I had no choice but to strangle the mother-in-law this... well, strings of Uzbek dutar. But this way too, did not help. Taut strings of the dutar, was broken, and she, alive, smiling his toothless mouth like a sea whale. Well, today she apparently, was in the hands of an expert like you and gave tips, thank God Almighty. A man, who again and again thanked me, cries with joy. I say, not for that, man. Then I was taken to a detention center. But thanks to the great Chairman, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch that he bought prosecutors and the judge, giving them a bag of public money from the Treasury of our farm "Tillaquduq", in the form of bribes, case closed, which was opened on my feature. You saw it with your own eyes that I was acquitted and freed in the courtroom. Well, now think about it, how can I refuse such a great Chairman, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch when this historical figure asks to have our daughter married the son of his cousin? On the contrary, it is for us a chance to get akin with influential and wealthy people of our district. Only a fool drives away with a stick the bird of happiness, which wants to build the nest on his bad head. All point. The word of the Chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch to me the law! I respect him more than his father! In short, I promised him. And the President, in turn, gave the word to cover all costs of the wedding by the Treasury of our farm. So get ready for the wedding. Tomorrow the matchmaker should come. See, that was no amateur. You know me. Clank, with an axe on the head and half your body here and another part there - finished his story Abduljabbar.
Hearing these words, Raheela started crying, hugging Khurshida and stroking her hair.
- Why are you crying Ah, you stupid, why are you crying instead of being happy?! - Said Abduljabbar.
- What do I do? You want me to laugh?! Why you are not consulting me, gave them the promise? I cry not for myself but for our daughter! We have to ask Khurshida whether she wants to marry the nephew of the Chairman. We have to know first how to, examine the character and behavior of the future son-in-law to know what he was doing, and then make the decision - cried Raheela.
- Shut up! Who are you all to discuss the behavior of the nephew of our dear great Chairman, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelybakezavuch, my idol?! They are decent people! I told you, explained in human language, that I am obliged to the Chairman of the life! And you, fool, again! You see, I didn't consult her! Why do I need to consult you, say, yourself? You're a brainless mule.! It is the East, not Europe or the West, where parents go to leash their wives and children! If you don't like my actions, then good riddance! Go out there and find yourself some obedient donkey! And here I am the master! About whom our son-in-law know! The great Chairman, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch told me that next week our new relatives intend to send matchmakers to ask the hand of your daughter. Said matchmakers will bring a picture of our future son-in-law, okay, numbskull?! Period! said Abduljabbar, and went out. Raheela with Khurshida wept, hugging each other. Raheela then suddenly stopped crying and took over the shoulders of the daughter, looked into her burning eyes crazy eyes wild.
- I have an idea. Here's what we do. You, daughter, go and consult with the tractor driver Sultan, and go away together somewhere. I don't want you to be unhappy. Let me kill this tyrant, an alcoholic. I have lived her in this hell and enough. I don't want you to become like me. One victim is enough! Where you’re from, live happily and freely! - blessed Raheela.
- No, mommy, I can't leave you in this hell! I don't want my father to beat you because of me! Can't sacrifice you, honey! Such happiness I don't need! I'll take the rope with soap and water and hang! - cried Khurshida.
- No! Don't even think about it. Suicide is a sin! Did you ever think about what would happen to the Sultan after he hears about you?! And I? How will I live after this?! You want me out of your mind?! Oh, God, help me and show us the way of truth! - cried Raheela.
You're right, mom - said Khurshida. Better I will go now to the Sultan and tell him everything. I have it smart and we will figure something out. Only you do not cry, okay, promise? - Raheela nodded in agreement, wiping her tears with a handkerchief. Dressed warmly, Khurshida flew into the yard and went out into the street, ran toward the fields. Khurshida was glad the weather was foggy, and she was able to escape without being shown to the villagers, who like to spread rumors. She fled, stumbling through the fog and cried on the run. Hearing the roar of the bulldozer, Khurshida ran even faster to quickly share with the Sultan the terrible news of her engagement. The sound of the engine gave her a reference point, and finally, Khurshida saw a dim silhouette of a tractor that plowed the land, lighting up the misty field with the headlights on. To run on a plowed field was difficult. Therefore, Khurshida fled, stumbling at almost every step, sometimes on all fours. Approaching the bulldozer, she cried:
Sultan, stop-easy! Slyshite, wait-her?! But the tractor driver Sultan because of the noise of the motor had not heard her screams and drove forward. He saw Khurshida only when turned to learn how there is a furrow. Saw her, he was delighted. Having stopped the bulldozer, he killed the engine and jumped out of the cabin, smiling happily.
- What winds brought You here, to the field of separation and loneliness, Oh, Mrs. Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege! he said, stepping to the side Khurshida by leaps and bounds. Coming closer to the girl, he stopped smiling
- Oh, Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege, why do we cry? Who hurt You? You name only the name, and I'll cut off his ears -he said.Khurshida are unable to withstand tears and with tears in her eyes, rushed into the arms of the Sultan.
- Well, do not cry, Khurshida, explain what happened? Did uncle Abduljabbar?... And what with aunt Raheela? - asked the tractor driver Sultan, embracing her and stroking her shoulders.
- No, Sultan, the situation is even worse! - said Khurshida.
- What are You? The third World or something, started? .
Oh no! Marry me! Father, it appears, promised to give me to marry the nephew of the Chairman of our kolkhoz, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelybakezavuch. A nephew of the President, I even in a dream not seen! -cried even harder Khurshida.
Hearing this the tractor driver Sultan paused for a moment.
- Well, things... - hardly he said, then grabbed the chest:
-Oh, that my head is again spinning. Let's sit down - he said.
They sat down. Khurshida cried with my head on the shoulders of the tractor driver Sultan. And Sultan did not know what to say, and silently stared into the fog, eyes downcast. Then, taking off his cap, wiped the tears from eyes that appeared in front of him. And to suppress the bitterness in his heart, took a deep breath and, swallowing his tears, asked:
- Well, what do we do now?
- I do not know Sultan, I don't know. My mother said that we should get away somewhere. She said let your father beat me. Run daughter with your favorite guy, live freely and happily. But I don't want my father to beat her because of me. How can I be happy through the unhappiness of his mother, whom I love more than life? - continued to cry Khurshida.
- No, it's not an option. Don't cry, Khurshida. Tears of sorrow will not help. I'll think about it. Ahead we still have days and weeks, maybe months. Well, that's enough, stop crying. Let us, I'll wipe Your tears - said Sultan, and began to wipe her tears with his fingers. Khurshida grabbed the rough hand of Sultan and started kissing her.
Sultan, my dear, beloved, think. You're in my brain. I believe that you will definitely find a way out of this situation, she said. And embracing the neck of the Sultan began to kiss his face on the lips.
- Well, my wonderful, well - said Sultan, too, and passionately began to kiss Khurshida on the lips. They had a long kiss in the mist.

