Holder Volcano

Member of the Writers’ Union of Uzbekistan

 

Driver of the Earth

(A Novel)

 

(I would advise the reader not to rush into accusing me of mocking sick people, since the characters in this novel are intended to represent the world community, which has gone mad.Respectfully, the Author.)

 

 

Chapter 1
The Birdhouse

 

 

Ngduat Yambua was a young man of about twenty-five, of average height and lean build, with brown eyes, black hair, and thick dark eyebrows. The nose of this smiling fellow was slightly hooked, his lips were thin, and his front teeth were large like a rabbit’s, remaining visible even when Ngduat Yambua closed his mouth tightly. The character of this born eccentric, who came into the world with a mild mental disorder, was not entirely normal. Yet he was not dangerous to society. On the contrary, he was kind. The villagers had long forgotten his real name. Many called him Didit, because he ran through the streets turning an invisible steering wheel, making the sounds of a moving automobile with his mouth and honking an imaginary horn, thus warning pedestrians so as not to run them over. His official name in his passport was Ngduat Yambua. Since his passport was not forged, that is what we shall call him. I have an intuition that you are wondering why the main character of this novel has such a name. Do I know? Go ask him yourself. Perhaps he has some unusual ancestry on his father’s or mother’s side. To verify all that one would need to study piles of documents, investigate his family history, determine where his ancestors were born, perform DNA tests, and so on. I do not have time for that. Personally, I am not interested in a person’s nationality, race, or religion. All people living in this world are the children of Adam and Eve and, regardless of nationality, race, or religion, they should live in peace, harmony, and mutual understanding as members of one family in a democratic society.

Ngduat Yambua would shout, sounding his horn: «Diiid, diiiid!» In this way he warned pedestrians and attracted passengers.

«Dran! Drannnnanananan, dran! Where are you headed, sir? Hop in, I’ll give you a ride!» he would say with a broad and kindly smile.

«Oh, thank you, Ngduat Yambua. I was just running late for work,» people would reply so as not to offend him, pretending to climb aboard his invisible bus and then running after him for some distance.

Some would show him their transit passes, while others would give him a few coins as if paying the fare. In other words, he worked as a private carrier in his spare time and thus earned enough money to feed himself. Ngduat Yambua strictly observed traffic regulations, coming to smooth stops at intersections so that officers of the Traffic Police Department would not fine him for running a red light. He carefully followed all instructions, never exceeding the speed limit and never driving below the minimum permitted speed. Ngduat Yambua helped elderly people patch leaking roofs, dug their vegetable gardens with a shovel, and repaired wooden fences free of charge. He never took offense when children teased him or laughed at him. Ngduat Yambua lived in a low-ceilinged hut with his deaf-mute mother, Rizvan, a thin woman of about forty who communicated through gestures. They lived poorly but happily. Their hut was cool in summer and warm in winter. Ngduat Yambua’s father had also been a driver, and he died in an automobile accident. Despite their hardships, Ngduat Yambua and his deaf-mute mother Rizvan lived peacefully, complaining about nothing. Like everyone else, Ngduat Yambua went to work every day in his invisible personal vehicle, never arriving a minute late. His conduct, professionalism, and discipline fully complied with workplace regulations, eliminating the risk of reprimands or disciplinary action. He was highly regarded, a qualified and punctual employee of his office, where he was both worker and manager. He had the most responsible job in the world. He was the Driver of the Earth.

From morning until evening he sat in his office, which resembled a large birdhouse perched high in an enormous tree growing above a deep ravine, its powerful roots sunk into the earth like the claws of a hawk. From the windows of his cabin one could see everything around: rice fields, a river delta, gullies, tugai forests where elms and junipers grew, and dense thickets of green reeds. There spiders wove strange patterns from their webs, while riverside willows gazed silently into the water. The buds of snow-white water lilies rose above the surface like lamps. White harmless butterflies fluttered from side to side as though intoxicated after drinking the morning dew from a chamomile petal. At such moments it might seem there were two of them. In reality there might be only one butterfly, while the other was its reflection, its shadow. In the river floodplain lay water meadows where tall grass grew and blue-eyed cornflowers bloomed. The experienced international-class pilot-cosmonaut Ngduat Yambua would sometimes sharpen his scythe and mow the grass covered with pearly dew while gulls cried together above the river. Somewhere at the edge of the fields a hoopoe called mournfully, reminding him of his distant carefree childhood, and it seemed to him that he was not on Earth but in Paradise, silently mowing grass where cut forget-me-nots lay forgiving everything and harboring no resentment. Their gentle smiles and blue gaze were impossible to forget.

