The short novel of Holder Volcano «Dalakazan».

Holder Volcano
Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Dalakazan
(The short novel)

 

Translated by the author.

 

Any commercial use of the novel «Dalakazan» by Holder Volcano is prohibited without the prior written consent of the author.

 

 

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, open the safe and put the money in those bags! If you try to give signals to the cops, pressing the alarm button, then you, instantly turn into a corpse! — shouted another thug, as he kicked Dalakazan’s butt hard.
-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.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 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.
— The cuckoo tells about a James Cook from United Kingdom, who went by ship across the ocean to Hawaii, and there he was killed by the residents — 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 15
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.
-Yess, a good story — said Dalakazan sad sighed.

 

 

Chapter 16
Moonlit 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 his 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!

 

 

Chapter 19
Secret viewers of the film of an intimate nature

 

Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich reached his goal. That is, he married Sarvigulnargis and now his joy knew no bounds. How nice to lie down until the morning gritting the vertical bed with podseleniem fragrant clover, hugging his wife and he thought, sometimes smiling to himself. But it required painstaking work on the part of Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, and day and night he worked a chisel with a hammer to expand the hollow mulberry tree. He worked until the spring, as a miner in the mine, which, despite the explosive methane, crushes coal with a jackhammer in the depths of the coal mines of «Kuzbass», where sometimes there is not enough air. Well, you know, you can’t easily get the fish out of the pond. Thinking about a happy future, he did not notice fatigue and worked as a prisoner, who in order to arrange an escape from the colony secretly digging a tunnel under the prison cell, where he winds the term. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich’s honest labor turned a tiny one-room hole in a luxury apartment with a basement and an attic. And to reconstruct the attic, where it was possible in the summer to sit with his wife, admiring the scenery of cotton fields. In the basement of a luxurious hollow he wanted to put his mother. But she chose to live in a nursing home.
After the wedding of his only son Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, Kupaysin (Khoruhazon’s mother) cried tears of joy.
— Oh, son, if you only knew how glad I am that you got married and giving me not one, but three grandchildren at once! It is a gift from God himself, for my suffering and patience! I’m really happy. Thank you, son! Now I can live freely — she wept.
After listening to his mother, Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich turned the basement of the hollows into the kitchen. And in the attic of the hollow began to live the adoptive sons of Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich. He and his second beloved wife lived in the middle room of a mulberry tree hollow. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich thought he could not even imagine that soon he will have three strong healthy sons , and peers. It turns out that God is not difficult, if he wants someone to give good educated children. As Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich happy, seeing them for the first time! One smarter than the other, happily smiling, looking at the ground. He was even happier when he heard their names. One is Motorcardon, other — Chotircardon, third Budjurcardon. What poetic names! — he thought. He began to teach them hunting skills. The boys were very capable and independently began to hunt songbirds, placing loops of horse hair on the branches of trees that grew on the edge of the field and on the shore. They loved to go along with their stepfather, that is, the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich in a corn field to steal corn cobs the night over the fields the moon was shining, and stars mysteriously twinkling. Under the moon walking on the path was much easier than on a moonless night. On such days they walked carefully with a kerosene lamp in their hands, illuminating the path and constantly fighting off mosquitoes. In the silence of the night the corn swayed in the wind, whispering softly with its leaves like swords. Children will pluck an ear of corn, and sounds in the silence of the night you can hear the sounds of corn being plucked «Gi-i-yk!» -«Gi-i-yk!» like voices flying South for the geese sad pipes over the autumn fields «Tappicasod». It’s like corn moaning in pain, parting with its cob, like mothers whose sons have returned home in a sealed coffin from the hot spots of the planet where there is a bloody war. Stealing corn on the cob — the romance, and roast and eating them under a starry sky around the campfire just like being in Paradise! Sometimes they went fishing and returned to the hollow with a good catch. Then they ate delicious fried fish for dinner. Sometimes did not disdain to eat game, having fried a bird on a fire. Once Motorcardon, Chotircardon and Budjurcardon brought in the hollow half a sack of potatoes from someone’s garden. It was then a holiday with them! They buried potatoes in the ashes of the fire and cooked them. When the potatoes were ready, they used sticks to pull them out of the ash and, throwing the potatoes from hand to hand, cooled, peeled the peel and ate with salt. Mmm, sitting around the campfire, cooked potatoes, sprinkling it with salt — a pleasure.
In one of these evenings Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich told his sons that they should continue their studies in school. The next day he went to the village to collect the necessary documents and enroll his foster triplets in the local school named «Yakkatut». He did. Have his adopted sons were checked level of knowledge and adopted in the third class. After Motorcardon, Chotircardon and Budjurcardon began studying at a local school.
One day the children brought a summons to the parents ‘ meeting. Upon receiving the summons, Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich with his beloved wife Sarvigulnargis were very happy.
— Well, here, wife, thank God, we with you too now will go, as well as other parents, on meeting. I know in my heart that we teachers headed by the headmaster praised for the fact that you raised such good men as Motorcardon, Chotircardon and Budjurcardon. They will give our sons certificates pennants, and we’ll give a free ticket to the resort in «Tskhaltubo» or in «Petsunda». And maybe in «Batumi» or «Alushta». In my opinion, «Alushta» is the best resort. There in the highlands is a quiet transparent lake «Ritsa», around which grow green spruce forests, where polar silence reigns! In one word, beauty! There are weeping stones. Should we go? We’ll have a nice rest with our sons. They will chase with nets in their hands for butterflies and dragonflies on the lawn, and you and I will quietly ride a kayak on the lake «Ritsa», furrowing the surface of clear waters, like a mirror and admiring the snow-white water lilies that bloom like in Paradise.I’ll write a whole series of love stories there. Who knows, maybe the campers will ask me to read on the stage of my new poems — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
— Yes, you are right, dadasi (the father of my children), maybe after the meeting they organize a charity concert, and the headmaster asks me to sing some Opera Aria. Which I’ll sing, of course, the Aria «Otmagay Tong» from the Opera «Takhir and Zukhra» — said Sarvigulnargis.
With such good intentions, the couple went to school to participate in a meeting of parents. When they arrived at the school, the hall was Packed to capacity.Some parents sat on the window sills. On the podium were the teachers excellent public education, and in the middle sat the chief of the district school and the principal with his deputies. The parents meeting had begun. The first was the the principal of the school, who declared the meeting open and gave the floor to the head of the District. He spoke at length, praising the ceaf, and sitting in the hall began to yawn from boredom like chickens, which brought the bird flu. After the head of the district finished reading his long and boring report, reminiscent of the endless desert, the floor was taken by the the principal of the school, who said::
— So, silent, comrades, parents! Now we’ll talk about raising children. Parents of Motorcardon, Chotircardon and Budjurcardon here?! — he asked an, unthought question for Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich and his wife Sarvigulnargis.
The couple looked at each other in confusion and replied in chorus:
— Yes, here we are, sir!
The the principal of the school, they looked at them from under his eyebrows with a hostile look, and then ordered: — come on, parents of Motorcardon, Chotircardon and Budjurcardon, stand up for to everybody sitting in this room so they can see you — he said to Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich and his wife Mrs. Sarvigulnargis. The school principal continued:
— Here, admire, companions parents and teachers of our school! These people have no right to call themselves parents! Their sons Motorcardon, Chotircardon and Budjurcardon promotes among the pupils of our school’s sex and violence!
Hearing this, Sarvigulnargis had a dramatically pale face and clutched at his heart.
— What are you talking about, comrade principal! Are you sane?! Some violence, some sex, Oh, my God! It’s slander! How dare you?! Our sons are not able to promote sex! They’re little! Shame on you! Where’s the evidence?! I’ll sue you for saying that! Immediately apologize to me and to my wife on your knees! — shouted Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich nervously, to the crunch of bones, clamping his fists.
But the headmaster wasn’t listening and continued his:
— You do not frighten me by the court, comrade Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich! You’d better raise your adopted children, instead of writing haiku in a hollow mulberry tree on the edge of the cotton field farm «Yakkatut»! We have proof! If You are not ashamed, we are unable to show the video we made at the hidden cameronbridge — said the the principal of the school.
— A Fig for me your frames you for blackmail my innocent sons assembled in a controlled environment. If You think that the person who, sitting in a hollow of a mulberry tree is engaged in literary creativity and doesn’t understand the computer, you are strongly mistaken, misters «workers of national education» in quotes! — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
— Well, then we’ll just listen to your adopted triplets. We hope that you won’t confuse their voices with the voices of the other students in our school — the principal said, and made a sign to recording with the voices of Motorcardon, Chotircardon and Budjurcardon.
The hall had subsided so that one could even hear the buzzing of a mosquito. The speakers began to play the voices of Motorkardon.
— Dude, maybe you will not believe my words, which I will tell you. In short, my mother recently married a writer and a fool named Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, who lives in the hollow of a mulberry tree at the edge of cotton fields. My brothers Chotircardon and Budjurcardon live in the attic of the hollows in the middle of which our stepfather lives with our mother. We’re in the attic every day watching such movies seeing that, you’d blush with shame — he said.
— You’re kidding, what do you have in the attic is the computer included in the Internet, or a TV with a VCR? — one of the students asked.
— Yeah, no, we cut a hole in the attic floor, you know? And through that hole we watch «movie» of domestic manufacturing, and our stepfather, well, this writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich unaware that we are watching his every movements and we don’t know if we should cry or laugh. If you want, we can show you these intimate movie series, but not for free. Will watch avidly eating popcorn, unless of course you’re paying for the session — said Motorkardon.
— N-e-e, and why us be excluded their past money, which give us parents on ice cream. Better we also, as you cut the hole with a chisel on the floor of the attic and going to watch interesting movies completely free, where the main roles are played by our parents said the voice of a strange student.
-That’s right! Better we, too, will make secret holes! — the other students began to fuss.
Hearing these words, sitting in the hall parents looked at each other and freaked out.
— Oh, you bastard! I also felt it when I heard the giggles of my kids in the nursery! — someone shouted standing up.
— Yes, I noticed that too! — another parent yelled.
— And not only you there is, but we, that is the leadership of our school! My children, too, were addicted to it, and they opened a hole in the wall of our room and were secretly watching! That’s nothing! The geography and scale of the heinous act of the triplets is much wider and more dangerous than you expect, dear parents! I’m afraid that this experience could cover the entire planet like a world fire, and children around the globe would drill through the walls and floors of houses and apartments to secretly observe their parents ‘ intimate movements. God forbid, they manage to shoot sex of the parents on the video camera and start videos on the internet! Then the end of humanity! Millions of parents will commit suicide and hang themselves in shame! And these so-called parents of those reptiles instead of being ashamed and ask forgiveness kneeling at the public, intend to put me on trial!Such people should be deprived of parental rights and fined!
After these words the the principal of the school Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich and Mrs.Sarvigulnargis, blushing deeply with shame, left the courtroom, school, and with rapid steps went to the side of the field, to my mulberry tree, in a luxurious hollow that they lived in.
Arriving home, they quickly climbed into the hollow and climbed through the spiral staircase to the ill-fated attic to check how true were the words of the headmaster.
When they cleared the floor of the clover hay, they saw three holes and gasped.

 

 

Chapter 20
Whirlpool

 

Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich in the evening using a strategy, seized his adopted step sons and tied their face to mulberry trees, pulled down their pants and began to whip them with a nettle broom on the soft spot until tired. Taking a break, he whipped them with renewed vigor. The triplets yelled at full throat from the unbearable pain when the broom with a sinister whistle, beat them on the ass. Sarvigulnargis begged her husband to stop lashing the triplets. But Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich didn’t even think to stop, hitting them continually, shouting:
— Well, then, a peephole on the floor of the attic to watch the intimate movements of their parents, yes?! And you decided to invite the other guys as spectators to show them this act, and to earn some money, right?! Scum! You bastards! Here you go, motherfuckers! And we naive parents went to the meeting, hoping that they will praise us and give diplomas with a free ticket to the health resorts of the ancient Caucasus! I’m a fool, I even decided to write a cycle of poems, looking thoughtfully at the evening waves of the Black sea! Listen to the sad Georgian song, looking with eyes full of tears at the snowy peaks of the Caucasus mountains. I even planned to drink the Georgians medicinal wine «Tsinandali» in a cellar and dance under the thundering sound of drums — Dandala — dedan! — dindala — dedan! Dandala — dedan — dindala -dedan! Im sitting with such thoughts, and suddenly the pricipal says, your step sons Motorcardon, Chotircardon and Budjurcardon committed the crime of promoting sex and violence among students. Hearing this, we would rather fall through a crack in the earth instead of being ashamed to this extent! If you bastards are that age, what will you be when you grow up?! Or have you decided to live in prison all your life?! Why are you silent?! Answer me! — he yelled. The triplets cried in pain and begged their stepfather to stop beating them and that it would never happen again. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich beat his adopted sons, as he was not yet tired. When he released them, Motorcardon, Chotircardon and Budjurcardon, all, fell to the ground as if they were prisoners of the concentration camp «Jaslyk» after torture. They couldn’t sit on the ground. Sarvigulnargis stroked the head of the triplets, looking at their wounds that bled like the meat of a freshly slaughtered sheep. She thanked God that her triplets were alive. After that, she took care of her sons for three weeks, healing their wounds with tinctures of medicinal herbs. And Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich wanted to continue his work, writing a cycle of haiku, a story about loneliness and sorrow, but it did not work. He felt sorry for the triplets, who were crying in pain. He wanted to ask their forgiveness, but pride would not allow it. In the fourth week, the triplets recovered and began playing in the yard, chasing each other.
One evening Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich summoned his adopted sons and asked for their forgiveness.
— My children , forgive me for the abuse. I wanted to raise you that way. It was a fair punishment for the nasty things you did. Well, why are you silent? Forgive me?! asked Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich .
Motorcardon, Chotircardon and Budjurcardon stood, and bowed their heads, looking at their stepfather from the bottom up.
— Yes, my stepfather said Motorcardon said finally, and Chotircardon with Budjurcardon also joined him, nodding his head approvingly.
— Well, now you are reconciled — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich .
But he did not believe in the sincerity of their apology and sensed in his heart that they were going to take revenge on him. So Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich carried a knife in the pocket of his pants, in case they were preparing to exact their revenge. One night his guess came true. He woke up in a dark sack with his hands and feet tied with tight ropes. When he wanted to turn around and find out what was going on with him, unfortunately, he couldn’t find out anything. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich tried to shout to his sons, calling them to mind to reason, but, unfortunately, from his voice was muffled by his own worn skullcap, and he could only mumble. At this time, an invisible force dragged the bag away and dumped the bag into the abyss. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich flew down and felt that he was thrown down from a high cliff.
— Now I’m going to hit the ground and I’m finished,» he thought, spinning with the bag in the air. But when he heard the sound of water, he realized that he was thrown into the river «Kashkaldak». He tried not to breathe from the moment when the bag began to sink into the water like a bathyscaphe. Although it was difficult for him to turn in the bag, he still decided to get the knife out of his pants pocket in any way, mobilizing all his strength and skill. He dug for a long time at the bottom of the river, fighting for life, and finally he managed to pull the gardener’s knife out of the pocket of his pants and open the blade of the knife. He nearly drowned in the water, cutting the bag with his crooked knife. when the bag was cut open, Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich was free and then, like a torpedo, ascended through the water. Coming to the surface of the water, he spat out a skullcap and greedily began to breathe fresh air. He told her how expensive air is to the human body. Once again, he was convinced that the most precious thing in a person’s life is not gold or diamonds, but simply air, a breath of which is more expensive than all the riches that are stored in banks around the world.
Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich claimed the waves of a rapid river, and he tried to swim to the shore, but could not, because his hands and feet were bound with rope. He still managed to free his hands and feet, cutting the ropes with his knife and floating to the surface of the water. He nearly choked on the water, struggling with the turbulent current. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich wanted to live. Therefore, he began to shout for help to attract the attention of people who could be on the shore. He started screaming as hard as he could, calling for people to help. Well, on the shore bathed the boys, who were floating on the waves on inflatable tubes from the wheels of the tractor. Hearing the screams, they went on shore and came to the aid of Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich by throwing an inflatable tube into the water, throwing it in his direction, Khoruhazon Pahtesezonovich clmbed onto the tube, and he managed to get out of the captivity of the water funnel. The guys who threw the tube into the vortex jumped one after another into the water and helped Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich to go ashore. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich from impotence fell on the wet sand of the beach, which licked the shore waves.
— Well, uncle, how do you feel? Should we call an ambulance? — asked the guys surrounding him.
— No, thanks, guys, don’t call an ambulance. I’m feeling good. The first aid for me is you. If you really want to give me the necessary first aid, let one of you go to the edge of the cotton field, where the old mulberry tree grows in the hollow, which I live with my family, and notify my wife Sarvigulnargis about me — he said.
— Well, uncle, do not worry, we will inform her, told the boys and one boy was sent to the edge of the cotton fields, and he notified the wife of Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich about the accident. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich wanted one to lie on the wet sand, and he asked the boys to leave him alone until his wife arrived.
— Okay, uncle — said the guys, and they left, rolling their inflatable tube, leaving him alone. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich was lying on the wet sand and thought: what good guys, not my adoptive sons, who openly advocate sex and violence at school. Suddenly he wanted to cry, and he quietly and bitterly began to cry, contorting his sobbing and his dirty face. Over it flew, and loud seagulls open their beaks to failure.