 

eb23ebae4e2f0a5747a3836a73a792433eb756231883193 (700x510, 39Kb)

 

 

132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Chapter 12 of the short novel of Holder Volcano


Cranes

 



Khurshida felt ashamed in front of the tractor driver Sultan, because of yesterday's events, when in a drunken brawl her father nearly stabbed him with the broken bottle. Oh, how he scolded how insulted, to remember even ashamed - she thought, blushing and crying. I suppose, Sultan was offended by my father and us, therefore -continued to think Khurshida. -Of course, offended. He just came to help us, and my father... What happens now? Is Sultan going to stop talking with me and go somewhere else? How can I live? Oh, Lord, make it so he left. Let us reconcile and be together again! He gave me this happiness and do not take it from me! - she thought, briskly walking in the direction of the field mill.
Meanwhile, the autumn sun was shining, dispelling the morning mists. Sad deserted fields and in the distance there were black mulberry trees, poplars and willows. On the empty fields there were no people, not a tractor of the tractor driver Sultan, except a bulldozer "Altai" at field camp, out of which protruded their feet. Apparently, the driver of the bulldozer was fixing the motor. Khurshida wanted to go to the bulldozer and to ask Sultan about the tractor, but then changed her mind for fear of rumors. She stopped, having lost the last hope to meet here my beloved man. It seemed that the world was empty as the autumn field. Would be at least one stack of cotton on the field, one would hopes on the appearance of the tractor driver Sultan in these places. All - he will not come here. He left, annoyed with my father! Oh, what a misfortune, eh? What a misfortune! It's that damn vodka is to blame! - She began to cry quietly, wiping her tears with the edge of her handkerchief. Now it was useless to look for and wait for the tractor driver Sultan in these places.
With these thoughts Khurshida wanted to turn around and go back home. But then she heard the familiar voice of her lover guy and stood rooted to the spot. She turned around and saw the tractor driver Sultan, who cried out to her, waving his hand that held a wrench.
Lady Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege! Well, where are you going, leaving me in the deserted autumn field like Leila, which left Majnun on the boundless deserts of separation in the epics of the great Uzbek poet Alisher Navoi?! - he shouted.
Hearing these words, Khurshida just roared with joy. She smiled through the tears quivering in her eyes like the morning dew. Thank God that he's not offended - she thought and ran towards the bulldozer "Altai", where stood her lover boy tractor driver Sultan. She stopped just a few steps from the tractor driver Sultan, and they shook hands, not daring to cuddle, although they really wanted to.
- I am sorry, Lady Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege that didn't shake your aristocratic white handle, as my hands are stained with fuel oil. Well, how's it going, beautiful? Why are you crying?- said the tractor driver Sultan.
- I'm happy you are not offended by my father, who had upset You in a drunken brawl, Sultan- she said, with downcast eyes..
I don't know what you're talking about, Lady Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege? What a riot, its a disappointment? Something I do not remember .First, I'm not mad. As for uncle Abduljabbar, I think he is a good man, and he was just joking. And I check, you know, with a sense of humor. So the question of any sorrow disappears - smiled the tractor driver Sultan.
Thank you, Sultan that you are not offended by my father and on us. You are truly a noble man. No, you are not a man but a heavenly angel without wings - said Khurshida.
-Well, this praise with a wide range in any gate not climbing. Even in the next life. You are exaggerating, Lady Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege. Well, what with me angel, God, even a demon will not pull - shy, smiling, the tractor driver Sultan.
- Fool-said Khurshida with a guilty smile, looking at the tractor driver Sultan from the bottom up.
- Here is the word exactly suited to my face. Yes, I the fool and, you know, I'm proud of it, honestly - said Sultan, wiping cloth soiled hands.
Then he added:
- You better help me. I just do not have enough assistant volunteer. I'll climb under the bulldozer, but will you let me help, handing me wrenches that I call. And then for the arrival of the agronomist I have to do the norm. Tractor in Park, took my vehicle tractor and told me to work on this bulldozer. In short, I have to plow