 

 

Chapter 2
A Bouquet of Snow-White Water Lilies

 

 

Sitting in his wooden office, which resembled a birdhouse, the Driver of the Earth would spend hours watching the sunset, when the weary sun slowly sank beyond the horizon and the clouds and sky turned to gold. At such enchanting moments, even the birds in flight seemed fiery, as though they were soaring on burning wings, while silence itself remained silent lest its words burst into flames. It was as if a quiet summer evening were gently descending upon the fields and meadows beneath a giant crimson parachute. In the twilight fields, the sunflowers grew melancholy as they watched the sun disappear beyond the horizon, while in the evening pastures the cows lowed long and mournfully, calling for their calves. During the brief interval between sunset and darkness, the sky became deep blue, and one by one bright stars began to appear, like sparks drifting from the trampled campfire of dusk. Then came the most mysterious spectacle. The moon slowly rose, softly illuminating the fields and meadows, resembling a white balloon whose string a little boy had accidentally let slip from his hand. Lights appeared on the river buoys, while beyond the river the lights of distant villages trembled like joyful tears about to break through the dam of night’s eyelashes. The lunar twilight began to cluck rhythmically and monotonously through the chirping of crickets, like a mother hen.

Cryk! Cryk! Cryk! Cryk!…

Lost in such thoughts and reflections, Ngduat Yambua diligently carried out his work, steering the Earth as it floated weightlessly through the boundless cosmos, unsupported by anything at all. He did his utmost to ensure that the oceans and seas did not spill from the underside of the planet, that the people walking upside down with their feet above their heads did not lose their grip and tumble screaming into the cosmic abyss. He worked in his little wooden office, resembling a birdhouse, perched high upon an enormous tree growing above a deep ravine, its mighty roots sunk into the earth like the talons of an eagle.

Ngduat Yambua often replaced the windowpanes of his small wooden office, which local children frequently shattered with their slingshots. The children aimed at birds but struck the windows instead. The Driver of the Earth felt less sorry for the broken glass than for the innocent birds that spent their days flying back and forth, feeding insects to their chicks.

Once he told the children:

“Children, do not kill birds. If you kill them, their chicks will die of hunger while chirping and waiting for parents who will never return with food. Before you shoot at birds with your slingshots, imagine yourselves in the place of those helpless chicks, and imagine your own parents in the place of the birds.”

And so lived the hero of our novel.

His mother constantly begged him to be careful and not fall asleep at the wheel of the Earth and plunge into the deep ravine. After all, billions of passengers—the whole of humanity—had entrusted their fate to him. She had even sewn him a parachute from old clothing—jackets, jeans, and coats—so that he could eject in case of danger.

Working inside a cramped wooden office was no easy matter. Everything had to be prepared for emergencies. Ngduat Yambua organized a fire station on the premises and hung fire extinguishers, a crowbar, a fire hook, a shovel, and a bucket there so that any blaze could quickly be extinguished.

Just then, his thoughts were interrupted by a cry for help, and he nearly lost control of the Earth.

Below, near the river delta, a young woman was shouting desperately for assistance.

It turned out that her cow had become trapped in a bog.

Switching the Earth into autopilot mode, Ngduat Yambua hurried down from his post and raced toward the delta, making the sounds of a speeding automobile.

When he arrived, he recognized the girl.

It was Malokhat, the most beautiful girl in the village, the daughter of the veterinarian Saidkaramatullo.

Malokhat stood weeping, clutching the rope attached to the cow, which was stretched taut like a string. The exhausted animal struggled desperately to free itself from the mire but could not. It snorted and gasped for breath, its nostrils flared and its eyes wide with terror.