 

 

Chapter 21
Bad tractor driver

 

Sarvigulnargis came running down to the shore, where Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich lay exhausted. She ran down the steep slope, raising clouds of dust, crying and wailing as she ran.
— Oh, my poor poet! Thank God he survived! Why did he throw himself off a high cliff?! Perhaps he just could not stand the trials of life. Most likely my poet threw himself into a raging river because of the heinous act of triplets at school. Did he want to commit suicide, leaving me alone in this crazy world?! No, I can’t live without him for a minute!.. — she wailed as she kept running.
Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich was still lying on the wet sand, looking at the boundless and the eternal sky in wet clothes like a man who fell from the eighth floor on the pavement in the hope to escape from persecution. Over him still nervously circling and screaming gulls. Coastal waves ran along the sandy shore as if alive.
Sarvigulnargis, came running, hugged her husband who put his head on his knees crying, began to curse his difficult children, who promoted sex and violence in school and forced his stepfather to obvious suicide:
— Damn you, satan! You bastards! Because of you, my poor poet decided to commit suicide out of shame! — she cried, stroking his wet hair.
— No, honey, don’t curse our kids, even if they’re bad. I didn’t try to commit suicide. On the contrary, judging by the lump that formed on my head, I came to the conclusion that probably some unknown people first hit me on the head with a blunt object when I was sitting looking into the distance, hoping to write a haiku, and then put me in a bag with my hands and feet tied and threw me into the river On this basis, we can say that children have nothing to do with — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
— How generous are you, my poet! — said with trembling tears in the eyes of Sarvigulnargis, even stronger embracing of Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
— The scoundrels nearly broke my head. It hurts terribly. I just remember sitting there on the edge of the field, looking out into the distance and listening to the larks singing. I don’t remember anything else. Woke up in a sack My hands and feet were tightly bound with ropes, and my mouth was plugged with a skullcap. Well,there was a gardener knife in my pocket, which I wore on any occasion. I don’t know who they are who threw me from a high cliff into a raging river. One thing I know for sure — it’s not the work of our triplets. Because our children couldn’t lift me, even by working together. But thanks to those guys who helped me out of the water hell, throwing in a pressurized swirl chamber from the wheels of the tractor, and I miraculously escaped death — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
«Yes, my dear, you do have a bloody bruise on your head, the size of a pear. My poor darling… — cried Sarvigulnargis.
Then continued:
— Strangely. Then who could have done it? In these places, no one else, except us lives here. How many times have I told you not to live in this hole? We need to go somewhere in the city and live like normal people. You weren’t listening. Here is the result — said Sarvigulnargis, all crying.
— No, Sarvigulnargis, I can’t live in the city. Because I love cotton fields, deserted roads, paths covered on both sides by various field plants, where white butterflies flutter thoughtfully. Love blooming Elaeagnus from gullies in the moonlit nights, when the sky is full of twinkling silent stars in the primeval silence, love free winds that whisper wistful rains, autumn mists, falling leaves, a parting cries of cranes in the autumn sky. Love winter evenings staring through the aperture of the hollow of the native mulberry tree in the night snowfall — replied Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
Then struggled to his feet, leaning on the shoulder of his wife, and together they went to the road on foot , which wound over the high dam. Then, passing by them, a tractor stopped, the driver poking his head into the cockpit window, cried over to Sarvigulnargis in the noise of the motor:
— What, sister, is your husband drunk?! Why is he wet?! Probably threw it in the river as their drinking buddies, who swore friendship to tell a beautiful toast about loyalty and devotion, and once ran out of vodka in the bottle, and their friendship is also over! Yes Ah, these days, in my opinion, 99 percent of the population of our village are slaves to vodka! About the same number of people in our country have become alcoholics and drug addicts! It’s a great tragedy, sister! Let’s put this drunk of yours in the tractor! I’ll help you get him home! You get in the cockpit! Where are you taking him?! — the tractor driver shouted at the top of his voice, like a man who lives near a military airfield, where day and night heavy bombers continuously rise into the air, and they fly to the hot spots of the planet, where poor women scream with fear and children cry, looking with fright at the sky, blackened by the flying planes that carried out carpet bombing. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich heard the words of the tractor driver, got angry, and said:
— What is wrong with you! What, I’m drunk?! I am a well-deserved person, a writer with a capital letter, who lives in a close hollow with his huge family and writes novels to raise our poor literature to the world level!.. Uh. What and who am I talking to?! There is nothing but deisel in your head! Get out of here, you dirty, dumb-ass satan! — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, trying to pick up a rock and throw it into the cab, where the head of a tractor driver protruded.
— Oh, I think I made a mistake about the drunk! Excuse me! But I still do not believe that you are really a writer and that you live in a hollow mulberry tree! Poets and writers live in mansions, in luxurious Lands off the shores of the blue seas and oceans! Not like us tractor drivers! And poets are very cultured polite well-mannered, well dressed, non Smoking, non drinking, responsive, kind, combed, shaved and cheerful, as the President of our country! And you grabbed a rock to smash my head in. Easy, because I’m not a gift, either. I’ve got a whole Arsenal of bladed weapons, like wrenches, screwdrivers of various calibers, mounts, sledgehammers and so on. Last year, I hit a man like you in the head with a sledgehammer and they didn’t put me in jail. Half a year I lay in the hospital for being mentally ill. I was treated forcibly and released — the tractor driver told.
Hearing this Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich for a moment froze in surprise, then began to smile, looking at the tractor driver. Then he threw the stone and continued to walk, leaning on his wife’s shoulder. The tractor driver sat in the cab of his tractor, kicking up dust, passed Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich and his wife of Sarvigulnargis , nervously tapping the gas and zooming. He almost ran them over. But before he reached the steep rise, his tractor got stuck in the swampy part of the road and stalled.

 

 

Chapter 22
Khurguldivan

 

It was Sunday. As Dalakazan rested in his wardrobe, suddenly someone started to knock on the door.
— It’s you again, lone woodpecker in the distant oak-groves, of our «Tappicasod» fields and meadows? You are the woodpecker, forgive us bipeds for destroying the groves, where the willow and poplar grow. Millennial plane trees and elms were cut down to expand cotton fields. I long to remember how you used to knock, sitting on pine electric poles.Now there are concrete pillars. Thank you, my friend, for not flying South like the other birds despite all this. You knock on my closet door and ask for food. Don’t fly away, I’m here. — I then layed a piece of dried bread down — I’ll find him, and I’ll buy you some crumbs. you probably have not even had Breakfast — said Dalakazan.
— No, mister teacher of bird language and literature, it is I Khurguldivan! — a woman’s voice sounded outside the door.
— Oh excuse me, Madame Khurguldivan! — said Dalakazan, and then opened the door wardrobe.
— Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Khurguldivan, who wrote me a letter, love nature? — smiled Dalakazan.
— Yes, im the one. Hello, Mr. Dalakazan — Khurguldivan said confused.
— Hello, Hello.Go into the Cabinet- the apartment — he invited the woman to come in the closet.
— No, I’d rather stay here. Around people.We can misunderstand — said Khurguldivan.
— Well, whatever. I wanted to apologize to you for not writing back your letter.You know, the thing is…
— I know, Mr. teacher avian language and literature.I’m sorry your wife cheated on you.But that doesn’t mean all the women in the world are like her.Yeah, I’m not divorced, but my husband left me and my kids in the dark.
He drinks day and night without resting at all. One late night he came home drunk and told me to get some money for a drink out of the ground. Naturally, I began to beg my husband to stop drinking, and I have no money for drinking now. And I began to cry.
He said — You bitch, are you hiding money from your husband, from the king of the family?!.. Although I drink, I know the laws of religion better than any Mullah! The Holy books say that a wife is a slave to her husband. So you fat bastard, you have no right to raise your voice at me! You must blindly carry out all my orders! Or you’ll burn in Hell forever!.. Why don’t you find the money and run to the pub, you fat bastard!.. If you’re not standing here in fifteen minutes with two bottles of vodka in your hands, you’re on your own! I’m leaving forever and I’m never coming back to this hole! I will go to Russia, to friends of fellow soldiers, and there I will marry other woman with a beautiful figure. I’m sick of you, bitch! I also want to hug my wife like all the happy people on the planet. But how? Look at your immense waist, like an oak trunk. How can I have a hug? What a big ass, damn it! Your feet are similar to the trousers of my idol, comrade Stalin! Why did I even marry you?! In short listen to me, you bag of fertilizer!I’m going to spit in the ground and time it. Before the spit dries you’re going to be here with two bottles of vodka in your hand, you bastard!.. Khhumck, ahhhhhhck, chack!
With these words he spat on the ground, as if counting time. I ran towards the center of the village, where was a tavern bartender’s nickname was name is Tillo and real name is Mahamadullo, who smartly traded vodka and wine, making, by my standards, a fortune.
Well, on the street there was a few passing people, and then the joke would be on me, seeing me at midnight on the street with vodka in my hands — I didn’t think slowing down the run in the dark. Finally, I saw the pale glowing windows of the tavern, I heard the sounds of cheerful music, wild laughter and cries of local drunks. When I got to the pub, there under the old willow tree, one drunk was swinging, and urinating, and most of his urine was getting into his pants. At the flower garden someone vomited, leaning on the fence.
I was looking into the glowing windows and saw inside the tavern, sitting in the company of drunks who laughed lazily with eyes wall-eyed and toothless, pig mouths, exposing the shiny fleshy tongues, similar to red frogs. One of them barely sat on a chair, leaning against the wall, and tried to drink another portion of wine. When he drank with difficulty, the wine poured back into the glass, not fitting in the guts of the man, he turned into a living water jug, overflowing with booze. But the man didn’t want to give up and again drank the wine from his mouth as it poured back into the glass. The sight made me sick. I stood, hesitating to enter the tavern, but as at the moment time worked against me, and I still decided to knock on the window. Because of the noise of the loud music and the chatter of drunks, Tillo the bartender who’s real name is Mahamadullo did not hear my knock. I had no choice but to enter the tavern. I wanted to buy vodka on credit, because I had no money. Finally I found the courage and opened the door of the tavern. Then I entered the room where the tobacco smoke soared, filled with the smell of vodka and wine.
Mahamadullo said, as Khurguldivan was approaching the counter closer.
— Oh, Hello, aunt Khurguldivan, replied the bartender who’s nickname is Tillo and his real name is Mahamadullo, wiping the vodka bottle with a white towel. He was sober as always, as the cunning bartender, being a seller of vodka, wine and beer, he did not drink a single gram. Aunt Khurguldivan, if they came for your husband, it’s not here ‘ said the bartender. I was embarrassed. I was ashamed to be in such a place at night and ask for vodka as a loan.
— I don’t know where to start, Mahamadullo. You know, now my husband is at home, and right now he drinks vodka as much as a fish drinks water. I’ll be straight with you, I don’t have any money at the moment. But tomorrow I will go to the city and, as I will sell a bag of dry dung, I will bring money and I will pay. I need two bottles of vodka now. Please do not refuse my request, and God bless you, Mahamadullodjan! — I said.
— The bartender who’s nickname is Tillo and his real name is Mahamadullo thought for a moment, ceasing to wipe with a towel a bottle of vodka. Then politely said:
— Aunt Khurguldivan, I respect you, and I will give you vodka, no words. But I must tell you that there is a great debt to your husband. Here, in this book’s debts are his signature confirming that he borrowed vodka and wine, but unfortunately, until today, not a penny paid. You tell your husband to pay. Otherwise, I’ll just have to go to the native police.
Seeing the list of my husband’s debts, I was even more embarrassed. The bartender who’s nickname is Tillo and his real name is Mahamadullo, gave me two bottles of vodka, carefully wrapping them in a newspaper called «Halk Suzi» — «Narodnoe Slovo».
I took the vodka, and went outside.
On the street, two drunks were fighting, cursing each other. I quickly walked home, to have time to be home at the appointed time that my super husband had specified. When I came home, my husband, seeing me with bottles in his hands, smiled and said:
— Well, that’s different.
I endured physical and moral insults, all sorts of humiliation on the part of her husband, hoping that someday he, too, will come to his senses. I lived with him only for my little children. And my husband as before, never worked and was ready to drink even kerosene if it would cause a high. He became a slave to the alcohol and did not have a single gram of moral qualities… Then he went to Russia and they say he married there… — said Khurguldivan, and started to cry.
— Khurguldivan, don’t cry.You’ll see, it’ll work out. Your husband will quit drinking and will come back to you — said Dalakazan, saying as it might soothe the poor woman.
-Aha — said Khurguldivan, looking at Dalakazan through the tears.