- Good Sultan- agreed Khurshida. The tractor driver Sultan climbed under the tractor, and she began to help him, bottom for him wrenches. Lying under the bulldozer, the tractor driver Sultan huffed and puffed, twisting the nuts and without interrupting conversation with his girlfriend.Khurshida felt like the happiest person in the world. She wanted always to be together with the Sultan and to help him. To live and work together. Plow on a deserted fields, wrapped in a thick autumn fog, sitting next to him. To dine with him on a foggy field at a fire, illuminating their faces in a flame, like a red silk flag.
Here Khurshida thoughts broke the voice of the cranes that flew in the sky and she screamed?
The tractor driver Sultan looked up sharply and banged his head on the crankcase of the motor.
- Well, Mrs. Lady Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege?! - he asked, coming out from under the bulldozer.
- Cranes!- cried Khurshida, enthusiastically looking at the sky, where the blade flew a huge flock of cranes, covering half the sky.
- Yes-aa-ah! - admiringly said the tractor driver Sultan, looking at the autumn sky, removing a moth eaten hat and leaning against the bulldozer of yellow color. Cranes fly high, filling the sky with their sad cries. The lovers stared at crane for a long time until they completely disappeared from sight, disappearing into the sky.
- Here, the cranes also flew to distant lands. If the whole neighborhood had become an orphan and the soul too - sighed Khurshida.
- Yes, it is a Pity that we are not born cranes. We would fly also to the South side by side, after them, like cranes freely shouting noisily, over the autumn fields, over the forests over blue bays and oceans. In the spring we would return to the Far East or here in Uzbekistan. They would live together happily, among tall grasses in the meadows performing the mating dance, flapping their huge wings and jumping on long legs and waking the silence on the deserted lawns of spring with shouts of joy. Seeing us from the Windows of their huts, lonely poets would write haiku, draining to the bottom of a sea shell with rice vodka sake and sadly munching on a snack coarse grinding.
- You look more like a poet than a tractor driver. I'm sure that if you wrote poetry, there would be no equal on the planet "Earth". Your poems translated to all languages of the world, and people would have bought your books like hotcakes. Moreover, you would have awarded the international Nobel Prize. And you would be living in peace, somewhere out there, in the Swiss Alps or in Paris or in Canada. The crowd of beautiful girls ran up to you crying and asking for your autograph. Many of them have you finished the suicide by throwing herself from the Eiffel tower in Paris -said Khurshida.
- Who am I, a poet? I'm more like a chimney sweep. And to write poetry does not have to be a poet. Conversely, do not have to write poetry to be or become a good poet, because life itself is highest poetry. To drive a tractor and work alone in the fields covered by fog is thin, my poetry, my music, my delicate Symphony! Why do I have Paris, why the Swiss Alps, when there are fields where carefree walks drunken Uzbek the wind? Why do I need a crowd of beautiful Paris girls when I have you? And the tart smell of field weeds, the fragrance of the blooming roses and olive trees of the ravines and the delicate scent of acacia, to me a thousand times nice than the smell of different perfumes and deodorants! Believe me, I seriously say - said Sultan.
- I believe You, Sultan with all my heart, and I am grateful to my fate, that I met someone like you. I wouldn't want to leave you even for a minute, but you know that I have a strict father. I thank you for what you are offended by my father and me and my mom. Okay, I went. And then my mother starts to worry about me. Because, when I came here didn't warn her about it. I'm sorry that I just have to go home and I do not have the opportunity to help you continue to be with you even apologized Khurshida.
-All right, Khurshida. Thank you for coming. I am also very worried about You. Thank God that You are alive and healthy. Give my greetings to aunt Raheela, I respect her very much. Not only is she a good woman and a great mother, because she gave birth to such a beautiful girl with a gentle soul like you - said Sultan.
They barely parted, and Khurshida went home. The evening autumn fog had thickened to such an extent that it was difficult to see anything two steps away.Khurshida lay in the dark, listening to the distant roar of a lone tractor. This is it, my lover guy Sultan works there one, leading his bulldozer through the fog, plugging deserted field. God help don't let him sleep alone and fatigue, he lost control in thick fog, fell into a deep ravine with his bulldozer "Altai" she whispered.