Without a second thought, the Driver of the Earth leapt into the swamp and began helping the cow escape. He pushed against it with his shoulders as though trying to free a vehicle stuck in mud. For a long time he struggled, grunting and straining, becoming covered in muck from head to toe while imitating the sound of an engine:

“Dran! Drannannannannan! Dran!”

At last the cow broke free.

Malokhat rushed to help him. Eventually he too escaped the bog, grasping a stick she extended toward him. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the grass, breathing heavily as he stared into the endless heavens where clouds drifted overhead.

“Thank you, Ngduat Yambua. Are you hurt? Truly, thank you. If it weren’t for you, my cow would have drowned in the swamp, and my father would have killed me. You’re a good man. You nearly drowned because of me,” Malokhat said gratefully as she knelt beside him.

“Oh, it’s nothing, Malokhat. Don’t cry. It’s a good thing I rushed over in my invisible company limousine. It was traveling at one hundred and eighty kilometers per hour. Luckily there weren’t any pedestrians on the road. Otherwise I might have run them over, and I’d have ended up in prison for years,” said Ngduat Yambua with a cheerful grin.

His face was covered in mud, leaving only the whites of his eyes and his large rabbit-like front teeth visible. Those teeth never disappeared, even when he closed his mouth tightly. At that moment he resembled a miner who had just emerged from deep underground.

Hearing his words, Malokhat smiled through her tears.

Then Ngduat Yambua rose to his feet and began singing a song, dancing merrily to its rhythm.

Watching him, Malokhat burst into laughter.

Afterward they headed toward the watering place. There they washed the mud from the cow, and Ngduat Yambua bathed in the river. Above them gulls wheeled and cried, opening their beaks as wide as possible. The cow calmed down and began grazing, swatting away swarms of flies with her tail and ears.

Ngduat Yambua and Malokhat sat on the riverbank, silently watching the flight of the noisy gulls. In the distance, ferries and cargo vessels sounded their horns like cows lowing mournfully across the evening pastures.

“Ngduat Yambua, why didn’t you go to school?” Malokhat finally asked, breaking the awkward silence.

He continued staring into the distance without answering.

“I understand. You were probably afraid the other children would laugh at you and make fun of you. It’s a shame you never studied. I would have gladly sat beside you at the same desk,” she said.

“I did go to school once—on my very first day. I still remember the smell of ink. I remember my teacher and my classmates. Back then everyone wrote with fountain pens dipped into porcelain inkwells. But I came from a long line of drivers. During class I started steering the Earth from my desk made of pine boards.

‘Dran! Drannannanan! Dran!’ I said as I pressed an invisible accelerator and gradually increased the speed of our planet.

My classmates burst into laughter. They didn’t know I was the Driver of the Earth. Neither did our teacher. After that, for some reason, I wasn’t allowed to return.”

Malokhat laughed again.

Ngduat Yambua explained that his invisible vehicle was universal—an amphibious machine. It could transform into a boat or even a submarine equipped with intercontinental hypersonic ballistic missiles.

Then he suddenly dove headfirst into the water and disappeared beneath the surface.

For several minutes he did not emerge.

Malokhat became terrified, convinced he had drowned. She ran up and down the shore, not knowing what to do. Then she began crying and calling for help.

“Who drowned? Where?” someone suddenly asked behind her.

Malokhat turned around.

There stood Ngduat Yambua, alive and unharmed, smiling broadly while hiding one hand behind his back.

“You devil! You frightened me!” she exclaimed.

Ngduat Yambua extended his hidden hand.

In it was a bouquet of snow-white water lilies he had gathered from the river delta.
Malokhat accepted the beautiful bouquet and thanked him with delight.

“You’re welcome, Malokhat,” Ngduat Yambua replied with a smile.
Then he apologized.

“Now I have to go, Malokhat. The planet is flying through space on autopilot!”
With those words he ran back toward his office, perched upon the enormous tree towering above the ravine, its mighty roots gripping the earth like the talons of an eagle.