 

 

Chapter 23
The power of poetry

 

The writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich woke up early in the morning not from the leaping trills of skylarks, but from the noise of people who were loudly arguing on the street.
— This mulberry tree is mine, and I will cut it’s branches! If I don’t bring home the mulberry branches immediately, my silkworms will die! Mulberry trees, allocated for our family, have all been cut off! What am I supposed to do now?! I can’t cut and drag home elm branches! Silkworms, as you know, do not eat the leaves of a tree other than mulberry! After all, their diet is so special! — someone shouted.
— What should our silkworms eat the leaves of elm or poplar, or what?! Our voracious worms woke up yesterday from the second dream and hissed in chorus, shaking their heads, demanding an additional portion of mulberry leaves! We also ran out of mulberries, which gave us this agronomist Gangirlatif Dono Bitbildu! If I don’t bring the mulberry leaves now, the caterpillars I feed can crawl out into the street day and night, hunching with their family! They’re so hungry right now, they’re ready to eat each other! So get away from that tree before I chop someone’s head off with an axe like a mulberry tree! I warn immediately, that I have bad character! I mean, I have nothing to lose! — another shouted.
— Comrade Zazamazacazaev! No need to fight, and kill each other for any the mulberry branches, come to your senses! Us agronomists, too, will not be easy! The authorities require us to grow as many caterpillars as possible and take a lot of silk cocoons to the state coffers, and mulberry trees are not enough! In winter, the authorities cut off gas and electricity, and therefore the population of our collective farm «Yakkatut», so as not to freeze in their cold shacks, they have to destroy mulberry trees, using them as fuel for their bourgeoisie! And you threaten each other with axes! Fear God, Zazamazacazaev! We must agree among ourselves and solve the problems only by peaceful means, through negotiations! Share equally the branches of this tree, as they say, and the wolves are fed, and the sheep are safe! — the agronomist Gangirlatif Dono Bitbildu encouraged the parties to reconcile.
— No, I do not agree with you, comrade agronomist! In any case, you can’t share! Just let this jerk named Zazamazacazaev to approach this tree I will immediately behead him with this machete, which I inherited from my grandfather Shishplatapa Gozbosh abu Khorazbet ibn Golibboy! I swear! — Guzapeyka confidently said, menacingly waving his rusty sword at which the tip sparkled wildly in the morning sun over akatuski fields.
— I’m not afraid of you and, if necessary, I will fight you to the death! Only if you try to approach this mulberry tree which truly belongs to me! You will immediately lose your head, and you’ll find it in the grass, and it will roll, like an soccer ball — said Zazamazacazaev, waving his axe like a machete of a wild man in the jungle of the amazon.
And then at the clang of two axes, a fight ensued between the two farmers. Agronomist Gangirlatif Dono Bitbildu shouted in panic, trying to break up the fighting:
— Stop it, you bastards! You’ll kill each other over nothing! Hear me Zazamazacazaev! — he shouted.
— What, the death of millions of caterpillars and moths in your nonsense?! You bastard! If the caterpillars die, we’re finished! We’ll drown in debt like shit, and that’s nothing to you?! We don’t want to go to jail to feed our blood to fleas and bedbugs. It is better to die a heroic death on the battlefield with this scum! I’ll kill him now, then I’ll take care of you! — shouted Zazamazacazaev, without interrupting the battle. Blue-orange sparks flew from the crossed axes like stars with fiery tails in the night sky.
Seeing this, Sarvigulnargis got scared and started to cry. And Motorkardon, Chotirkardon and Budjurkardon with great interest watched the scene laughing. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich at first I thought that it’s probably filmmakers who were shooting some kind of action movie. Then, when he was firmly convinced that there was no film operator, he could not stand and screamed.
— Hey, guys, what’s the noise?! Come on, get out of here! This is a mulberry tree on my property! I’m the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, and I need peace, not vanity! It is because of your noise that I came here to the edge of the field to do creative things in silence! You have no right to cut the branches of this tree, in the hollow of which I live with my family, actively engaged in creativity, developing and raising to a new and high level of world literature! — he said.
— Where did you come from?! Who are you?! Did you fall off the moon?! As if we do not know that these Tunisians, parasites, idlers and drunkards, that is, poets and writers live in state cottages, on the outskirts of the city, where there is a deathly silence as in a cemetery! And mulberry trees can’t be property! They belong to the people! Real writers and poets die protecting people from dictators, from hijackers, swimming like live fish against the current!They are hanged, shot, expelled, imprisoned, tortured, killed for loving freedom! I like to drink and engage in brawls in the taverns! In the old days, cowboys fought duels in Texas, killing each other! For example, a Russian poet, God rest his soul, Alexander Pushkin! He challenged the man like him to a duel… Ah, ating kuriger, Georges Dantes Gekkern, and, unfortunately, during the duel his gun misfired, with the result of that he had to die! And here we are talking about the life and death of an entire nation, about the Holy mulberry tree, without which the silkworm caterpillars will simply die, and we poor farmers will go to jail, and fulfilling the plan! That’s why I intend to fight this devil to the end! If you really are a poet, then do not interfere in our duel! Or else you’ll get one too on your empty head! — Zazamazacazaev warned Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich , waving his sharp axe.
— Easy, farmer Zazamazacazaev! We also know something about the duel! First, duelists should have their seconds, and secondly, they should note certain distance, and then carefully aiming, you can throw the axe at each other from a distance, drawn with chalk. And your fight is called a Gladiator fight, which is prohibited by the laws of our country! Come on, get out of here! You disturb the angels of inspiration who want to sit in flocks on the branches of the mulberry tree! If you do not stop fighting now, I will write such a haiku, that will have the future generations cursing you forever and ever! — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
Here, all surprisingly, farmers were no longer fighting with their hands folded with axes.
— Oh, no, no! Don’t do this, the poet is the defendant! Our people have a proverb » If your name is in the letter, you are in the hands of the executioner». I don’t want to have any trouble with the authorities. Let our caterpillars — moths die with hunger, than to fall into your poems — said the advanced silkworm, twice winner of socialist competition, the pocket-watch of Lenin, the collective farmer Zazamazacazaev.
Hearing the words of Zazamazacazaev the farmer, the agronomist Gangirlatif Dono Bitbildu both sat down on a log and pulled out Belomorkanal cigarettes from the pocket of his cotton trousers, and then the habit of blowing into the paper tube of the cigarette, lit it with a lighter. After he sucked the smoke deep into his lungs, he started coughing, his tongue sticking out of his mouth like a sick goat of the «Yakkatut» animal farm. His cough gradually turned into a cry, and shaking his shoulders, he wept bitterly, looking at the silkworms who had stopped fighting. After another two puffs, the agronomist began to laugh.
— Are you crazy, Mr. Gangirlatif Dono Bitbildu?! Here the workers of our collective farm almost cut off each other’s heads with axes because of the branches of the mulberry tree, and you laugh!Shame on you! stop it now! — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
— The agronomist Gangirlatif Dono Bitbildu looked at Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich through the corner of his eye, and laughed loudly. He laughed for a long time. Then, wiping his tears with the sleeve of his shirt, handed Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich the butt and said:
— Nate, Mr. poet. My treat… Now I’m going to smoke another joint and put it in a circle. I have a straw of light green color, dried in a shady place. I also have opium hidden in my socks, «caradori», that is, with opium the size of walnuts. Although I am an agronomist, I respect poets. I even had one friend, like you, who also wrote some strange poems. Though he had not lived in the hollow of a mulberry tree. He, unlike you, lived in it… in the sewer. We were Smoking marijuana, so the we would flow into the sky like birds. We would laugh to tears, looking at each other. But he later sat down on white powder… it means on the needle. Yes, Yes, on heroin he then went to the box early, well in … in the chest, after the Golden prick of the needle. God rest his soul — said the agronomist Gangirlatif Dono Bitbildu. Then he started laughing again.
He turned out to be an inveterate drug addict.

 

 

Chapter 24
The neighbor

 

The writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich woke up from the loud Trilling of larks that sing enthusiastically over the cotton fields, and from the voice of his wife.
-Khoruhazon, Wake up, we have a neighbor! — said Sarvigulnargis.
-What, really? — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
Having looked from an the aperture of a hollow on the street, he calmed down:
It’s just a teacher of bird language and literature Mr. Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa. Also a writer, almost a colleague.He previously worked as a Manager in a commercial Bank and lived with his family in a luxurious house. Now, here is, survives as the saying goes, a humble, as wise Diogenes in a wooden keg. What if he can’t find a normal hollow mulberry tree as ours? explained Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich. There was a happy cry from Dalakazan Osa ibn Cosa — -Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!

— Hey, can you be quiet, Mr. teacher of bird language and literature?!You frightened the angel of inspiration with your cry! — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
-Oh, my fault, mister writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich. I have a habit.Sometimes I scream like a Seagull over emerald-green waves in the sea, like a lone eagle over mountain gorges.
-I was joking, Mr. Dalakazan! Well, Hello new neighbor! — smiled Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
-Thank you, Mr writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich! I’m your neighbor now.But I think it won’t last. Because I am constantly wandering like migratory birds, today here, and tomorrow somewhere there, on the slope or on the river Bank. My mobile home. I’m like a turtle with a wooden shell, wandering the world , carrying his heavy house on his shoulders.You have real estate. I envy you white said Dalakazan doing morning exercises.
Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich then invited Dalakazan to visit his family:
-I invite you on Breakfast, Mr. writer together with your family — he said.
-Are we having a housewarming party?! Well, thank you for the invitation, Mr. Dalakazan, you’re very kind! We will certainly come to visit you! Moreover, I have not attended such a sumptuous Banquet.It reminds me of my youth when I loved to hang out with friends — writers, loved the noisy feast, drink in taverns, where I broke the bloody fight not only breaking tables and chairs but sometimes the nose and jaw of my drunk friends! Oh, my youth is crazy, slowly drowned like a frigate in a sea of vodka and wine! — Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich remembered with a sigh.
After that, Khoruhazon’s family came to visit the new and only neighbor.
At the door of the wardrobe — the apartments were Dalakazan barefoot in the striped pajamas.
-Welcome, dear guests! Come into my closet — the apartment, come in ‘ he said politely.The guests went into the closet and sat at a homemade table, looking around in surprise, like tourists in ancient Samarkand.Especially the triplets Motorcardon, Budjurcardon and Chotircardon.They marveled at the expensive furniture in the wardrobe apartment of the teacher of bird language and literature Dalakazan Osa ibn Cosa. Bookshelves overflowing with complete works of the world’s great poets and writers, carpets, armchairs with sofas, a computer connected to the Internet, burning light bulbs, a chandelier suspended on the ceiling, a refrigerator, a microwave, a mixer, toaster and other appliances.TV, on the screen which widely smiled happy President of the country. And on the table were apples, pears, bunches of grapes, watermelons and melons, kebabs, fried fish, cutlets, sweets, caviar, cooling drinks «Pepsi Cola», «Coca Cola», «Fanta» and sea delicatessen, fish, lobsters, various fish caviar and others. Motorcardon first stretched out his hands to the candy and immediately blushed. Because actually paintings of candy.
— I have a modest one-room wardrobe-apartment, that is, there is not very spacious, but the soul of your humble servant, like the sky, which has no end. Thank you for coming, dear neighbors. I’ll bring the most important and delicious food… Somewhere there must be bread that I hid for dear guests, without eating it even when hunger threatened. I found this bread under my Desk when I was cleaning my school closet after my students went home.Apparently, one of my students left, forgetting this good piece of dried bread.These words Dalakazan began to look for bread.Finally he found it. Ah, there he is! — said happily Dalakazan.He wanted to break the dry bread into pieces, but he did not succeed.he had to hit it with a hammer and he broke like pottery, like a jug of gold.
— You’re very welcome, dear guests, eat all you want don’t be shy! The crumbs are for the birds and the ants — said Dalakazan, inviting them to eat .
To the teacher of bird language is not offended, the guests began to eat the crisp pieces of dry bread.
-Oh, that’s how luxury living teachers of our independent country live!And evil tongues say that in our country teachers exist below the poverty line, they say for years they do not receive a salary, live in large families in ruins, they are not allocated apartments and land, all that!And our teachers here are exemplary luxury mobile homes, furnished with modern furniture! That’s reality! In as they happily live! — said the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
Then his wife Sarvigulnargis began to sing the Aria «Umagi Tong» from the Opera «Takhir and Zukhra». Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich stood up and began to tap dance to the songs of his wife. He was joined by the triplets and the owner of the Banquet honored teacher of bird language and literature Dalakazan Osa ibn Cosa.They danced for a long time.

 

 

Chapter 25
One-legged buyer

 