 

eb23ebae4e2f0a5747a3836a73a792433eb756231883193 (700x510, 39Kb)

 

 

132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Chapter 11 of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves"


(Translated by author)


Chapter 11

Tears of the nightingale




Autumn came. Of the poplars, maples and willows softly falling red crimson and yellow leaves. Sometimes the leaves whirled to the sad wind, like a Golden butterfly. No, it is rather a slow dance crimson yellow leaves, which are swept away frown the janitor in the wind On an autumn Tillacuduq fields farmers collected stems of cotton called "guzapaya", uprooting them using tractors, cultivators. From the collected stems of cotton they bind the sheaves and stack them in mop, which resemble thousands of tanks on the misty field of battle, especially when thick fog enveloped the field, moving silent dull silhouettes of working people in the fog, like the souls of the dead soldiers. Already the leaves fell from the acacia-tree, which grew near a field camp. Exposing a nest of magpies, like the old blackened woven from twig baskets in the middle of thorny black branches of an acacia tree.
Makeshift field Desk workers covered with fallen yellow leaves of acacia, poplars and willows. For the field mill to the field, Khurshida with her mother Raheela stems of cotton gather the stalks and tying them into hay bales, pitch slides, to make it easier to load them in a trailer vehicle of a tractor. They work in warm clothes as it is cold. The tractor driver Sultan in those days was working on a transport tractor-trailer, taking out bundles of cotton at home, at the client's request. He sat on the edge of the field and warmed himself at the fire, where the noise of burning firewood, lifting into the air and throwing orange smoke and red sparks, like stars. He warmed himself, thoughtfully pouring into a mug of hot tea from a thermos and sipped, waiting for customers will load stem stems of cotton on the trailer of his tractor. He was in cotton trousers and a sweatshirt. On his head was a lumberjack hat, and on his feet - tarpaulin boots.
His thoughts were interrupted by the man who came out of the fog with a pitchfork in his hands. After learning his name and thinking that this man is the father of Khurshida, the tractor driver Sultan got scared, thinking, surely he learned about my relationship with his daughter? Did she and her mom betray me and that angry man came to deal with me as man to man? But when the father of Khurshida Abduljabbar politely continued the conversation, he calmed down.
- Jian (my nephew). You will carry our guzapaya (cotton stems) or You don't have time for this? If not, tell me immediately and I'll go find another tractor driver said Abduljabbar.
- I have time. Just let me drop guzapaya (cotton stems) the client will be free - said Sultan.
- Thank you, my nephew that refused. Well, I'm off then. Our cotton stems over there for the field camp - said Abduljabbar.
- Well, uncle, as soon as I can, so just go to you -promised the tractor driver Sultan.
- Uh, thank you, my nephew! (God will give you the benefit of my cousin!) - Happy Abduljabbar and he walked away, disappearing into the fog. The tractor driver Sultan also enjoyed thinking about meeting once again with his beloved. He was ready not that there free to take their cotton stems home, but even did not hesitate to become a dog Khurshida, bound in heavy iron chain rattling and to protect their yard in the night, in the cold and barking would be steam coming from the mouth, lying in the doghouse when swirled snowflakes in blizzards thicker and thicker covering trees, roads and fields.
With such thoughts he went to the side of his tractor to fit it to other stacks to create a comfortable condition for loading. The tractor driver Sultan took the loaded cotton stalks of the client at the appointed place and released returned to the field, where he waited for the family of Khurshida. The lovers smiled at each other in secret from Abduljabbar.
- Thank you, nephew that came without having to wait long. Well, started then. You, daughter, take the fork and you will serve me heaps, but your mom will put them in the trailer so that the cargo did not fall on the road - said Abduljabbar, as if dispensing work.
- Well, father, Khurshida said, taking the fork.
Then Sultan stopped her.
- No, - he said - This job is not for girls, wet bundles of cotton so heavy that they can easily break the wooden handle of the pitchfork. Give me a pitchfork, I'll help.
- Thank you, nephew. It turns out you are a noble tractor driver. So help you God, because you decided to help us! - blessed Sultan Abduljabbar.
For such conversations, they started boarding. Sultan with power lifted heavy bundles of cotton and stretched up, and his father Khurshida stacked them neatly in the trailer. When they finished, everyone was sweating from the strain. By this time, the trailer was a large heap, over which stood the parents Khurshida as on the hill. When finished, the Sultan has stuck the pitchfork in a haystack, bundles of cotton, and said:
- Uncle, aunt, sit back and hold on! The road is not smooth! Go! Khurshida"s father before you sit down, shouted:
- And you, Khurshida, let's get in the cab and go! - he said.
- All right, dad! - said Khurshida and climbed into the cab of the tractor. The tractor driver Sultan started the motor and began to slowly and gently pick up speed. The parents of Khurshida went sitting on a huge stack of cotton, swaying, like an Arabian Bedouin on a camel high. The tractor driver Sultan drove slowly, like the tortoise that the goods have not fallen to the side. Moreover, the fog made it difficult to see the road and to navigate on the road. They drove for a long time. Finally, they arrived, and the parents carefully down with huge stacks down. Khurshida is also out of the cockpit. Lifting the hydraulics of a trailer, Sultan dumped the stacked sheaves have beside the gateway. The cargo fell with a crash to the ground, thus raising the front part of the tractor. When the discharge ended well, all breathed a sigh of relief.