 

 

Chapter 3
The Advice of Ngduat Yambua’s Mother

 

 

From morning until night, a person runs across a gigantic ball of clay that has been weightlessly spinning since time immemorial, obeying the mysterious laws of gravity. A person runs to work and then home from work. He hurries to stock exchanges to trade shares and bonds; he rushes to stores, hospitals, and pharmacies. Without movement, he would meet his end. Running is his only chance to avoid danger or solve his problems. He runs so ceaselessly and so quickly that the giant sphere beneath his feet grows hot. Humanity races onward, burning itself against a fiery globe like a glowing coal. People run without looking back because a pale creature carrying a scythe in its bony hands is chasing them. Such is the blazing machine governed by the hero of our novel, Mr. Ngduat Yambua.

He returned home late after handing over his shift to his fellow drivers, who lived on different continents of our planet. At the doorstep he was greeted by his deaf-mute mother, and they began speaking through sign language. To make the essence of their conversation clear to you, I shall translate their words into our spoken tongue.

“My son, you’ve come home? My hardworking boy. You must be tired. Yours is a difficult and responsible job. Wash your hands quickly and sit down at the khontahta. I’ve prepared a delicious supper for you. Chuchvara made from herbs. The meal is modest, of course—there’s no meat—but it’s healthy. The electricity has gone out again. But that’s all right, my son. We still have our kerosene lamp. We’ll eat together by lamplight, just like wealthy officials dining by candlelight in the capital’s elite restaurants,” said Rizvan in her language of gestures.

“Thank you, Mother. Yes, I’m exhausted. You know yourself that steering the Earth is no easy task. Today I even managed to help a girl named Malokhat—you probably know her. She’s the daughter of the veterinarian Saidbarakatullo. I was sitting in my cabin, guiding the planet, when suddenly I heard someone crying for help. When I saw it was her, I hurried down from the tree like Tarzan and sped toward the river delta in my invisible company limousine at one hundred and eighty kilometers per hour. It turned out her cow had become stuck in a swamp. I jumped into the bog and helped pull it free.”

As he spoke, Ngduat Yambua washed himself at a hanging washbasin fashioned from a dried bottle gourd.

“Of course I know her. Malokhat is the most beautiful girl in our village. Veterinarian Saidkaramatullo and his wife Tolkunoy are good people too. Helping others is a godly deed, my son. You’re a fine man, a true benefactor. You’re always helping everyone you can. No wonder God chose you to be the Driver of the Earth,” Rizvan praised her son.

Then they sat down together to supper by the light of the kerosene lamp, around which a solitary moth merrily circled. Somewhere in a crack in the earthen wall of their hut, a cricket was singing.

“Thank you, Mother. It’s delicious. You’re a gourmet, an expert in all the finest dishes in the world. You can make delicacies even from grass. Look how these dumplings resemble my ears,” Ngduat Yambua praised his mother in sign language, skillfully shaping his words with his fingers.

“Eat, eat, my son. Enjoy your meal. After such exhausting work, you must eat well. Yours is an honorable profession. You faithfully fulfill your duty to humanity. I’m proud of you. It’s a pity your father died in a car accident and never lived to see these days. May he rest in heaven. May the earth lie softly upon him. He’s probably waiting for me now in paradise at the ornate heavenly gates. I’m already standing with one foot in the grave myself. I want to see the happy day when you marry. I want to care for grandsons and granddaughters. I’ve even thought of a name for your firstborn. We’ll call him Papap. He too will become a great Driver of the Earth, carrying on your work,” Rizvan dreamed aloud as she wiped her tears with the edge of her worn apron.

“Mother, what’s wrong? Don’t cry. You’ll see—everything will be fine. I’ll marry the best and most beautiful girl, and you’ll have grandchildren to spoil. Yes, Mother, we’ll name my son Papap, and I’ll do everything I can to teach him how to guide the planet properly through the endless cosmos. He’ll drive his invisible limousine through the village streets at tremendous speed, while strictly obeying traffic regulations and stopping carefully at intersections whenever the light turns red. As he drives, he’ll sound his horn with his voice, warning pedestrians:

‘Pap! Pap! Papaaap!’

And when he sees a crowd of children, he’ll perform the Andijan Polka with his voice:

‘Pap-pap-papap! Papapap papap!
Pap-pap-papap! Papapap papap!’