According to weekends The teacher of bird language and literature Professor Dalakazan Osa ibn Cosa started moonlighting as a loader on a noisy Oriental Bazaar, where there were loud donkeys, so that he would not to starve to death.
-Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Hee haaaw! — they yelled, closing their eyes with thick eyelashes and a curved neck.
Dalakazan was also screaming so as to attract the attention of customers.
— Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
One of these days it drew attention to the gloomy, thick, stooped customer with the eyes of a Ghost by the name of Abu Cakhrinigman budjur Calandar Dukki Carabulut ibn Abdelkasum, who sells boots. It turns out in the market there are outlets where he sells his goods.
-Hey, you, the loader with wardrobe on your back! come here! — he shouted.
Dalakazan was delighted and ran to him with his wardrobe on his back.
Then on the orders of the gloomy client Abu Cakhrinigman budjur Calandar Dukki Carabulut ibn Abdelkasum loaded the cabinet, where he lay shoes of different sizes.Then he ran to where the client pointed, shouting loudly:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
When they came to one of their outlets Cakhrinigman budjur Calandar Dukki Carabulut ibn Abdelkasum, they saw a one-legged buyer on crutches, which looked at the boots, trying on one boot, the other on his one leg. The tall, skinny customer with a long, donkey face and large cow eyes resembled Abu Kahri Nigamana bujur Kalandar Dukki Kara Bulut Ibn Abdul Kasumu stork, who stood in his nest on one leg. Finally, the skinny, tall customer, with big cow eyes and a long donkey face, decided to buy a tarpaulin boot that went up to his only left foot.
— No pressure? — the seller asked the buyer.
— No, it came — said the buyer, walking back and forth on crutches.
— Sorry for the stupid question, but what’s wrong with Your leg? — the shopkeeper asked.
— Uh, brother, it’s a long story. It was in Soviet times. Then there was the Afghan-Soviet war. I’m a patriot by nature and eager for war. Written statement to the recruitment office, saying, I am a citizen of Jurabiddinov Shurabiddin Turabiddinovuch and went to the front and asked to send me by a freight train to Afghanistan, on war, I want supposedly heroically to defend the Soviet Motherland. But my statement was not accepted, due to the fact that I was a recidivist and for many years wandered through the labor colonies of the then Soviet Union. In addition, I was a window leaf, that is, opened the Windows of purses, pockets, bags and so on and so forth.
— Excuse me, comrade citizen Jurabiddinov Shurabiddin Turabiddinovuch, we can’t send you to Afghanistan. — they told me in the military. — We are afraid that you might steal the monthly salary from the fellow soldiers, being in a trench during shelling, or in the tank or in the armored personnel carrier. We also think that you will not disdain to empty the pockets of your commanders by cutting their walets with a bayonet knife and depriving them of their salary.
But I couldn’t bear to see our soldiers killed in Afghanistan and I walked to war through the Salang pass in the Khindikush Mountains.
And here I go to war with a sapper shovel which I stole from a barn of military commandant’s office and — on you, — I was arrested by a bearded Afghan frontier guards.
— Assalamu alaikum, barodarony aziz — says one of them. — where are you headed at this time of night.
-What kind of question is this, where would I go? To war obviously! — I say.
— Are you Muslim? — followed by a question.
— No — I said.
— Oh, I see, Christian? — the bearded border guard said.
— No, I’m an atheist, a heretic — I said.
Then someone from the guards says:
— Astagfirullah!
The other continued questioning. I would have answered his questions if one of the bearded border guards hadn’t screamed:
— Oh, kharamizada heretic! He stole my paisa! — he yelled, pointing at me and going through his pockets.
Turns out the Afghans call the money paisa. Yes, I admit at once that I have a habit really took the paisa, quietly and quickly.
After that, they hit me with the butt of the machine gun on the head, and I fainted. I woke up in the dugout.
In the morning, went door locks with chains, and in the dugout burst in with a gun in the hands of an angry security guard, from whom I stole a pice, that is money, and he started to beat me with the butt of a «Kalashnikov».
— Come on, come on, Satan! — he shouted.
After that, they pulled me out.
Well, I guess thank Charles Darwin for finally freeing me. But it was not there. They tied my hands and feet with a rope. Before sealing my mouth with tape, the executioner began to sharpen the knife on the stone. Someone had dug a hole, where I lay. I say: — brothers, what are you doing?
— We will cut you, pray, you heretic wretch — said the executioner, rubbing the point of the knife on the sleeves of his shirt, as if clearing the blades of the knife.
— Yes, you that, companions, actually. Are you crazy? How can I pray if I don’t know prayer — I said.
— This is your last chance, and you can say anything, we don’t care what you say, if you don’t know how to pray, we have to cut off your head, we have very little time- hurried the executioner.
— All right — I said, thinking they were joking, and adjusting my voice, I began to sing.:
Get up, damned branded,
The whole world hungry and slaves!
I was stopped.
— Well, enough, is enough, Satan, the rest of the verses you sing in hell ‘ said the executioner, they duck taped my mouth shut. Then they dragged me, like a sheep, closer to the hole and the executioner was going to cut my throat, but then to my luck there flew our kind of military aircraft and began carpet bombing. Not far from us fell with a heart-rending whistle bomb and exploded. I fainted. When I woke up, I saw the executioner lying with a knife in his hands, and his head was lying next to him.
— Well, I think, Affairs, and wanted to rise, I look, one of my legs are gone. I had no time for fear and cry, as it was necessary to get away from the place before the militants came. So I quickly began to cut the ropes with which my hands were tied, using the knife of the executioner, the one who was hurrying me, not allowing me to sing the anthem of comunism «International». Freeing my hands, I tore the tape from my mouth and began to crawl. At that moment I heard a conversation in Uzbek and was stunned. Look — going in my direction, there were two in uniform, and I immediately recognized them. They were my com-villagers Adkakhor and Goppordjon, who last year left to serve in the army. They almost shot me with a shotgun. Good thing I had time to scream.:
— Adkakhor, Goppordjon, it’s me, your fellow com-villager, comrade Jurabiddinov Shurabiddin Turabiddinovuch!
Adkakhor and Goppordjon could not believe their eyes.
— Wow, Jurabiddinov Shurabiddin Turabiddinovuch, what are You doing here? — they asked.
— Eh, it’s a long story,» I tell them.
They lifted me up and I, resting on them, hobbled on one leg. As they led me to the military helicopter, I emptied their pockets. That is, stole their pay, along with military tickets. What to do — I have this habit. I can’t live without stealing. Then I was treated in the hospital and received a medal for bravery. They gave me a solid pension. Today I got my pension and came here to buy a new boot. I’m not going to war barefoot, am I? Well, how much for the boot? — said one-legged buyer Jurabiddinov Shurabiddin Turabiddinovuch, ending his interesting story.
The seller called the price.
— Well, it’s for a pair of boots, and I want to buy only one shoe and pay half the price of the one he said. Here you go — said the disabled Afghan war comrade Jurabiddinov Shurabiddin Turabiddinovuch, handing the seller half the price.
— No, no, no, I only sell boots in pairs. Remove the boot! — said the seller.
— No, I will not remove it for my life, me even if you decide to kill me! — said stubborn the disabled Afghan war comrade of Jurabiddinov Shurabiddin Turabiddinovuch.
Here the conversation broke Abu Cakhrinigman budjur Calandar Dukki Carabulut ibn Abdelkasum.
-Why are you one-legged?! Take off your boot before I kill you! — threatened Abu Cakhrinigman budjur Calandar Dukki Carabulut ibn Abdelkasum.
— I’m a hero of the Afghan war of Jurabiddinov Shurabiddin Turabiddinovuch! Who are you anyway?! Why are you interfering in our conversation?! Get outta here, asshole! — said Jurabiddinov Shurabiddin Turabiddinovuch, poking his crutch in Abu Cakhrinigman budjur Calandar Dukki Carabulut ibn Abdelkasum’s chest.
Abu Cakhrinigman budjur Calandar Dukki Carabulut ibn Abdelkasum had very bad temper. suddenly he grabbed the end of the crutch of Jurabiddinov Shurabiddin Turabiddinovuch, and struck several blows with his automatic sewing shoemaker to his only leg.
He screamed at the top of his lungs in terrible pain, swung, and, losing his balance, fell, hitting his head on the concrete surface. Quickly the people gathered and surrounded the poor disabled Jurabiddinov Shurabiddin Turabiddinovuch . He lay, swept arms, with a bloody head with a boot, worn on a single leg. Abu Cakhrinigman budjur Calandar Dukki Carabulut ibn Abdelkasum contempt off of the boots of Jurabiddinov Shurabiddin Turabiddinovuch and gave it to the seller. Someone identified the one-legged buyer and said,:
— Uh, yes it is our fellow villager, inveterate drunk Jurabiddinov Shurabiddin Turabiddinovuch , which last year was drunk and fell asleep on railroad tracks and the train cut off his leg! I think he’s drunk again.
Apparently, someone managed to call the native police, and they arrived sirens howling along with the ambulance. The police interviewed the witnesses, and Abu Cakhrinigman budjur Calandar Dukki Carabulut ibn Abdelkasum, in the presence of witnesses, arrested, charging him with accusation. Then they put him in a «funnel» and took him to the detention center.

 

 

Chapter 26
Religious family

 

Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich stood around the mulberry tree looking at the scarlet horizon, where slowly the sun warming the tops of the trees to the glow of its last rays. And suddenly he jumped up, hearing the cry of his wife. At first he thought with horror, but then he ran in a hurry, and looked into the opening of the hollow.
— Oh father of my children! Look what I found under the pillow of Chotircardon! — shouted Sarvigulnargis showing Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich a book.
— Darling, I’m afraid you’ll give me a massive heart attack one day and send me to my grave early!» Why are you screaming like a scalded cat?! Can’t you just say that?! Well, what if you found a book under my pillow at Chotirkardon?! What’s wrong?! — I’m glad. Let him read books if it does not promote sex and violence! How do you know he reads the book of Hemingway, or Jack London, or Tolstoy, and also will soon begin to write stories and novels and will become the most famous writer in the world — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
— Do you know what this book is and who the author is?! — asked Sarvigulnargis.
— No, is this book by Cobo Abe, Frans Kafka or Julio Cortazar?! — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich .
— No, It’s not, God, I’m even afraid of Survivalware.
— Well, then this is the book of Hitler or Stephen king — Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich tried to guess.
No, I think the author of this book is, not who else, but God Almighty! — said Sarvigulnargis.
— What are you talking about, honey? — even more surprised Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich .
I’m not kidding. It’s a Bible! — said Sarvigulnargis.
Hearing this, Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich stunned with surprise.
— Yeah?! How could this book be under his pillow? Maybe he accidentally found it in the school library or someone gave it to him for his birthday? Then quickly added:
— Come on, call Chotircardon in here. We need to find out why he brought this book into the hollow of the mulberry tree. Motorcardon with Budjurcardon also call. They, too, need to be aware of and can help an independent investigation with valuable information regarding this case.
— Well — said Sarvigulnargis.
When the children came out of the hollow, Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich started a domestic investigation:
— Come on, Chotircardon speak… No, you must first swear, with your hand on your holy book, that you will speak only the truth — he said.
— Swear not well, stepfather. A true Christian, and without an oath never tells a lie — said Chotircardon.
— Yeah? Well, well. You, I see, have already become a Christian, without warning us in advance, without giving yourself an account and without thinking about the fraught consequences of your ill-considered steps. Did you even think that what you did could hurt our family a lot?! You know, in our country, more than ninety percent of the population are Muslims and if they, especially fanatically minded Muslims know about it, then we can simply be stoned, arranging «Sangisor» well, «Tashburan», or at least declare us apostates! What then?! Then this is your God, as it is, Jesus Christ can save us from death! I wonder how you ever managed to find that book. Probably got it from Christian missionaries. Son, no one in our family has ever changed their faith! I was a member of an atheist society when I was young, and I don’t really believe in God now. That is, I have not changed my faith, which is called «unbelief.» Come to your senses, and spare us too! Think of your mother and your brothers. We don’t want to be a victim of your dangerous religious games! — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich .
— Sorry, stepdad, but it’s not a game, really, believe me. As for the book, as a true Christian, I can tell you the truth. This sacred book is a gift from my uncle Guadalajara, who accepted Christianity and we secretly went on his bike with biker handlebars to the Orthodox Church where I was baptized by the Reverend father Abbot Heseldin Kamrkadan, that is, Fedosey Shishrildayuvuch — said Chotircardon.
Hearing the words of Chotircardon, Sarvigulnargis fainted.
Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich raised his wife up, trying to calm her down.
— What are you doing, you bastards?! Bring quickly from the kitchen a metal spoon! You have to open your mother’s mouth! — shouted Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich .
Budjurcardon ran into the hollow and brought out a spoon with which Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich opened his wife’s mouth. Then he picked it up, carried it into the hollow and put it on the creaking mattress full of clover hay. Then he gave her a drink of water, after some time, he came back from the hollows to continue the investigation.
The triplets stood looking guiltily at the ground.
— You see, Chotircardon, our family already ran into trouble because of your ill-considered action. I am by nature a, hereditary Democrat andi respect all religions of the world with tolerance, but your actions create discomfort in the life of our friendly family. So you changed your religion and became a Christian — told Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich .
No, stepfather, I can’t. I made a promise to Jesus Christ… Forgive and bless God, his sinful servant in the name of the father and the son and the Holy spirit, Ami-i-iiin! — said Chotircardon, looking up at the sky where clouds floated, once widely.
— No! If you want to live with us in the hollow, you won’t read this religious book! I command you! — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich as he got angry at Chotircardon and started blushing from the strain.
— Well, stepfather, you, it turns out, you have no tolerance! You’re being very unfair! Motorcardon can read the Quran and I read the Bible, right?! Well, if you expel me from the tree because I’m a Christian, I can leave the monastery, and, I think, where the monks will give me a separate cell — said Chotircardon.
— What?! Motorcardon reads «the Quran»?! O God Almighty, what is this?! Is that true?! -Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich addressed to Motorkardon .
— Yes, stepfather, I began to study the Arabic alphabet, underground in khujra of Sheikh Nigman Ibn Abdulrahman Abu Abdulgafur and will soon begin to read namaz. And you, too, must stop drinking rice vodka and stop writing all sorts of unnecessary works that will not be needed on the day of judgment. Well, think about it stepfather, when Allah will ask you on judgment day if you read the Salat, or observe whether Eid, whether to give zakat to the poor, did a pilgrimage that is Hajj, how will you respond? You will say that you wrote short stories, poems and novels, and drinking my daily recovery vodka, instead of having to read prayers and to observe fasting?! My underground mudarris Sheikh Nigman Ibn Abdulrahman Abu Abdulgafur said that first of all us have to kill our desires in ourselves? Desires that lead a person to a fiery hell in this world and in the next world, too. Therefore, instead of drinking rice vodka and writing all sorts of nonsense, you should read namaz five times a day, that is, to do useful work. Sheikh Nigman Ibn Abdulrahman Abu Abdulgafur, said that in Muslim families women should wear the hijab. Stepfather, You have to tell your mom and ask her if we need her to wear a hijab, preferably in black. It would be even better if she stopped singing songs. Because music is Haram, so our religion forbids us to do art! It only allows you to play the Daph’s! A daph is a doira, a round percussion musical instrument similar to the percussion instrument of shamans. All other musical instruments are the tools of Shaytan! — said Motorcardon.
After these words, the science fiction writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich — still had a little bit of sanity.
— It’s necessary that your little adopted sons dictate to you how to live! — thought Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich .
Then he said:
Motorcardon, you son, have been much mistaken. Tell him to Think about it himself, how hard it would be to live without music, songs and dance?! This, your master Sheikh Nigman Ibn Abu Abdulrahman Abdulgafar is a supporter of Jihad! They say that he is a dangerous criminal and he was put on the wanted list! Do you want to go to prison with him or go to the concentration camp «Zhaslyk»?! — Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich shouted irritably.
Motorcardon was silent.
— Oh my God! said, looking up at the sky, Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich- well what is it huh?! Did I ask you for such children?! One became a Christian and the other a radical Muslim! I think we have. If you dictate their own adopted sons, we can assume that the end of the world is already on the edge. God, did you hear my adopted son forbids drinking rice vodka and writing haiku?! Forbids a mother to sing a song! I wonder. How can you live in this world without music, without drinking, without poetry, without romance and without art at all?! I can not even imagine such a one-sided and monotonous tedious existence!
Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich paused, then turned to Budjurcardon:
— Well, then what are you silent, Budjurkardon?! Maybe you also have time to become a member of some sect or a supporter of another religion? Maybe you became a Buddhist, and even managed to change your name on Budjuhuri Chandrakardon Ardjunpur?! Who knows, maybe sitting under that willow tree, you study Veda and meditate, singing a mantra?!
— No, stepfather, what are you talking about? I don’t do Buddhism. I became a member of the underground of the pioneer organization, our leader, comrade Chillashur Chultashovich, solemnly handed me this drum, and my friend gave a bugle and told to train at home. Our leader is the leader of our group of atheists and holds underground meetings in the dungeon, where we go down through the graves in the cemetery, pushing the tombstone, where members of our organization study the teachings of Marxism and Leninism in the light of a kerosene lamp. comrade Chillashur Chultashovich’s loud voice yells: — pioneer, be ready!, and we answer in chorus: — Always ready! — said Budjurcardon.
— What are you ready for, if not a secret? — asked Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich .
— I’m sorry, stepfather, I can not announce this secret of our underground organization, as I made a solemn oath to my comrades in the pioneer organization that I will keep secrets, that is, not to tell anyone, even our loved ones. Believe me, I swear! Our leader comrade Chillashur Chultashovich told us to be active in the promotion of atheism and agitation among the students and among the population of the village «Happiest». And create red corners at home. Another comrade Chillashur Chultashovich gave us a photo of Pavlik Morozov and asked that we put his picture in the red corner, as Christians, set an icon on the altar in the churches and monasteries -said Budjurcardon.
— Stepfather, for Christ’s sake, don’t agree with him as a heretic! It’s a mortal sin! You will make a big mistake by allowing him to create in our native hollow of a hundred-year-old mulberry tree a red corner with a photo of this pioneer-atheist who betrayed his own father, whom the Bolsheviks shot him for half a bag of wheat! On the place of honor of the hollow wall should not hang a portrait of the devil, but the icon of the mother of God and a big cross! Don’t let the devil into our hollow, stepfather, for God’s sake, don’t let him! Hear that?! theres the devil on the doorstep! — said Chotircardon.
— No, nothing should hang on the wall of the hollow, especially the image of a person. Think for yourself, stepfather, how am I going to read Salat, sitting facing the image of a man?! My mentor Sheikh Nigman Ibn Abdulrahman Abu Abdulgafur said that if a Muslim reads namaz while sitting facing a drawing or a statuette, he immediately automatically becomes an idol-worshipper! That is, in Sharia it is called shirk. The one who committed shirk, or rather bowed to the person or to the image, Allah will punish him on the day of judgment! — said Motorcardon.
— You don’t listen to this fan — Wahhabi! He’s got both feet in one boot! He thinks one-sided and talks about what he really knows nothing!
Real Muslims do not reject the prophet Jesus Christ! Such as he, one-sided approach to problems relating to religion, deepen the gap between Muslims and Christians and other religions of the world! And therefore Budjurcardon is more dangerous than Motorcardon! Watch out for it! He’s a servant of the devil himself! — said Chotircardon.
— Stepfather, religion is the opium of the people! These are not my words, but the leader of the proletariat comrade Lenin! Religion is drug addiction — he wrote in his books! Live free a man as an atheist and read books by philosophers such as Alfred Neste, albert Camus, Charles Darwin, Karl Marx, more! These religious fanatics need to drive to their neck out of the same hole! Down with obscurantism! I hate these religious brothers of mine! Despise them! Don’t forget the stepfather, the idea, which I follow, does not prohibit drinking recovery vodka and rejects the art. You can eat as much pork as you want. That is, my religion, which is called atheism, or «unbelief», is close to your way of life! If you listen to them, they will soon make you pray, go to Church on Sundays and to the mosque on Fridays! In addition, these two religious fanatics will forbid you to drink rice vodka, write a haiku and sing songs to your mother! You want this?! — said Budjurcardon.
— Are you even afraid of God, Budjurcardon! Although I drink rice vodka several times a day, and eat pork with a big appetite, but I consider myself a true Muslim! And you, my adopted son, have become an atheist! Do you think I forgot the red terror, the repression, when millions of innocent representatives of the world intelligent, fine poets, such as my teacher and idol Osip Emilevich Mandelstam, were killed?! What do your brothers do?! One of them promotes Islam, the other — Christianity! You just recently promoted sex and violence in school, and you almost got expelled for it from school! I’ll tell you what, my adopted sons! It’s too early for you to do religious stuff, okay?!.. No, no… this is some kind of bad dream! This does not happen in reality. It seems that I am sleeping, while experiencing some mysterious dream, or ill with an incurable disease associated with the soul. My three adopted sons are like sworn enemies to each other! Two of the faithful and an infidel! But they are members of the same family and live in the same hollow of this century-old tree!.. I fear that soon they will burn or simply blow up the hollow of the mulberry tree, where they live with us! Oh my God!.. Oh my God! — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, and began to beat his head in, wanting to wake up.
— Wake up, Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich , Wake up immediately!.. — he said, striking his clenched fist on his head, like a man who’s lost his mind, suddenly winning the jackpot in the lottery in the amount of one hundred million U.S. dollars.