- Thank You, nephew- said Abduljabbar, took out the money from his pocket of his pants, and handed them to the tractor driver Sultan.
- That's the money we agreed on. You can find - he said. In order not to arouse suspicion, the tractor driver Sultan took the money and began to count it.
- Now we have to drag into the yard all these sheaves and lay down in a haystack. And for tomorrow weather forecasters promise a rain with sleet - said Abduljabbar.
- Yes? What we stand then? Dragged! I have such a principle, once started someone long enough, I will go to the end! - said the tractor driver Sultan, taking the bundle and heading in the yard.
-No, no, you, nephew, we'll figure out something. Out in the field, you helped us enough. And then you get tired, fall asleep at the wheel, and in the mist will fall into a deep ravine with his tractor. Better you take a break - said Abduljabbar.
- No, uncle, what are you saying? I'm not at all tired. I myself am a rural guy, that is not the first time I get into such situations, "said Sultan, continuing to carry sheaves into the yard.
Well, as you know, in General, I warned you, nephew. And I have to say that I cannot pay you for your help, you want to have on.
- Yes, you do not worry about the additional charges, uncle Abduljabbar. I want to help for free. As they say, of the feelings of humanity - Explained Sultan.
-Well, then thank you again, for help free, dear nephew. The first time I see such a good tractor driver as you. Apparently, the world is not impoverished, good people - he thanked the tractor driver Sultan - said Abduljabbar and told his wife and daughters, to prepare dinner, and work themselves right.
Then Abduljabbar with the tractor driver Sultan worked in silence, dragging to the yard sheaves of cotton. Then they started to build a stack on a flat clay roof of the barn. By evening they had finished work and showered. The tractor driver Sultan was about to leave, but Abduljabbar stopped him.
- No, no, Mr. Tractor driver how is it you don't know, but we have since been made. Get together for dinner and then you can go on all four sides. Come, come inside, as they say Russian, you are welcome to our hut insisted Abduljabbar. The tractor driver Sultan was left with no option but to obey the hospitable customer. Before going in the house, he managed to secretly exchange a glance and a smile with his lover girl Khurshida. He kicked off his boots at the entrance. Removing and hanging on hangers for outer clothing and headdresses, he again washed his hands and sat down on the mattress, folding his legs like Buddha, in the area of the low table with short legs, which is called Khontakta. According to the custom of the Uzbeks, Abduljabbar read a short prayer and made amine, having hands to the face. The tractor driver Sultan also joined in. On the Khontakta was a glass bowl of salad for pilaf. Here Abduljabbar stood up and said in a low voice:
- I, by the way, there's strong Russian vodka in the fridge. Let's get sloshed on the best. And it is a sin not to drink for such a meeting with a great tractor driver and a good man like You, Sultanbai. Booze up softly to my wife not noticed. No, I'm not afraid of her. Only, you know, I can't stand the crying and the tears of women, and here such meeting. The more you tractor driver, I'm a mechanic and livestock farms, that is, it appears we are colleagues - blinked brightly Abduljabbar, and added:
- And you know how my father taught me in my youth? It is often said that son, eat shit, but immediately wipe your mouth with a lump that nobody noticed what shit you eat. My father was such a wise man, uuuuuuuu... - boasted he began to laugh in a fist, shaking his shoulders.
-Yes, no, uncle, I don't drink alcohol! I'm driving and my clients! said the tractor driver Sultan, sitting near at khontakta in a Buddha pose.
- Yes, I do. You are a guest here and do not have the right to vote. I'm the host. Well, at fifty... and I Drink that Nightingale a tear for the health of the Chairman of our kolkhoz, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelybakezavuch- said Abduljabbar and left. After a few minutes he came back with vodka and ringing in Tashkent cups in his hands. He was so happy smiling from ear to ear, his smiling mouth was reminiscent of sliced watermelon. Squatting, Abduljabbar opened a bottle of Russian vodka, teeth like a dog gnawing a bone.
Then he poured the fiery moisture into bowls, with the words "forgive us Allah," and handed to Sultan a bowl.
- Well, Sultanbay, drink the tears of the Nightingale, which untie our tongues - he said. The tractor driver Sultan would never have picked up a Cup of vodka, but took a bowl, as I didn't want to hurt the father of his beloved girl.
- Let's drink first, as they say, for our meeting. But we'll see what to drink next stack. Cheers! Come on let's go! said Abduljabbar, like the great Russian cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin before flying into space. With these words he drained the bowl and started to eat, distorting accordion face and exhaling the air that fire will burn him inside. The tractor Sultan only took a sip of vodka and set the bowl on khontakta. He ate a salad, preprared a tomato, onion and hot pepper, while Khurshida was preparing to bring pilaf, vodka in the bottle over. But Abduljabbar was already tipsy.
- Come, take, eat pilaf, Sultanbai. Or you bring a spoon? I know, urban people are very cultural, and they eat risotto with a spoon. It is their right. But these foolish people do not know how many mouths have been using the spoon. To even think about it, is unpleasant. And the hand is their own, private, live spoonful, which was given to us none other than God Almighty! For this simple reason we are with you the second dish is always needs only hands. And liquid food we have to eat with the bread, dipping pieces in the broth. So the Great Ibn Sina, the one with Avicenna, who was born in the village of Afshana near Bukhara. Here, he said to eat food with your hands is helpful, as our fingertips are highly sensitive nerves, and they help the flow of bile acids in the stomach which ensures good digestion - he said, eat hand pilaf.