Hearing such cheerful music, the children will dance as though at a disco.

As his inheritance, I’ll leave him the fields and evening meadows where the cows are lowing. The moonlit groves and distant oak forests, the path through the rye, the woodland road, the blue starlit twilight, and the songs of frogs in the mute silence. The shadows of trees upon whitewashed walls and the singing of crickets beneath the bright moon. The mournful ferries humming on the river. The drumlike rhythm of a woodpecker tapping in a poplar grove. The lonely cry of a hoopoe at the edge of the fields.

The oceans and seas will belong to him. The hillsides, the plains, the mountain peaks, the birch forests, the oak woods, and the pine forests. All the birds in the world that travel south in great caravans. The silver dandelions, the wandering wind, the misty sleeping fields.

May he protect the planet in summer and winter alike. May he watch over it.”

“God grant that you may be happy, my son, and that all your dreams come true. But under no circumstances must you agree if the foolish presidents of the world ask to take the wheel of the Earth. Don’t let them drive the planet, Ngduat Yambua—oh, don’t let them—even if they offer you billions of dollars in cash. The fate of humanity cannot be trusted to them. Otherwise they will destroy the planet through their reckless steering, fighting one another over resources and roasting humanity alive in the hell of thermonuclear war.

How fortunate that I am deaf and mute! How fortunate that we speak the language of silence through signs. Otherwise the secret agents of all the world’s intelligence services would have thrown us into prison long ago. They constantly listen to your telephone calls, record them, and watch us day and night,” Rizvan said with relief.

“Yes, Mother, you’re right. I will never allow those foolish presi-dents, those vile dictators and authoritarian rulers, to take the wheel of the Earth. You can be certain of that. They will never sit at the helm of the planet,” Ngduat Yambua promised.

“Thank you, my son,” said Rizvan, her eyes filling with tears once more.

Outside the low window of their hut, the moon shone as though entangled in the web of its own rays. Frogs chattered in chorus somewhere far away, and a lone dog barked sleepily from beyond the river. Mother and son talked for a long time. Then they fell silent, gazing thoughtfully at the solitary moth circling the burning kerosene lamp, just as the Earth circles the Sun.

 

 

Chapter 4
The Chase

 

 

“Beep! Beeeep!” cried the main literary hero of our novel, in order to warn absent-minded pedestrians who were silently walking along a sidewalk carpeted with fallen maple leaves in the autumn hush.

Just then he was stopped by a pot-bellied inspector from the Department of Traffic Police, who came running up, stomping in size-48 chrome boots without soles and carrying a striped baton in his hand. He addressed Ngduat Yambua, saluting and breathing heavily.

“Senior Sergeant Dugletov of the Department of Traffic Police! Citizen driver, I have been informed that you drove through a red traffic light. Why are you violating traffic regulations in broad daylight?! Who gave you the right to travel at high speed when the road sign prohibits speeds above 40 kilometers per hour? There is a school and a kindergarten nearby, swarming with children. Driving at such a reckless speed, you could run over schoolchildren right on the pedestrian crossing! For this serious violation of traffic regulations, I am forced to fine you,” said Senior Sergeant Dugletov of the Department of Traffic Police.

Then he added:

“Now breathe into this. You aren’t drunk, are you?.. A person under the influence of narcotics or alcohol is not allowed behind the wheel, Mr. Driver. Such is the law. And the law is the same for everyone… And where is your vehicle? What make is it, and what are its license plates? I must inspect your transport and examine the trunk. Who knows—perhaps you are carrying a large shipment of narcotics in your trunk, such as heroin or cocaine.”

“Good Lord! What are you talking about, Mr. Senior Sergeant Dugletov of the Department of Traffic Police?” replied Ngduat Yambua. “Do I look like a drug addict? I am a law-abiding citizen of my country who leads a healthy lifestyle. I do not drink, I do not smoke, and I play sports. As for the automobile—there it is, my personal Land Rover limousine. Can’t you see it? I am driving an invisible car.”