 

 

Chapter 27
Inadequate tractor driver

 

Where the teacher of bird language and literature: Dalakazan Osa Ibn cosa led a practical session outdoors on «Grammatical forms and expressions of the language of rooks and ravens». Just at this time a huge flock of crows flew noisily and settled on the tops of the tall poplars around the field camp. Sitting on the bare branches of the trees, the crows croaked in chorus, deafening the neighborhood with their cawing. Many of them dropped nuts on the ground, which they kept in their beaks. The hungry teacher of bird language and literature, led by the pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and a school satchel on his shoulders, taking these nuts, began to eat them with big appetite, breaking them a stone.
From the fields a dreary roar of a lone tractor could be heard, which came from afar.
Dalakazan ate the walnuts in the silence of autumn, listening to the distant rumbling, a lone tractor driver, who worked in the fields, shrouded in fog. He thought of the lone tractor driver, who plowed, singing a sad song at the top of his voice, looking at the field, through the fog, and roaring his tractor ‘Altai’. Maybe he with hot tears in his eyes, remembers and mentally talks to his beloved girl who died.
This Symphony of misty fields gives a person peace of mind — he thought.
Oh, what a great time! Recently over fields and meadows, larks and swallows happily sang. Swallows flew low, almost touching the ground with their chest, rushing behind the tractor. And how they sang, sitting on the wires, stretching their wings and basking in the warm morning sun! God, how I love to listen to the silence in the pre-dawn hour, when the birds begin to sing merrily and loudly. They echo the gardens and the sleepy walls of the houses. Especially in the hot summer, when you listen to the distant moan of the hoopoe, while having, blunt eyes on the wandering swarm of white harmless butterflies. There is a special sadness in the voices of birds. Listening to the voice of a distant cuckoo, or the distant knock of a woodpecker, which comes from the willow and poplar groves, a person involuntarily will want to cry. Looking at the fields and flowering meadows and listening to the songs of birds in the gardens, in poplar groves, you begin to love your Homeland — Sunny Uzbekistan! — thought Dalacazan.

With such thoughts Dalakazan came with a wardrobe-school on his back and leading his students to the edge of the field where he found a lone tractor. The tractor was coming back from the other side of the field. When the yellow light from the ‘Altai’ tractor stopped, a short, pot-bellied man, almost without a neck, in tarpaulin boots, with a very serious face jumped down from the tractor. He turned off the engine and began to clean the harrow from the cotton stalks and inspect the engine with a carburetor.

— Hello, Mr. tractor driver! — said Dalakazan, respectfully addressing undersized tractor. He, not looking up from his work, looked in the direction of Dalakazan and sudenlly spat through his clenched teeth. His spit flew out like a poison that flies from the tongue of a Cobra in a distant Hindustan.

— Are you crazy, man, or what, why have you come here? What kind of person am I? Or are you kidding me? Well, well, go on, if you’re tired of living. I’ll make a hole in your empty skull with this tool, » said the short, pot-bellied and frowning tractor driver, pulling a large wrench from the sole of his boot.

— Sorry we confused you with one person — Dalakazan said apologizing.

— What Oh, confused with what? What do you think I am, a beast? You first look at yourself, you’re a fool with a wardrobe on your back! I’ll beat your face with this wrench, and your mouth will be connected with your ears! I’m not a gentleman, i’m comrade Pahtaplan! In Soviet times I was the winner of the socialist competition! If not for the collapse of the USSR, I would have received the order of Lenin! Who are you to make fun of me, huh?! Who gave you the rights anyway?! the angry tractor driver said.

— What are you doing, man?! Relax You say you’ll make a hole in my skull? Ha, your time is gone! Now we live in independent Uzbekistan! Well, now that your USSR has collapsed, you did not have time to get the order of Lenin! The USSR was a giant prison of people! There was no freedom! Religionists were sent to cut down the forest in the swamps of Siberia, to feed their blood to mosquitoes and they did not return home. Either they drowned in the swamp, or froze like mammoths in cold barracks in the harsh Siberian winter. Your colleagues and idols turned mosques, synagogues, temples and churches into vegetable stores and made fires from sacred and historical books that burned for months! People who became atheists, they all worked as if they were programmed robots as slaves and slaves, living in communal apartments, receiving a scanty salary! Many, not having lived up to retirement age, they all died, having lost health! Other pensioners received pensions, which were enough only for useless pills! Your communist organization built a giant pot and distributed the contents in a teaspoon to other different republics, made a huge spoon for yourselves! And people in lines stood at the doors of supermarkets waiting for their turn to buy a loaf of bread and a bottle of kefir! And now, look how people live! Rich and free! You know how to do business, please, make money in an honest way, at least a billion dollars a month, and no one will put you in prison for it, and will not shoot you for it! said Dalakazan .
— You poor bourgeois! You better open your eyes wide and see what’s going on around you! People in Soviet times lived together as members of the same family, but now brutally kill each other! And your religious people have become terrorists and blow themselves up in crowded places, even in churches and in mosques! Bombs filled with bolts, and nails explode, killing hundreds of innocent people in bazaars and in the subway! They kill children, pregnant women, and after the fight leaving behind ruins, dead bodies turning the beautiful cities built over the centuries to ashes! Destroying schools, giving Kalashnikov assault rifles into the hands of children, teaching them to shoot from grenade launchers and bombs to produce aresanal! How to steal people’s money your rich, whom you idolize! hasn’t your Republic has become a giant prison?! There are so many innocent young people rotting alive in the concentration camps of your independent country, and hundreds of them are dying in the punishment cell, where they are killed under the infernal torture and mockery! Half of the country’s population have become guest workers in neighboring countries, and many of them return home in coffins! If your Republic is as you imagine and praise, then let it provide its people with work in their country! Now people are afraid to go somewhere in neighboring countries, not that there is a resort or a sanatorium, but just like that or on business. Because they are killed there by shaven-headed nationalists — fascists, racists or religious fans! Now to get a visa you have to go through a living hell! And in Soviet times, the people moved freely and safely through the vast territory without any visa, with only one passport! Then the Armenians and Azerbaijanis lived like a family, in peace and harmony! Georgians, Abkhazians, Ossetians were United! Chechens, Georgians, Ukrainians and Russians did not quarrel with each other! Then Tajiks Uzbeks, Turkmens, Kirghiz, Kazakhs, Tatars, Russians and other peoples did not know what nationalism, separatism, fascism and religious fanaticism was! Swindlers who illegally privatized mines and large companies, steal people’s money in a huge amount, without paying a penny to the state, do you consider your people rich and honest people?! Censorship and repression of various kinds — is, in your opinion, freedom?! I spit on that kind of freedom and the crooks you call honest rich people?! And I spit on you too! — said the tractor driver Pahtaplan.

— Do you know this you red communist! If your Lenin and your Stalin had not divided the republics, creating a special provocative geographical map so that these friendly people, in the event of a split, immediately arose territorial problems and disputes that escalate into conflicts, and that they could not unite, these peoples would never have raised their hands to each other. You commies are to blame! — said Dalakazan, as he rushed to the fat and undersized tractor.

The tractor driver, having to bounce back, quickly began to strengthen the defense, as the tractor driver pahtaplan assumed the position of a karate kid with a wrench in his hand, which he took from the top of his tarpaulin boots.

— Come here, pumpkin-headed bourgeois! By hitting you with this wrench a couple of times on your head, I will decorate your brainless independent head with a solid bump, and then you may begin to finally think! said the undersized and pot — bellied tractor driver Pahtaplan.

Trying to separate them — the excellent student, the short policeman with a bald head and a school backpack shouted:

— Teacher, Mr. tractor driver, stop! Don’t fight!..

But the men fought, rushing at each other, as the peoples after the collapse of the USSR. Dalakazan knew a few techniques of unarmed combat, and suddenly grabbed the hands of the tractor driver, deftly twisted them behind his back and kicked him with a knee to the face. The nose of the tractor driver Pahtaplan crashed his tractor and started gushing blood. But then there was a thud, and Dalakazan, holding his hands behind his head, first kneeled, then fell to the ground. He was unconscious and his head was covered with blood. The disciples were afraid and bending over Dalakazan, began to revive him.
Here, Dalakazan came back like a boxer after a deep knockout, and asked:
— Where am I? — asked Dalakazan
— We are on the field of «Tappicasod» Get up, dear teacher, get up! — said pot-bellied policeman the student with a bald head, with a school backpack on his shoulders.
Dalakazan, relying on the undersized pot-bellied policeman an excellent student with a bald head, and a school backpack on his shoulders, Dalakazan stood up and began to walk away, like a wounded warrior who leaves a line of fire on the battlefield, accompanied by nurses. The now nervous tractor driver Pahtaplan abruptly pressing gas, turned his yellow tractor towards Dalakazan, and, like an enemy tank that you intends to trample in the dirt, he began to run into Dalakazan. The tractor driver dashed moved toward and Dalakazan and his followers barely escaped, jumping aside. And the tractor driver Pahtaplan collapsed along with his tractor into a deep ravine. The tractor rolled over and rolled down for a long time, raising dust like a huge iron chest. When the dust cleared, Dalakazan and his disciples saw the evil, pot-bellied tractor driver Pahtaplan, had miraculously survived.

 

 

Chapter 28
Humanitarian assistance

 

The winter village «Tappicasod» is simmering under the snow so that in the silence I can even hear the hysterical screeching of dry grass sticking out of the snow, which cries in the wind. Snow-covered slopes of the fields and meadows, like bears immersed in hibernation. For several days in a row «Tappicasod» is covered with heavy snow. The branches of the trees bent to the ground from the weight of the snow. Low huts and shacks of the village to the roof are drowning in the snow, looking out from under the snow cap in the distance. Snow flakes are flying, circling around like a gigantic swarm of harmless white butterflies. The teacher of bird language and literature Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa shovels the snow off of his wardrobe with a wooden snow shovel as if he was shoveling around the school like a janitor in distant Russia. — wise migratory birds are knowingly flying to the South. God forbid my poor students don’t freeze like mammoths in an ice glacier during the ice age. If I and my students had wings, we would have gone after the cranes to warmer climates, Dalakazan thought, without gloves in his striped pyjamas, barefoot, warming his chilly hands with his breath. Then he saw the woman through the snow flakes and froze for a moment, leaning against the handle of the snow shovel. The woman walked on, stumbling in the deep snow to the side of Dalakazan’s wardrobe, dragging the sled with the cargo. Learning Khurguldivan, Dalakazan ran to meet her, buried in the snow.
— Oh, Mrs. Khurguldivan! What are you doing here?! Around a snow-covered and deserted field! They say the wolves had appeared in our area! Are you lost? — said Dalakazan.
— Yes, no, master, I am coming to you. I carry humanitarian cargo, dung, a little wood, a stove, bread and winter clothes for you. Let me take this to Mr. teacher, who walks barefoot in his striped pajamas in winter.In your cold Cabinet-school it’s probably hard, to teach your students, even if they sit in jackets and hats during lessons said Khurguldivan, pulling out a bag of cotton pants, a jacket with boots, an old rabbit fur hat and mittens. —
— Come on, put these on, master.»You’ll catch a cold.You don’t think these are my husband’s clothes? No, I bought them at a bazaar, especially for you — said Khurguldivan.
Thank you, Mrs. Khurguldivan! You are kind!I don’t even know how to thank you — said Dalakazan as he put on the winter clothing.
-Well, that’s different! Khurguldivan said, looking at Dalakazan’s winter clothes, smiling happily. After that, they dragged the sled with humanitarian cargo together in the wardrobe school and began to unload.
Seeing the stove with a bag of dung, the students of the teacher Mr. Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa, were happy as never before, like happy children who received gifts from Santa Claus on christmas Eve. Especially when the fire started in the stove.They surrounded it and began to warm up.
-Ohhh, Tashkent! — the excellent student pot-bellied policeman with the bald head with a school backpack behind his shoulders spoke with pleasure. Dalakazan filled with joy, even danced, stomping boots and shouting loudly:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
After a scant meal Khurguldivan went back home, dragging her empty sleigh, again and again, after saying goodbye to the Professor Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa and his disciples.
-Mrs. Khurguldivan, I’ll take you home! — shouted Dalakazan.
-No, not need to, Mr. teacher! said Khurguldivan, walking on squeaky snow.
Well, as you know… Just be careful! — said Dalakazan.
Students stood there with their teacher, which drifted further and further away, disappearing behind snow flakes. After class the students went home, Dalakazan waited until Monday.The teacher of bird language was again alone in the school closet, where he sat by the kerosene lamp until midnight, checking the notebooks of his students, where they wrote essays and dictations on the theme «Used accents and verbs in the trills of bullfinches and whistles.» Then he layed down on a mattress filled with dry leaves of trees, but for a long time he could not sleep, thinking of a kind woman named Khurguldivan.
— What a good woman!Not like my ex-wife, who cheated on me. She cares not only about me, but about my students, too… Strange, and why the last time I started to think only about her? Did I fall in love with her? My God, I want to be with her! It turns out there are still good women in this world… No, I will go tomorrow to ask for the hand and heart of this enterprising woman who offers a new unique idea of how to upgrade, I will refit my universal wardrobe school by installing the wheels from a cart during the summer holidays to turn it into a pressed dung combine harvester. And I am sure that her children, who grow up without a father, too, with time gradually get used to me, as the eyes of a man to the dark.Khurguldivan needs a strong, faithful man like me. I will marry her.This matter should not be delayed. Goodbye, loneliness! — thought Dalakazan.
With such thoughts he layed there, listening to the storm, quietly fell asleep. By morning the Blizzard had subsided. Dalakazan came out of his one-room closet — apartment, barely opening the door because of the piled snow. He took a breath of fresh air, washed himself with snow, looking at the snow covered fields and meadows with delight.He ate a hearty Breakfast, ate the fluffy snow and, as if doing morning exercises, ran back and forth, shouting loudly:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
He echoed into the morning’s desolate silence in the snowy fields «Tappicasod». After these procedures, Dalakazan dressed warmly and putting his wardrobe on his back, went to the village to propose to Khurguldivan. He walked with difficulty, drowning in deep snow, knee-deep, almost up to his waist. While he was walking on the frozen river «Kashkaldak», Dalakazan fell and almost broke his leg. He got up quickly and was only thinking about Khurguldivan, who he fell in love with at first sight. But when he came to the village, there at the gate of Khurguldivan’s house he saw doctors, police officers and dog handlers with German shepherds and froze in surprise.
The student, a pot-bellied policeman with the bald head with a school backpack on his back rushed to meet his teacher Ibn Dalakazan Osa ibn Cosa.
— What happened, my excellent student, the pot-bellied policeman with the bald head with a school backpack behind your back?!Why are you crying?! — worried Dalakazan.
— Oh, teacher, sorrow has come to our wardrobe-school!, my God! -cried the student, the student, the pot-bellied policeman with a bald head with a school backpack on his back, striking his chest.
— What trouble?! What grief?! — Dalakazan asked as he was surprised even more.
— Aunt Khurguldivan killed the robbers! According to eyewitnesses, she was desperately fighting with robbers who wanted to steal her stock of dung. But one of the robbers struck her on the head with a blunt object and she died of loss of blood. Her children were taken to an orphanage. There you are sir! — the student excellence, a pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and a school backpack on his back putting his officer’s ushanka against his eyes he said while sobbing.
Hearing this, Dalakazan helplessly fell on his knees and earnestly began to cry, lamenting bird language.