- Well, uh, when Avicenna said that, I too, perhaps, join - said the tractor driver Sultan, and he also began to eat plov with his hands. After some time, the father of Khurshida spoke again.
- You know a young colleague that I respect the Chairman of our kolkhoz, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelybakezavuch? I respect him because thanks to him I became a mechanic of livestock farms. Our esteemed President was the first to notice my performance, and, of course, my God gifted talent. He, says he, you have Golden hands, and indeed it is. Every spring I go to the pasture and shear the sheep at such a pace that seeing as I do it, dumbfounded, even American cowboys from Texas! Yes, Yes! I for hour can shear a hundred sheep, not even tying their legs. Now keep the silly sheep with a huge Gissar sheep between his legs and "Vgik! Vgik!", ready! You wouldn't believe. One day we arrived in a barn an American journalist with a video camera. He even began to agitate me.
- He said to me, Mr. Abduljabbar, what are you doing in this place? You have a talent! You must live in America or in France!
- You miserable American, what have I lost there at all?!
- He says, as it is not lost, a farmer are you, a Communist?! Would you, says he, opened a Barber shop there in the crowded New York or in bustling Paris, near the Eiffel tower and sheared'd grit, day and night dogs of billionaires! I would live like human beings. Eating, grit, layered burgers, opening your mouth to overflowing, to bite off a slice of this exotic food. I said, no, miserable American, thank you very much, do not agitate me, still I will not go there, I said, can't leave his Homeland, his native village Tillakuduq and these mountain ranges, I "m sorry. He says, okay, a farmer Communist, ay, says he, of handstand you and he drove away on a motorcycle "Irbit" the biker with the wheel, raising a cloud of dust. Well, you think You like, check normal, how can I go overseas, when the Chairman of our kolkhoz Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelybakezavuch, he trusted me with this responsible work, how to shear sheep. I'm the Chairman of our respect more than my father! His word is law to me! The Chairman of our collective farm Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelybakezavuch, my idol, who gave me more than I asked for. And God?! I begged him to give me a son, and he gave one daughter. You know, I at night, not showing anyone the tears, silently crying, crying, from what, I have no son, the heir, of a man like you. My soul cried when you helped me, honestly. I aged twenty years, turned black from a grief! Many times I asked God about it, but He is still silent. If you do not believe, I can try to repeat this event now, in your presence - said Abduljabbar. And, looking at the ceiling, began to pray:
- Oh, my God, my God! Well, tell me, in the presence of the guest, the tractor operator Sultan that I have done you wrong, huh?! Has not diminished your wealth, if You gave me a son like this guy! This is because I do not read namaz, right?! Well, yeah, I drink. But what do I do if I am addicted to alcohol, tell yourself, God?! I'm used to it, and drink has become my habit, you know? That is, I can't exist in this world without vodka. In the morning I swear on everything Holy, promising his wife that he tied, to the cross in this set, and - for you, in the evening, without knowing it, come home already drunk, winding steps! As bewitched. It's all of that; I have no son, the heir. I'm not just for fun and of sorrow drink my God! Don't get me wrong, and in the Day of Judgment you tell your angels that they didn't leave me in the fire river, where bubbling lava! - He cried.
Seeing and hearing this, the tractor driver Sultan was confused and not knowing what to do, he began to calm Abduljabbar:
- Well, don't, stop it, uncle Abduljabbar, don't cry.
Abduljabbar stopped crying and looked up. Then, lazily licking his lips, reproachfully looked at the tractor driver Sultan.
And who are you to teach me, huh, punk! Tell me, who the hell are you?! What, strong? Cool huh?! Yes, I am now...this tool will rip your belly! - he said and suddenly grabbed an empty bottle, broke it in half, striking it on the edge of khontakta.
The tractor driver Sultan got scared and stood up.
-Yes, no, no, uncle Abduljabbar, I didn't want to teach you and... I just wanted... to... he said, cautiously looking down at the broken half of the bottle, which turned into a sharp and dangerous cutting tool.
- Come close to me, stinking tractor driver, if you are tired of living! Well, what are you waiting for, cool! Hit me! Strike! Well, good luck! Are you afraid? That is something! Now you'll never leave here alive! Pray lastly, dead!I'll wear your guts a turban on your head like a Grinch. - Threatened Abduljabbar, and, rushing to the tractor driver Sultan, he began waving a broken bottle left to right, but each time he missed. The tractor driver Sultan barely escaped the yard. Behind him ran out and Abduljabbar. The wife of Abduljabbar Raheela and her daughter were crying, shivering with fear.
-Wai, dead, help-those-Muslims! At least one of nibua-uude! Daughter, run to the neighbors, help us! I'll distract your father. - shouted Raheel.
- No, mother, to run together! I can't leave you! - cried Khurshida, running around in the yard.
Men fought to the death. Finally, the tractor driver Sultan using the method of aikido, he twisted Abduljabbar's hands and sat on it as the hunter-poacher over just to shoot wild boar.
- Bring the rope quickly! - he shouted
The mother of Khurshida brought the rope, and with her help, the tractor driver Sultan tied the hands and feet of Abduljabbar. He scolded the tractor driver Sultan was worth, threatening to kill him as soon as he had the opportunity.

 

eb23ebae4e2f0a5747a3836a73a792433eb756231883193 (700x510, 39Kb)

 

 

132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Chapter 10 of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves"


(Translated by author)


Chapter 10

Letter from the afterlife




The tractor driver Sultan knew from Khurshida and reading the books that there is light at the feeling, as love, for which lovers are ready to sacrifice their lives if necessary. Looking once in the cinema the Indian film "Sangam", he silently cried, secretly wiping away tears in his holey handkerchief. But for his dog's life he never had to deal head-on with love. He only now began to feel the power of these mad ruthless feelings, which causes only suffering and constitute torture. The tractor driver Sultan lost peace, lost his head and sometimes felt like a soldier who received a concussion in the war, during the shelling and air strikes, where the howling shells. Waking up, he's usually quick to clean and on the go eating his Breakfast in a hurry in a cotton field, where Khurshida collects white gold, in a hurry to see his beloved girl as soon as possible. He can't exist without her. Here they are together again and they think that they are picking not cotton, but the white clouds in the sky.

- We collect white spring clouds in the autumn field! What a paradox! -exclaimed the tractor driver Sultan, placing the collected cotton apron Khurshida. She bent at the waist, with a slim waist, picking cotton and listening to the story of his beloved young man tractor driver Sultan.

Lady Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege, you know what I dream? Don't know? Well, you better I'll tell You. I dream to study at Tashkent State University and be in the same group as you. Oh, I would have sat beside you and looked to You before the end of lectures and during the breaks too. Also I would gladly accompanied You to the hostel in the campus and would sit, waiting for you, not leaving even at night, looking at your bright window, the lights went out. I would sit until morning hoping to see at least a glimpse of your profile again at the window, and sigh, exhausted prisionais back to the tree not to fall.Would not go from there until your classmate pours cold water from a bucket on my head through the open window. I gladly accompanied you on the path of campus, when the alleys of the maples and poplars quietly falling yellow and red leaves covering the sidewalks deserted net. We'd be walking through the falling leaves, along the line where the twists and turns with difficulty turning trams ringing their bell. We could prepare the lessons together, sitting in your room, with lighted faces by the light of a table lamp. At some point you would point up at the night window of the room and said happily: "Oh, look, Sultan, the snow is falling!" And we, going to the window, silently staring together into night snowfall, through which barely could see the road covered with snow, the dim silhouettes of houses and red Windows, street lamps, where through snowflakes pouring tired light.

It would be nice, but my father never allowed me to study somewhere away from home, Khurshida said, smiling sadly and silently continuing to pick cotton.

- You better tell me about your past, about your happy youth. I find it very interesting - said Khurshida. The tractor sriver Sultan thought for a moment then began to speak:

- Oh, Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege, I experienced grief in his youth, like when I was 12 years old, my father died. He was a pilot and an aircraft crash, when pollinated cotton fields with poisonous pesticides. The plane is a crop duster, which was ruled by my father, hit the line of high voltage power lines and exploded in the eyes of the growers who hand-harvested cotton in the field. My father, of course, ejected at the moment, but unfortunately stuck the catapult.But he still managed to jump from the cockpit and fell in hirman. At that moment my mother was at home. Hearing the roar, we thought that somewhere again Holy war. I even wanted urgently to go to the recruiting office to join the brigade of volunteers and go to the front to become a hero, fighting with the enemy who treacherously and without warning invaded our sacred land. My mother and I went outside and thought that exploded shot down an enemy aircraft "Wolf pack". People are interested in, and the children shout, the people rejoice and rejoice. The crashed pilot was not a fascist, and my poor father, the pilot of a crop duster. So I have lost my only beloved father forever. But I have always believed in the supernatural life of man. I tried to deal with their own spiritualism and to establish a relationship with the dead, especially with his father, but to no avail. Once I had a chat with one hunchbacked and lame gravedigger about whether it is possible to correspond with the dead.

- And why not? Of course, you can. For this man to be the iron will, brave heart, desire and initiative, in the end. The rest is a trick - explained humpbacked and lame and also oblique gravedigger drunk, barely standing on his feet and leaning on a shovel that won't fall down drunk, you dig them a grave. He commanded that I installed over the grave of my father to the mailbox, put the letter in the cache and to wait patiently for a reply on that light. According to the gravedigger, this process requires certain rituals associated with time of day and the appropriate form of clothing. The adept who wrote a letter to the deceased need to be wearing striped pajamas with a torn sleeves, without buttons and go to the cemetery it should night, barefoot, without a hat, preferably a full moon. I fulfilled all the requirements of the gravedigger of the warlock, installing the mailbox on the grave of my father; put the first letter in a white envelope. It turns out that when a person has a strong desire to correspond with his dead father, the fear recedes. This I experienced when I installed mailbox on my father's grave during the full moon to perform a ritual of utmost interest. Then, one night I left the house in striped pajamas, of course, with the torn off sleeves, without buttons or shoes, without headgear. It was late autumn. On high-voltage wires hummed the cold autumn wind. I'm going, so towards the cemetery, the resting place of my father and feel the second letter I have written, which was lying in the pocket of my striped pants. In the sky stars glittered, and over the horizon slowly rising full moon, illuminating the cotton fields with mulberry trees, ghostly blackened away. I quickly walked ecutives in my striped pajamas, with detached sleeves without buttons, barefoot, shivering from the cold wind. In the distance on the field, rhythmically making noise, plowed alone bulldozer "Altai". Distant sounds of a motor in the blue darkness reminded me of spring frogs, which in the warm night chorus of croaking on the edge of rice fields. When I came to the cemetery, the moon was right above me, like a powerful spotlight. Look - over into the mailbox, which I installed on my father's grave, sits a large grey owl with round green eyes and hoots. "hoo-hoo!" I shouted and my voice echoed tombstones, made of pure marble and granite. The owl gently flew away, plaintive hooting and waving their mighty colorful wings. I opened the door of the mailbox and stunned with surprise, because the mailbox wasn't the letter that I wrote to my late father, gluing expensive brands on the white envelope, and another letter in a yellow envelope. I pulled this yellow envelope shaking from excitement. Look - on the envelope, the familiar handwriting and the words. "Address: White light. To: My son the tractor driver Sultan ibn Ultan in hand"

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

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

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

Here are the contents of the letter:

"Heartfelt greetings from the world of the dead!