 

 

Chapter 29
Zazabuzamazaev Vojaktorbagaza

 

Dalakazan walked on, stumbling in the snow, with his wardrobe on his back, in the direction of the cemetery. What followed him was an excellent student, a pot-bellied policeman with a bald head with a school backpack on his shoulders.On the tops of snow-covered poplars sat hundreds of crows, which opening their beaks to failure, cawed with all their strength, breaking the silence of the cemetery. The teacher of bird language and his student-excellent student, a pot-bellied policeman with a bald head, with a school backpack on his shoulders clearly understood every word of the croaking raven, pretending that their avian language is not understood.One of the crows spoke: — Carrr!Carrr! Carrr! Look how stupid, uncultured these two-legged creatures are! They go to a cemetery with a huge wardrobe and a school backpack on their back!Good thing they don’t have wings like us! Otherwise they would have killed all the birds long ago, made tobacco out of us and eaten us with garlic! Carrr! I know of one biped named Icarus and he tried to fly by raising his wings together with his father Daedalus, who warned his son that it is dangerous to fly too close to the sun, that is, he’ll lose his wings. And after this Icarus did not listen to his father, flying higher and higher, closer to the sun, as a result of his wings fell off. Since these evil two-legged losers fly on airplanes, helicopters and military jet bombers, bombing each other, innocent children of their countries, their children, destroying a beautiful city to the ground! they are polluting the ecological system of our planet, its smokestack factories secretly burying nuclear waste in the forests, in the seas and oceans.They say there is nuclear waste repositories and in space! They’re flowers. These evil non-winged creatures year after year develop more and more nuclear programs, developing Intercontinental cruise missiles with nuclear charge carriers, which are waiting in the mines.They turned the planet into a powder keg! If the planet explodes, where will we live? That’s what worries me the most! After all, there is no nearby other planet where you can live! — said the croaking Raven, swinging on a thin branch of a poplar, like a swing.
— Carrr! Carrr! — the other crows cawed, opening wide their beaks, confirming their words and reproachfully looking at the biped carrying a huge wardrobe and with a school backpack on their shoulders.
Hearing these words the crow the teacher of bird language Dalakazan and his student-the excellent student, the pot-bellied policeman with a bald head with his school satchel on his back was tide for humanity. Such feelings they came to megile of Khurguldivan that left behind a good bright memory.They honored the memory of the good woman with a minute of silence, mournfully bowing their heads, taking off their ushankas.
-Well, Hello, Mrs. Khurguldivan.We’ve come to visit you.It is a pity that I did not write you a letter back and did not have time to ask you for your hand and heart. I was late, an hour, a day, no, an eternity!When I arrived, I saw operatives and dog handlers with service dogs at your gate. It turns out you did not die, but died heroically defending your supply of dung for the winter, which is more expensive than gold for the people who do not have gas and coal.You may not believe what I said, but I wanted to marry you and live a happy, carefree life in my one-room closet apartment until I was very old. Wanted to open business with you to trade manure, turning it into combine harvester with wardrobe a school during the summer holidays with tires from a tractor and a motor from a motorcycle.I even planned to mount the rotor to the wardrobe and fly with you over the cotton fields and meadows of native «Tappicasod». We would fly where the eye can see. Well, apparently not fate.
Khurguldivan, don’t worry, your children are growing up in an orphanage. I wanted to adopt them, taking them into my care, but the management of the orphanage did not allow me to adopt them, citing the fact that I can not educate them in his closet — school, where there is not enough living conditions to raise a child. They wouldn’t even let me into the orphanage.
«You cannot enter this establishment with a questionable wardrobe on your back!» I’ll have to call the police! — said the guard. I’m a law-abiding citizen of my country. I didn’t argue with them and leave. I had a strange dream yesterday. In the dream, my closet took the shape of a flying saucer and I flew silently across the expanses of the solar systems of our universe, through stars, through meteorites and comets happily shouting:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
A man in a spacesuit stopped me after raising his thumb. I stopped my unidentified flying machine and a man with a heavy backpack on his back climbed into the cockpit. He said hello. He was a countryman, and he was also from the planet Earth.
-Well, let’s get acquainted. my name is Dalakazan. I work as a space taxi driver, that is, I am engaged in the transportation of passengers to neighboring planets.»The Moon», «Mars», «Saturn», «Jupiter» and «Venus». I myself am a teacher of bird language and literature. you know, the government are very paying us teachers poorly, so I on Saturday drive a taxi to earn a living, not to die of hunger during lessons, as not to scare the children by the death of their poor professers — I said.
— Nice to meet you. I’m Zazabuzamazaev Vojaktorbagaza — replied the man.
— Going somewhere, so while during the hour, Mr. Zazabuzamazaev Vojaktorbagaza? — I asked him, taking off smoothly.
— I need you to fly me to the planet the Diamond — replied Zazabuzamazaev Vojaktorbagaza.
— Are you a guest worker? Are you flying to other planets to work there? — I asked him, casting a quick glance, continuing to steer the flying saucer through the meteorite.
— No, I am but a humble businessman and trade soil with other species. Exchanging it for diamonds — answered Zazabuzamazaev Vojaktorbagaza, quietly.
-Clearly. You sell it to space immigrants who cry into a huge checkered hole-ridden handkerchiefs when they see the soil of their home planet, where they were born — I said as I continued the conversation.
— No, I don’t. I sell the soil of our earth in the space wholesale market, tons. On the planet «Diamond» the soil of our earth is exactly the same material as we have gold and diamonds. Yes, Yes, don’t be surprised Mr. teacher of bird language and literature! My cargo was shipped on the trunk of a private space bus. I flew over it on your flying machine, but bad luck was with me and my flying saucer broke down. Thank God that you miraculously helped me onto your flying saucer- The land merchant Zazabuzamazaev Vojaktorbagaza said.
Hearing this, I froze for a moment in surprise and almost crashed into a giant comet.
— Ah, that’s why our poor scientists are worried, telling the public that our planet is getting smaller and smaller day by day.There is no place to plant wheat seeds and breed animals. Doesn’t that bother you? — I asked again.
— No, sir Dalakazan. Because I’m just an entrepreneur. This question is for the army of big businessmen who have been trading the soil of our home planet for centuries, exchanging tons of soil for diamonds. Let our planet decrease. I don’t care. As they say — after I pass away I wouldn’t care if the world got flooded as long as im living well everything is okay for me — The entrepreneur Zazabuzamazaev Vojaktorbagaza said .
— Oh, Zazabuzamazaev Vojaktorbagaza! You still do! You were born and raised there! I’ll kill you with my own hands! I shouted, as I rushed like an angry wolf at Zazabuzamazaev Vojaktorbagaza and a fight ensued between the two of us fight. As a result, I lost control of my unidentified flying saucer. My aircraft crashed on the sandy plain some of the planet… It is good that all this happened not in reality, but in a dream…
There you are, Mrs. Khurguldivan said Dalakazan, putting his ushanka on his head. Then saying good-bye again and again he left from the graveyard. He was followed by the excellent student, a pot-bellied policeman with a bald head with a school backpack on his shoulders.

 

 

Chapter 30
The terror attack in the hollow of the Mulberry tree

 

Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich woke up at dawn to the sounds of the song, sung by his wife Sarvigulnargis. She performed the Aria «Otmagay tong» from the Opera «Takhir and Zukhra», looking at the sleepy stars through the opening in the hollow mulberry tree. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich layed buried in clover hay, and did not move. He didn’t want Sarvigulnargis to stop singing, hearing in the silence the rustle of dried clover, and the creaking of the makeshift wooden beds. But here the song was interrupted Sarvigulnargis stepson of Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich Motorkardon woke up, who turned to his mother with the words:
«Mother, I told you it was a sin to sing songs. Especially when sung by women. So says our master the Amir Nigman abu Abdelrakhman ibn Abdulgafur. Instead of singing songs, You should be praying to the Almighty.
Sarvigulnargis stopped singing.
— No, mother, do not listen to that is a terrorist! Keep singing and I’ll back you up, ill play my pioneer drum that was presented to me by our leader comrade Chillashur Gyotebet Chultashuvuch- said Budjurkardon and began to make a beat on his drum.
— Well, what is it, my God! This is a madhouse. If things go this fast, these bastards will soon forbid us not only to sing, but also to breathe… — muttered irritably Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
Motorkardon came out of the hollow and began to wash in the ditch.
— Mom, sing, and don’t pay attention to this religion fan. Our faith does not forbid singing. When we secretly go with my teacher priest Guddavodjithodja in the Church there by candlelight deacons sing the Psalms of the Bible, like the angels in heaven, and nothing — everyone is happy and excited. Father even promises to give me a small bell made of cast iron, and I intend to hang it on our mulberry tree. That’s when you wake up every morning to the sound of the bell: «Klang! Klang! Klang! Klang!»
— Stepfather, mother, you should not listen to these religion fans! If you don’t stop listening to these religious extremists right now, I will simply be forced to beat my drum, despite the dictatorial ban! — threatened Budjurkardon.
After these words the hands Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich stretched themselves to his tarpaulin boots and soles and without it, firmly grasping the shaft, he threw his boots at Budjurkardon. Sarvigulnargis cried:
— Yes, what’s happening to you three?! What have you become?! One forbids me to sing, the other encourages me! Why are you so unfriendly?! How happy I was when you were born! I thought that when you grow up, you three will become worthy citizens of our country. But you turned into aggressive half-religious and stopped attending school! I’m afraid you’ll soon forbid your father even to write! — she sobbed.
— No, mother, let stepfather write as much novels as he wants, but I personally forbid him to drink rice vodka and there is lard! I want him to pray to God five times a day, too! — said Motorkardon, wearing a white turban.
— No, never! Never! I am a free writer, and no one has the right to interfere with me! I don’t like being forced to do anything! Without vodka I am like scuba divers without oxygen at the bottom of the Pacific ocean, okay,you bastard?! Bear in mind, you bastard, if you ever reproach your mother or me again, you’re dead! We will hand you over to the authorities, and they will send you without trial to the concentration camp «Djaslyk»! From there you will return in a sealed coffin, without nails on your hands and feet! We will bury you with joy, covering your body with limestone, so that it will decompose faster! — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
But Motorkardon would not even listen to the words of his stepfather. He began to recite the azan in a loud voice, standing on the edge of the rice field, next to the water which looked like a mirror that reflected the stars.
In the attic of the hollow mulberry tree Chotirkardon, too, began to pray, sapeva Psalms, Matthew, and widely was baptized, looking at the way that he hung on the wall.The bell rang, hung on the mulberry tree:
Klang! Klang! Klang! Klang!
Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich poured vodka into a tin cup to drink to calm the shattered nerves. But here Budjurkardon started pounding on his pioneer drum, preventing his brothers, who were praying in their own way to their God. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich drank, pouring vodka in a tin cup and barefoot came out from the tree. Quickly coming to his adopted son Budjurkardon, he took his drum and wound the strap of the drum on the arm. Then he swung the musical instrument against the trunk of a tree so that the drum flattened into a funny shape.
Meanwhile, it is beginning to dawn and the sky above the horizon was slightly yellow, like ochre, from the village of «Yakkatut», the morning roosters came.
— Well, stepfather, wait! Here comes the month of October, and we your friends at the pioneer organization, headed by our leader comrade Chillashur Gyotebet Chultashuvuch will raise a rebellion and take the hollow of the mulberry tree by storm! Honest pioneer! That’s when you’ll pay for the torn sacred drum of our unit! We will send you by freight train to the consentration camp «Gulag» archipelago as an enemy of the communist society! — said Budjurkardon.
After this family scandal the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich does could not concentrate and write anything. By the evening he was pretty drunk on rice vodka, fell asleep in the hollow. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich had a weird dream.In the dream enormous wings grew behind him and slowly flapping them he flew.He flew for a long time, swaggering like a huge eagle over the mountain gorges, over the hilly forests, over the slopes and over the expanses of the seas and oceans.Flying over cotton fields where people picking cotton by hand.They looked at him from under the palm of their hands and admired his free flight…
Here Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich woke up from the noise and a shrill scream.-Honey!Fire! Wake up! Our luxury apartment is burning! — cried his wife Sarvigulnargis, choking from the acrid smoke, coughing, crying and shivering with fear, trying to Wake her sleeping husband.The triplets evacuated already. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich in terror, jumping out of bed, ran into the street after his wife, also panting from the bitter smoke.
Going out on the street, he involuntarily remembered the manuscripts of his litarary works:
— The manuscript! Manuscripts are burning! There my art! — shouted Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
Sarvigulnargis was crying loudly:
— Let these manuscripts burn! Thank God that you remained alive! — she spoke through her tears.
But she couldn’t stop the stubborn writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovichand he rushed back in burning hollow mulberry tree, to save priceless manuscripts of his works.
— Help me, help somebody!.. What are you doing, wretch!Run, get the water and call the fire brigade! Your stepfather is on fire! — she screamed.
In a few minutes Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich ran out of the burning hollow of a mulberry tree with the manuscript of his works, rolled in a tube. His clothes burned. Sarvigulnargis rushed to the burning of her husband and extinguished the fire. At this time, the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich was unconscious, barely breathing. His soot-covered faces, arms, and legs resembled charred logs.
-People! Call an ambulance! My husband is dying! — Sarvigulnargis screaming in a panic hugging her husband and crying:
— Oh, darling! Don’t die, please! I love you and I can’t live without you in this cruel, ruthless world! — she cried.
And to her surprise Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich spoke:
— Don’t cry, love… I am not a fool to leave you in the difficult days of our lives… It’s a good thing I saved the manuscripts from the fire. I have them… Mikhail Bulgakov correctly said that manuscripts do not burn — he said, trying to smile.
Hearing his words, Sarvigulnargis wept with joy.
— Thank you, Lord, for not taking away my man! My writer alive! — she cried hugging the body of her husband.
By this time already gathered a crowd and looked curiously at the charred and burning writer of the mulberry tree.
The fire victims were left homeless, without money, without documents and clothes, like humanity after a thermonuclear war.
Khoruhazon’s step sons stood with bowed heads, guiltily looking at the ground, like the street lights in the night snow.