Hello, son Sultanbai!

Well, how are you? How is your mother? Fellow villagers relatives all alive and healthy? If you ask me, I feel very well. We , well, those neighbors are dead, sometimes at midnight we rise from the graves , sit actives in their shrouds, and when I tell you all about my ridiculous death, the company together laughing, snapping jaws. I know that in my life I loved the festival of fear. And here we have every day a holiday, and we, the dead, scare each other slowly, with difficulty, move the gravestones, then suddenly, ran from one stone tombs to another, when a shining full moon a silent flock of bats fly over a cemetery. What would you do son, if we have no case but to walk to play hide and seek, in early childhood. There are no health problems. We do not breathe, do not eat, do not go to the toilet, and do not shave. We don't need any clothes, except for the shroud. There is no need for medical drugs. Concepts such as house, car, luxury, business, money, banks, stock exchanges, that’s all in the past for us. None of us was working. In our cemetery there is always peace.But, around unemployment. The most important thing is we're all equal. I have one friend who is in the white light, was the most influential rich man, and even ruled the country, took bribes in the large size, the oppressed people, engaged in money laundering, ferrying them to Western European banks through offshore zones, through the giant openings leaky laws of our country. And now he had nothing but his yellowed skeleton and holey rotten shroud. He previously lived with his family in luxurious bright castles in the Swiss Alps and now he's in the grave reigns dark, damp and cold. He has to be in company with disgusting worms, snakes, scorpions and nasty centipedes. Well, such a grave got to him.We're not much upset, that in our cold graves no electricity or gas. Why do the dead of electricity and gas? Son, if you don't chat away your nurse, I can open you a hidden secret. Son, you can congratulate me, because that is where I fell in love with a woman who was buried in a nearby tomb. A pretty young widow. She was even on top of yellowed skulls hanging a bunch of hair. Sometimes we sit long night on the mound of the graves, looking at the full moon and large stars on "the big dipper", sang a quiet song in unison. Solid romance! When my beloved, beauty begins to run, joyfully and loudly laughing with the moon I run after her, fearing to fall into the open the old the grave and not to step in the soft shroud of the deceased. Run once her laughing and again, her one arm fell off. And I, clumsy fool in a hurry stepped on the skeleton of her hand, like a bear crunch! And gentle bone loose of my hand sweetheart broke down. Oh, how she is, that is your poor stepmother, was crying after that... Barely calmed her... She was crying sitting on grave plate under the shining moon is not in pain no, we, thank God, do not feel pain. My beauty cried as the woman who fell from a cupboard her favorite porcelain vase and smashed it to smithereens. We called the surgeon of a trauma, which is buried too far from our graves. So he helped us. After examining the bone, it made the diagnosis "open fracture". Then he took a plate of inside-out old blackened coffin and put it in a cast broken skeleton of the brittle hands of my wife. Dead the surgeon said, well, they say, Madam, that didn't run off on your skull or jaw and stepped on them, this is not careful Mr. dead, that is your lover flatfooted with my bony feet. We're dead chorus laughed, snapping jaws. The surgeon was dead too. We thanked the surgeon for medical assistance, and went on down the trail overgrown with weeds, under the moon on the territory of our own independent cemetery. After two weeks, we got married and invited guests. The wedding came influential guests even from distant cemeteries of our independent country. Deceased presidents, Ministers, bankers, prosecutors, jailers, judges, retired generals, folk singers, policemen, pickpockets, writers, composers, priests, prostitutes scam, customs officials, artists, drivers, miners, farmers, carpenters, plumbers, hunters, shepherds, journalists, drug addicts, taxi drivers, thugs, welders, boxers, category, rope-walkers, shoemakers, combiners, moneylenders, pimps, and many others. Your stepmother was sitting in a brand new shrouds and a place of honor at the table, made of varnished planks of expensive coffins of the former officials. Guests congratulated us with the wedding and wished them success in the eternal life and gave us bouquets of carnations, tulips and roses with long stems that they were taken from gravestones. My beloved was delighted and thanked the guests, happily smelling of fresh roses. Then the guests shouted "Gorko!"(Spicy!) And our shadows that resembled x-ray, merged. Your stepmother long kisses under a bright shining full moon, sitting on a landscaped former tomb of a wealthy dead man, whose grave is covered with weeds and thorn tree. About the honeymoon, about intimacy and passionate about the knocking of bones I won't tell, because it would be not appropriate and not ethical on my part.

Here's a fun carefree life, son. Sincerely, your late father Ultenby".

- Well, how? -Asked the tractor driver Sultan, having finished his story of his late father and their happy afterlife with his stepmother.

- What a horrible but funny and sad story, my God! What a beautiful love and a free life! -Khurshida said smiling.

- Yes - said the tractor driver Sultan, continuing to pick cotton.

 

 

 
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