 

 

Chapter 31
Deathbed testament of the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich

 

Sarvigulnargis and her children waited a long time for the arrival of the ambulance, but it unfortunately did not come, citing lack of gasoline.Then they saw Dalakazan, who ran barefoot in their direction through the hillsides with his wardrobe on his shoulders, in striped pajamas, shouting:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
Dalakazan ran to the mulberry tree, which burned to the ground, put his wardrobe down and walked over to writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich with compassion and said,- Oh, a great writer Mr.Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, I’m sorry for you.But you do not grieve much, everything will be fine. I’ll take you to the hospital now and the doctors will give you first aid.
-Thank you, teacher Dalakazan — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
-That’s all right, Mr. writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich! You just be patient and hold on! I firmly believe that you will live for a long time and write a lot of their crown works. As they say, everything is still ahead! — said Dalakazan and ordered two of his students that they gently lifted the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich and laid him carefully in the rack-carriage. Sarvigulnargis thanked Dalakazan, crying and shedding tears.
After the best students Dalakazan and family members of the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich climbed into the Cabinet, carriage, Dalakazan tightly closed the cabinet door on the latch and ran down the slopes towards the Hospital shouting:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
In order to quickly get the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich to the hospital, Dalakazan had to cross the rye field and go crossing the river «Kashkaldak» ford. But on the way he stepped on a broken glass bottle and sat down, limping in terrible pain. Then he pulled the sharp glass shard from his leg with difficulty, grimacing in his face because of the sharp pain. Blood oozed from the wound. Despite this, Dalakazan kept going, hobbling and limping like a dog on three legs, crossing the rye field, over which the larks singing, as if conversing with Dalakazan in bird language. But Dr. Dalakazan had no time to engage them in communication. And for the wardrobe — the carriage ride happily flew a swarm of white, innocuous butterflies.When fording, Dalakazan nearly blew a stream from his wardrobe.Finally he got to the hospital and doctors began to provide first aid to Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, who received extensive burns in a fire that broke out in the hollow of a mulberry tree. Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich bandaged from head to toe and he lay in the intensive care unit, like the mummies of the Pharaoh Akhenaten in the tomb of the Egyptian pyramids. The writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich asked to let him Sarvigulnargis and Dr. Dalakazan alone, so he could say goodbye to family and friends.Then Sarvigulnargis with Dalakazan walked in the room and Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, gave Dalakazan the manuscript of his novel, which he wrote in the genre of «fiction» called «a Godsend».
— Mr. Dalakazan if something happens to me, forgive to keep this manuscript and to convey to the writers and literature for consideration. I am sure that this novel will be pleasant not only to them, but also to all mankind. After they will publish this novel, let them give a half of the allocated fee to my mother Kupaysin who lives in the house of over-aged, and the rest of the fee belongs to my wife Sarvigulnargis -he told, panting. Sarvigulnargis wept bitterly. — What are you saying, dadasi (father of my children)?! Don’t scare me, please! Don’t die leaving me alone in the vast desert of separation.I’ll forgive you, hold on as hard as you can!If you die, I won’t live long either!Because to live in this world without you, for me is thus meaningless! Don’t die, my dear… — she sobbed, kissing the hands of the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
— Don’t cry, my incomparable, don’t cry.You have to live for our children to raise them and put them on their feet.I love you, Sarvigulnargis.Even in the next world! I believe that you will find a new mulberry tree in the hollow of which you can live. Now, I ask you to do my last request. Sing, my love for me lastly, the Aria «Otmagay tong» from the Opera «Takhir and Zukhra — said Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, stroking the hair of his wife.
— Oh, poor stepfather of my children, I can sing, when you lie, unbearable pain!.. — said Sarvigulnargis.
Joy, love insisted Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, having closed his eyes with burnt eyelashes.
After that, Sarvigulnargis did not think about anything, except to execute the last request of her husband, that is to sing. She started singing. When she sang the Aria «Otmagay tong» writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich died. He died quietly, without complaining about anything under the song your my darling wife. Sarvigulnargis cried for a long time, hugging the body of her husband. Dalakazan cried, furtively wiping his bitter tears on the sleeve of his striped pajamas.
After hearing about the death of his son Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich’s mom Cupaysin fainted.The next day, the funeral event took place and the late poet and science fiction writer was taken to the cemetery.
At the funeral, one of those present began to make a funeral speech with a mournful and trembling voice, with bitter tears in his eyes:
-Dear people «Tappicasod»! I offer my sincere condolences to the family of our dear friend and great writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich in connection with his death! The terrible news of his death shook our hearts! He was a modest writer and ardent patriot of his homeland, a devoted son of his people! He wasn’t chasing fame, not running through publisher comanies, asking that they published his book.He did not require an apartment, no garden, no prize, no title and medals! He was above all this!Despite the difficulties, he day and night actively engaged in creativity, creating real masterpieces of art, developing and raising to a high level not only domestic but also world literature! It was only today that we began to realize the scale of the great loss. What a talented writer we’ve lost, my God!Writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich was an angel in human form! That’s why he lived and worked in the hollow of a mulberry tree on the edge of the endless cotton fields, like a hermit monk, like an angel above the clouds!Today he died not only for our countrymen, not only was he a big friend with a wide open soul, and a great writer and poet of the century Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, who lived modestly on the edge of cotton fields, in the hollow of a mulberry tree, and worked day and night for the benefit of our long-suffering literature! Farewell, a friend and please forgive us for what we have not adequately appreciated during the life of your merits to the Motherland and the people! Instead of giving you a decent place to live, to award you with titles, and medals, we sent you into exile! May you rest in peace!We will always keep your bright memory in our hearts!
Hearing such a touching speech, the people of «Tappicasod» choir wept, shedding tears from their eyes.The widow of Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich Sarvigulnargis in black, sobbing, hugging the cheap coffin of her husband, made of plywood.Then, after reading prayers, villagers opened the lid of the coffin to lower the body of the deceased poet and science fiction writer in the grave and gasped in chorus of fear and surprise.
Someone said:
— Oh my god!!.. What is it?!
— What happened? — Mullah asked.
— The coffin is empty — said the man!
From all sides there were voices: — «Oh, God Almighty!’Oh, mama mia!»
Here the Mullah with a velvet skullcap on his head, in a black jacket said:
— A miracle happened! The deceased ascended to God’s altar! He flew away like an angel!Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich was truly an angel in human form! Lord, receive the soul and body of the deceased and bless!
Seeing this, the audience roared even more. Here at the behest of the Mullah with a velvet skullcap on his head, in a black jacket, raised the empty coffin to come back. But their jaws hung from what they saw, as the bottom of the coffin was turned. Everyone looked around in surprise. Then they ran down the street.
It turns out that the body of the poor poet and science fiction writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich dropped on the road and not noticed. The inverted body of Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich was left in a gutter. Some people laughed uncontrollably People picked it up and put it back into the coffin and re-performed the ritual and burying it, Then all began to leave the cemetery.
Looking back again and again at the grave of the great poet, they went out into the street.
Dalakazan, with the wardrobe like a giant backpack on his shoulders, and ran barefoot to the side of the field screaming:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!

 

 

Chapter 32
Casamhor Cahratoniy

 

Dalakazan to fulfill the last request of his friend the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, he came with a wardrobe on his shoulders into town. At the entrance to the writers ‘ Union building, he was stopped by a fat man with a swollen belly, like a pregnant woman, with a double chin in a black tuxedo and a bow tie around his neck.
— Hey, farmer stop right there! Do you not see a sign where it is written clearly that outsiders are not allowed! Especially with a questionable wardrobe on his shoulders! This isn’t a flea market for old furniture! It’s the writers ‘ Union! — he said.
— Thank God that I finally found the writers ‘ Union… You see, I had a friend, a writer, who lived for a long time in the hollow of a mulberry tree on the edge of cotton fields, over which larks sang, filling with a ringing trill, where in a hot summer the hoopoes cry in a sad voice in the distance and a lonely cuckoo groans in the thickets. His name was Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, God rest his soul. He recently died in a burning house during a fire that broke out in the hollow of his mulberry tree, where he lived and worked, where he wrote his unique works. The doctors couldn’t save his life. But, my friend, hoping to save the manuscripts of his works, rushed into the burning hollow of the mulberry tree. He saved his manuscripts from the fire. But… Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich … In short my friend, the great writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich before his death he gave me the priceless manuscript of his novel «the Find» and requested that I showed it to trusted writers and literary critics, in the hopes of something happening. He said that this novel will appeal to all who reads it. It turns out that this is true. I am firmly convinced of this, reading the manuscript of a spectacular novel my friend one of the greatest writers of our time Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich which he wrote in the genre of «fantasy.» This work of the century just struck me! The characters of the novel go on an extended, indefinite flight in a modern spacecraft with a perpetual motion engine that runs on solar energy. They flew in search of a new planet where humanity can live as on Earth. In their giant space ship was a model of the world where we now live. Where there is air, artificial soil, trees, fields, roads, forests and animals. Even a cemetery. In this space ship people are destined to be born, where families are to live as on the planet «Earth», to multiply, to grow old and die, leaving this eternally flying space ship to the future tingles. This giant, unique ship had to fly hundreds of thousands, if not millions of light-years through the Universe before they found a suitable planet with air and water, where humanity had to live. They flew so long, that at this time hundreds and thousands of tingling hereditary astronauts already are gone from life. It so happened that this giant spaceship got lost in the nebulae, losing touch with the Earth. The astronauts, without knowing how many light years they had been flying through space for, finally found a planet covered with snow and is very similar to planet Earth, where they were born, where they studied, fell in love, married, lived and flew on the space in the distant long-term, indefinite flight of their ancestors. Astronauts wept with joy, hugging each other, looking at the planet, which their ancestors lived on. But then their dosimeters it went off scale, revealing a high level of radiation. It turned out that the astronauts, lost in the vast nebulae of the universe, flew home, that is, to the planet Earth, where humanity was destroyed by a thermonuclear war… Here this exciting novel of my friend, the late writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich. I want it published in a publishing house with thousands of copies with a hardcover. It is also urgent to translate this book into all languages of the world. I also intend to translate this novel into the language of the birds, as I am only an expert on bird language and literature on the planet Earth — said Dalakazan.
Hearing these words, the man with a swollen belly, like a pregnant woman, and a double chin wearing a black tuxedo and a bow tie around his neck, carefully looking around, began to be interested:
— Yeah? Really.That’s what you’d say. Here, darling… what’s your name? Aha, Dalakazan. Thank you very much, Mr.Galakazan that you care about your deceased friend the writer, trying to do his will. Only real friends can do that. Turns out you’re not just a friend of the deceased writer, what was his name?… Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, but also a great friend of the world of literature! Yes, Yes, believe me… Let’s get acquainted first. My name is Casamhor Cahratoniy. I, unlike your friend, am a folk writer. And I think that our meeting with you is not accidental. Believe me, God Almighty has made us meet each other!.. Is the manuscript with you? — he said politely.
-Yes — said Dalakazan, carefully taking out a old, yellowed manuscript from the his pocket of his striped pajamas.
— Give it to me. Don’t be afraid. I will read it and carefully and type the text, i’ll write a Preface to it, then i’ll give it to my friend, who is in charge of just publishing. This matter should not be delayed. It will be published as quickly as possible, you should dedicate it to the soul of our deceased friend, the great writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich who is happy in heaven — he said, again looking around cautiously.
-Thank you, Mr writer Casamhor Cahratoniy. it’s a good thing that I met you! Keep the priceless manuscript of my friend’s fascinating novel in your sight, intact and safe. I almost forgot… In the dying Testament the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich asked to give half of the profit to his mom, Kupaysin who lives in a nursing home, half to his widow Sarvigulnargis, so she could provide for their foster children — Motorcardon, Budjurcardon and Chotircardon — Dalakazan reminded him.
— Yes, don’t worry, Mr. Dalakazan, everything will be as bequeathed to your late friend, the great writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, which for many years lived in the hollow of a Mulberry tree, on the edge of the distant cotton fields.The manuscript of the novel is now in safe hands. You can safely return home to your village — said Casamhor Cahratoniy as he quieted Dalakazan .
Then Dalakazan ran on the sidewalk with his wardrobe on his shoulders, with a joyful cry:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!

 

 

Chapter 33
Banquet

 

— Mr. teacher, I have something important and I have secret news for you! — a student told the teacher of bird language and literature, the honored worker of national education of Mr. Dalakazan the pot-bellied policeman with a bald head, and a school backpack behind the wardrobe school’s entrance.
— Yeah? And what is the news? — Dalakazan said surprised.
— Remember, you told us about the remarkable novel of your friend, the great writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, who lived in the hollow of a mulberry tree at the edge of the cotton fields and was engaged in literary work? — the excellent student, the pot-bellied policeman, with a bald head, and a school backpack on his shoulders said.
— Yeah, why? Tell me already- Dalakazan said.
— No, sir, first you must dance — said the high achieving student, a pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and a school backpack on his shoulders.
— Okay — agreed Dalakazan and he put the wardrobe school on his shoulder, and began to dance, circling the vortex and screaming:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
The students, led by the pot-bellied policeman, with a bald head, and a school backpack on his shoulders. started to clap their hands, as if encouraging the teacher of bird language and literature Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa.
Someone began to play on the overturned bucket.
— Dandala — didan — dendala — dedan! Dandala — didan — dendala — dedan!
Dalakazan danced for a long time, raising a cloud of dust as he did. At last he stopped, gasping for breath, and said:
Well, tell me the news — Dalakazan said to the student, a pot-bellied policeman with a bald head, with a school satchel behind.
— So, this novel called «Discovery » of your best friend Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich was published. It was published with thousands of copies, in hardcover. Readers who want to buy your friend’s novel, formed many kilometers of queue at bookstores. That is, the demand for this novel is forming at a frantic pace. — said the disciple — the student, a pot-bellied policeman with a bald head, and a school satchel on his shoulders.
Hearing this, the teacher of bird language and literature, from joy almost fainted.
— Oh, thank God! There is still justice in this world and the world is not impoverished, there are still great people left in the world! Finally! Thankfully the writer Casamhor Cahratoniy kept his word and published a book of my late friend, the great writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, who for many years lived in the hollow of a mulberry tree with his large family and was engaged in literary work, despite adversity, to devote himself. Who knows, maybe he’s rejoicing in heaven now. I’m glad I fulfilled his last request — Dalakazan said, through tears of joy, with a sigh of relief. Then he asked:
— Why haven’t you bought this book — Dalakazan said to the student, a pot-bellied policeman with a bald head, and a school backpack behind his shoulders? — It was necessary to buy this novel of the century! said Dalakazan .
— With what money, professor?» We don’t receive a student loan here in your wardrobe school — said the excellent student, the pot-bellied policeman, with a bald head, and a school backpack behind his shoulders explained.
— Yes, you are right excellent student, the pot-bellied militiaman, with a bald head and a school backpack behind your shoulders. But don’t be discouraged. We know bird language. Translate this unique novel of my late friend, the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich into bird language — Daskasan Osa ibn Cosa reassured his disciples.
— And that is not a bad idea — said the disciple — a student, a pot-bellied policeman with a bald head, with a school backpack behind his shoulders.
— No, I have to go to the city to thank the writer with a kind and pure soul, Casamhor Cahratoniy. And you continue to do homework, talking to birds — said Dalakazan .
Then he ran along the steep slope barefoot, with his wardrobe on his shoulders, shouting loudly:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
Leaving to the city, Dalakazan first went to the nearby bookstore to see with his own eyes the novel of his dead friend the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich.
But seeing the book called «Discovery», Dalakazan frozen like a street lamp in a snowstorm. Because the novel Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich wasn’t published under the name of the author Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, but under the name of Casamhor Cahratoniy.
— If Dalakazan not leaned against the wall of the book store with his wardrobe on his back, then he would have just fell to the floor.
— Sir, what’s the matter?! Why are you pale? Do you have hypertension or heart problems? Call an ambulance?! — the saleswoman said worried.
-No, no, don’t call an ambulance. Don’t worry, I am all right — Dalakazan replied.
-Ah God! What kind of injustice is this?, my Lord! I do believe Casamhor Cahratoniy is scum and I gave him the invaluable manuscript of my late friend, the poor writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich?! It’s a rip-off! He illegally appropriated someone else’s work! No, I have to find that bastard! I’m going to have him pressed to a wall and I will spit in its face until there is no spit left in my mouth. With such thoughts Dalakazan went to the side of the writers ‘ Union on the sidewalk, pushing his way through the crowd, as if a nuclear-powered icebreaker in the Arctic ocean.
In the writers ‘ Union Dalakazan was told that the writer Casamhor Cahratoniy is in his country Villa. There he celebrates, in connection with the publication of his new novel «Discovery», for which he received a solid fee.
After obtaining the address of Casamhor Cahratoniy’s country Villa, Dalakazan ran with a signature shout — -Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
When he entered the Villa of Casamhor Cahratoniy, cheerful music was playing, where everyone was dancing while intoxicated, writers and poets were raising their eyebrows and moving their huge butts, similar to a backpack. The others sat at the table eating, ringing silver forks and knives, drinking vodka, clinking thin glasses together.
When the music fell silent, one of the writers began to speak, lightly hitting the silver fork on the glass and spoke: attention, comrades! We have gathered today to congratulate our friend, the great writer Casamhor Cahratoniy, on the publication of his new novel, which was published in hardcover in thousands of copies. I can confidently say that this novel «Discovery» of Casamhor Cahratoniy, in the genre of «fantasy» as a major diamond «Kohinoor», not only enriched the Treasury of domestic but even world literature. I take this opportunity to suggest to nominate Casamhor Cahratoniy as competition in the State award of the country, to adapt his novel «Discovery» into a multi-part feature film. I am proud that I am a friend, colleague, and compatriot of such a distinguished writer of the century, Casamhor Cahratoniy! Let us, dear friends, drink to his health! Hooray, comrades! — he said.
— Yay! — the drunken guests shouted in chorus, clinking glasses and looking at each other with eyes like scrambled eggs.
Then they stopped when they heard Dalakazan let out a loud cry.
-No! Wait! The novel «Discovery» was written by Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, it is a work of my late friend, the writer Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich, who for many years lived and engaged in work of literacy in the hollow of a mulberry tree at the edge of the boundless cotton fields of our independent country! Before his death he asked me to take the manuscript of his novel and to have it published by writers and literary critics. I to fulfill his dying will, have brought the manuscript of the novel written Khoruhazon Pahtasezonovich and showed it to Casamhor Cahratoniy and he promised to take care of it and give it to a friend, who runs the publishing house. But he illegally appropriated the work of my late friend, published it under his own name! Shame on you, Casamhor Cahratoniy!? I hate you! I want to spit on your face until I have lost all the spit in my mouth! — he shouted.
Hearing his words, guests stood with glasses in hand, looking at Dalakazan , then Casamhor Cahratoniy.
-Who is this and what is he talking about?! It’s the first time I’ve seen him, I swear to God! Who is this lunatic! Has he escaped from the madhouse!? Get him out of here now! Or i’ll be calling the mental hospital, and I will have the mental team come and pick up his patient, whom is dangerous to society, he must have did something terrible here! Who let him in?! Where are the guards?! — Casamhor Cahratoniy yelled.
After these words from Casamhor Cahratoniy,the guards kicked Dalakazan out of the writer’s union. And then the drunk company continued to have fun. Drunken guests hugged, kissed, clocked glasses, cried and laughed.

 

 

Chapter 34
Dalakazan’s Death

 

Dalakazan with the wardrobe on his shoulders, ran toward the cotton fields. He ran on, thinking that enough was enough, that he would get rid of unjust people once and for all. He would walk to Maccah and do the Hadj. Nothing can stop me no scorching heat, no Arctic cold, no hunger, no sandstorm. I can cope even with hungry wolves, with hyenas and jackals. If only on the road I didn’t meet mean people, envious and cunning slanderers are worse than a Jackal.
With these thoughts Dalakazan rapidly ran on and a company of border guards chased Dalakazan at the BTR, raising a cloud of dust.
— Hold it, where are you going, Mr. Dalakazan, There are mines over there! — shouted the commander of a platoon of border guards in the helmet of the tank holding a retro megaphone, sticking his head out of the hatch.
— You leave me alone, for God’s sake! Why are you bothering me, just like small fish following sharks around in the ocean! I’m walking to Maccah to do ha-a-dj! — shouted Dalakazan.
— You can’t go in there, sir!» It’s dangerous. God forbid, you might step on a land mine, we will be under a tribunal! If you want to make a pilgrimage to Maccah, we will arrange a Charter flight for you on an armored ‘Boeing’ plane! Come back! — the commander, coughing in the thick dust raised by the APCS continued to scream in the tin megaphone. Dalakazan running barefoot, with a huge wardrobe at the back, not stopping for a minute and the whole company infantry chased after him shouting.
Then a strong explosion sounded, and one of the BTRs, turning over, fell with a crash into the funnel, which was formed after the explosion of the land mine. Dalakazan stopped not because he was afraid, not at all, he stopped out of curiosity. Then out of the hatch of the overturned APC came out and climbed out of the crater and crawled on their big bellied commander with a crumpled horn in his hand, face covered in soot from the smoke and fumes.
— Are you okay, Mr. Dalakazan? Are you hurt?! — the commander of a company of frontier guards in a rumpled retro megaphone asked.
— No, i’m not hurt! — answered Dalakazan. And asked: — Are you?!
«I’m all right!» the commander shouted into the battered tin retro megaphone, coughing in the black smoke.
— Thank God! — shouted Dalakazan.
When the company commander, who lost his boots came closer, Dalakazan saw that the tunic of the commander was missing one sleeve. A company of infantry, leaving their commander with Dalakazan, with a cry, ran under the cover of the Armored vehicles.
— Thanks for staying Mr. Dalakazan! — again the leader shouted in the battered tin megaphone .
-You’re welcome. — answered Dalakazan.
After that they descended into a deep bunker that is camouflaged command post, and sitting there one-on-one, and discussed issues concerning the Hajj with Dalakazan going to the Arabian Peninsula.
— Well, we agree with you, Mr. Dalakazan. You can walk. But to do this, we must issue for you an international instrument of immunity in five languages — English, French, Arabic and Spanish, so that you can move freely and cross the borders of States. We’ll also give you some money for the trip. And so that you do not lose the document of immunity, we will glue it in a prominent place of your container Cabinet and, seeing this document, the border guards will let you across the border, agreed?

— okay, cheaf — agreed Dalakazan.

— This is quite a different thing — said the company commander, with a sigh of relief.

The next day Dalakazan went on foot on a long journey. As always, he was dressed in striped pajamas and was barefoot, with a huge wardrobe on his shoulders.
Of course, it was not easy. It may even seem unreal to the reader. But Dalakazan accustomed to long walks. He walked all his life with a heavy load on his back, and probably therefore withstood the weight of the long road. He walked like a camel, on the hump of which was heavy loads are carried through the arid deserts of the planet, where the whirlwinds of sandstorms do not allow a person to open their eyes, filling them with hot sand, like burning hot crushed pepper.
The hot sand burned his legs, and he was tired. He stubbornly walked under the scorching sun, suffocating from the air. Dalakazan crossed the desert, waded the shallow river, passed the mountain passes, resting, eating, drinking, studying a map, which the the company commander of the border guards gave him. He slept, having tightly closed the door of his wardrobe-apartment in the deserted steppe, where the wolves howled. He walked past the rice fields where people hunched over and planted rice seedlings, walked over the hills, along the seashore where white gulls rustled. Admired water open spaces and azure coast, standing with the case on a back on a deck of the ship of the long voyage, Dalakazan admired the jumps of cheerful dolphins in the ocean waters , fountains of whales and fins of sharks. Although Dalakazan did not understand any foreign languages, except for the bird language, but still able to communicate with different people of the world in the language of dumb, that is on the fingers. Everywhere people greeted him with a friendly smile, looking with interest at his huge wooden backpack, his striped pajamas, patched short pants and his bare feet. Long white beard and shaggy gray hair Dalakazan patted the winds when he thoughtfully and sadly staring at the horizon, where sadly the sun was setting. People were surprised to see how freely he talks to seagulls on the morning berths. Dalakazan went due South, in the direction indicated on the map. Finally, he reached the goal that went so long and hard. He was as happy as a little boy when he saw people in white clothes. They gathered on the huge square, and Dalakazan ran to him, shouting happily on the weight of the voice:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
But the happy smile on his lips was extinguished when he learned that he had not come to the city of Maccah, and instead the Vatican city, where a lot of people welcomed the Pope in a small red skullcap, who was riding on the ‘Pope mobile’, waving a friendly hand to Christians and blessing them. Sitting on a stone bench Dalakazan began to cry, wailing in Uzbek and partly in bird language, cusring the commander of the guard that gave him the wrong map. Hearing him cry, Christian pilgrims came running and asked him in Italian why he was crying. Dalakazan responded to them in a foreign, well, that is bird language, but naturally no one understood, because among the pilgrims, there were those who would speak the language of birds. Then the pilgrims read the international document integrity, is written in five languages and pasted in a conspicuous place on the flat wardrobe that Dalakazan had on his back, from which he learned that he was from the distant and Sunny Uzbekistan. After that, they called the Embassy of Uzbekistan and said that here, they say, a citizen of their country is crying, and he needs help. But the Embassy staff did not react to this. On the contrary, they began secretly to monitor what is happening, watching Dalakazan from behind the curtain and removing it from afar on video . They thought that it is the next citizen of their country who came to picket, demanding to stop infringing his human rights.
Yeah you can’t call them, they do not respond, they do not help millions of its citizens, guest workers caught a difficult situation in Russia and in Kazakhstan! — one of the pilgrims named Mr. Kreik said in English , and continued — So far they have not developed a legal mechanism that could protect their citizens working as guest workers in other countries. While other States stand up for the protection of one of their citizens and are ready to start a world war because of him, the authorities of this country do not provide their citizens with even basic legal assistance when they are in a difficult situation or when they are simply killed for nothing. But they like to make a profit as a percentage of the billions of dollars that poor Uzbek guest workers bring to the Treasury, transferring money from the host country. Poor people get a meager salary for their cheap slave labor from their newly minted slave owners from the near abroad!
After these words of Mr. Kreik, the pilgrims began to ask each other if anyone understands Uzbek. There was an American woman named Sarah from Connecticut who studied Uzbek at Indiana University. She entered into conversation with Dalakazan.
— Why are you crying, sir? — she asked Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa.
— Oh, my daughter, I was deceived! I was walking towards the Arabian Peninsula to make the Hajj, which is a pilgrimage, but the commander of the border patrol gave me a false map, and as a result, I came here to Your Vatican! Maybe he hastily drew the wrong card, or himself, without realizing it, replaced it — cried Dalakazan rocking his huge wardrobe on his back.
A pilgrim in a long white dress joined in on the conversation, which was comforting Dalakazan, and said the following:
— Don’t cry, stranger, don’t cry! We have different religions, but God is one and inseparable! The peoples of the world, regardless of nationality, race or religion, must live together in peace and harmony, as if they were one family! For all the people of the planet are children of Adam and Eve! We, Christians, and you, Muslims, as well as Jews, Buddhists, and others, should treat each other with respect. We all need to be tolerant of each other if we want the world not to have wars, the planet not to be corroded by economic crisis, spiritual decay, devastation, famine, epidemics and so on!
— Yes, you’re right, my friend — said Dalakazan, after hearing the words of the pilgrim in the translation.
After that, the pilgrims showed him the way to the Arabian Peninsula, drawing a new map for him. And gave him an Italian umbrella, as in the Vatican began to drizzle cool rain. Dalakazan thanked Christian pilgrims and went back to the path. His heart calmed down and his mood lifted. Merrily whistling a tune, he walked with his wardrobe-apartment on his shoulders through the expanses of the country, like a huge boot with spurs like medieval knights. Sometimes he shouted happily:
-Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la! Jit -Jit- Jittalalu -lalu la!
Hearing his cries, people smiled and waved to him. Thanks to the international document, pasted in a conspicuous place of his wardrobe-apartments, Dalakazan easily crossed the borders and walked on toward his goal. He crossed fields, walked on giant suspension bridges, passed through tunnels connecting mountain passes, crossed oceans and seas on ferries and ships, wandered through the deserted expanses of deserts, where herds of wild camels roam. In one of these deserts was a terrible sandstorm, and Dalakazan almost died, caught under the rubble of sand. He crawled out from under the sand like a small sea turtle that had just hatched from an egg and crawled along the sandy shore towards the sea. Meanwhile, he ran out of water and food. Unbearable thirst, intense hunger and the hot sun knocked him out of his strength, and he began to move, staggering and stumbling with a huge wardrobe on his back. Dalakazan suddenly saw an oasis, where, under the old thick Elaeagnus murmured transparent spring water. But when he came closer, the spring immediately disappeared from sight. It turned out, this was Mirage, which is a dreaming man in the desert. Dalakazan knew how dangerous it was here to make a halt, to rest. A man in this heat will just fry, lying on the hot sand. So Dalakazan decided, at whatever cost, to go further, there while there was strength in the legs. He walked for a long time, his head hanging heavy, as if he had a cast-iron weight of street athletes around his neck. Dalakazan even thought, what if to throw the Cabinet off and move on with ease? But he changed his mind, deciding that he would carry his wardrobe on himself until his death. After all, it was his memorable family heirloom, which reminded him of his first wife. He clearly remembered how he found her naked lover in this closet. With this burden, he decided not to be separated, even after death. Let the light of his unfaithful wife will see this closet and repent before God on judgment day and let her be ashamed of adultery, she made a mistake, insulting the poor Dalakazan. He even wrote a will just in case, in which he expressed the wish that after his death he would be put in a coffin and buried together with this wardrobe.
With such thoughts he walked a long way, not resting, and suddenly saw his native village Tappicasod. Dalakazan stopped for a moment, swaying, as if drunk, and thought he again had dream of a mirage. But then he heard a familiar voice.
-Dalakazan came back from Maccah! Hadj Mubarak, Dalakazan! Well, thank God you’re back! — shouted the commander of the guards in the crumpled retro megaphone , rejoicing and trying hug Dalakazan. Dalakazan fell to the ground with the huge wardrobe, muttering:
-Thank God I’m back home!
Saying these words, he suddenly for all, died.
In the morgue in the pocket of his striped pants was his will, which he wrote during his lifetime. According to this will, after washing, his body was wrapped in a white shroud with his wardrobe apartment and put in coffin in his «janaza» (funeral). During Dalakazan’s janaza, it was attended by the President of the country. After Dalakazan was lowered into the grave along with his wardrobe on his back, the country’s President broke down and silently cried, shaking his shoulders. The whole country cried after seeing this touching scene on TV in a live broadcast.
— Goodbye, uncle Dalakazan. You were a real hero. I’m sorry we couldn’t appreciate you in life. We will never forget you. «Joyingiz Jannatdan bolsin» (Your soul rests in Paradise) — the President said, gasping from grief and wiping his tears with a handkerchief. At these words the President of the country present at Dalakazan’s funeral the choir sobbed.
The students along with the pot-bellied policeman with a bald head and with a school bag on his shoulders, over the grave of the great teacher of bird language Dalakazan Osa Ibn Cosa set a birdhouse on a high pole.
And over the fields the larks singing as before, bursting trills, like nothing happened.

 

End.

 

16/12/2018.
6:18 PM.
Canada, Ontario.