“Are you making fun of me, citizen driver?” asked the officer. “Do you happen to work as a clown in a circus? Please don’t put on a circus performance. Or do you doubt that I will fine you?”

“Very well, Mr. Senior Sergeant Dugletov of the Department of Traffic Police. But first explain to me on what grounds I am supposed to pay a fine. Where is it written that one may not drive an invisible vehicle on the roads of our country? No such law exists. Therefore your complaints are not directed at the right person.”

“My advice to you, citizen driver: do not argue with an official. Enough pretending. Your driver’s license, please. I shall fine you for illegally engaging in passenger transport,” threatened Senior Sergeant Dugletov.

“A driver’s license? One moment… It should be somewhere here. Ah, I found it. Here you are,” said Ngduat Yambua.

“Where? I can’t see your license, citizen driver. Have you lost your mind? Do you need a doctor?” the officer asked in astonishment.

“And what exactly should the driver’s license of an invisible-car driver look like? It is perfectly logical. Wake up, Mr. Senior Sergeant Dugletov! We are living in the twenty-first century! The production of electric vehicles is growing at a furious pace around the world. The Chinese company BYD is already overtaking the company Tesla, owned by the American billionaire Elon Musk.

“My company, which manufactures invisible automobiles, will soon force even those Chinese manufacturers and Elon Musk himself into bankruptcy. Believe me. Because the invisible vehicles we produce in gigantic invisible factories can be purchased by anyone, even the poorest beggars, since they are free. That is the first thing.

“Secondly, these vehicles require neither fuel nor electricity. They do not need gas stations either. Soon the world will stop buying oil, and oil magnates everywhere will suffer collapse. Obsolete tankers will cease crossing the seas and oceans and overturning, spilling fuel oil and causing environmental catastrophes that destroy flora and fauna.

“To produce our invisible and completely safe automobiles, no materials or spare parts are needed. There is no need to build factories that release toxic smoke into the atmosphere. The cars manufactured by my company, Ngduatyambua International, emit no exhaust gases and do not pollute the air, causing respiratory illnesses among city dwellers.

“Car thieves cannot steal our invisible automobiles. Consequently, automobile-related crime will decline sharply, making the work of your colleagues in the Department of Traffic Police much easier. With the invisible vehicles produced by my company, there will be no traffic accidents and nobody will be harmed.

“The greenhouse effect and global warming will also be prevented—those phenomena that cause abnormal heat, droughts, dust storms, melting glaciers, rising sea levels, and the appearance of tsunamis and typhoons.

“Now imagine how much money will be saved by this grand project of global importance.

“But that is not all. In the near future, my company, Ngduatyambua International, plans new interplanetary projects involving the production of invisible aircraft, gigantic military bombers intended to strike designated targets with multi-ton bombs in order to strengthen the defensive capabilities of our planet, strictly observing the saying: ‘If you want peace, prepare for war.’

“We also intend to produce invisible drones capable of carrying out bombing strikes against the enemy, destroying personnel, equipment, infrastructure, and fortified positions.

“But even that is not the limit. We also have projects to create invisible smartphones and state-of-the-art computers that will help people escape unlawful surveillance—that is, the secret observation of vile individuals who do not fear the wrath of God.

“Most importantly, these invisible gadgets will help reduce marital quarrels caused by jealousy and prevent divorces and the breakup of families throughout the world, ensuring that children do not become orphans and end up among dirty street waifs living in dark, damp basements where hungry rats run about.

“Do you understand now who I am, Mr. Senior Sergeant Dugletov of the Department of Traffic Police? If so, then please do not interfere with me and waste my precious time. I am not only the driver of my invisible Land Rover limousine, but also an experienced international-class pilot-cosmonaut—the Driver of the Earth.

“God Himself chose me from among humanity and appointed me driver of the Planet. In other words, the fate of humanity and of the Earth depends on me.

“Or perhaps the fate of humanity means nothing to you? Perhaps you do not wish to see a new invisible automotive industry develop and raise the economy of our country to a higher level?

“If you are not an enemy of our state and our people, then for heaven’s sake, do not hinder me. I cannot be late for work. As they say—contact! Takeoff! Mr. Senior Sergeant Dugletov!” explained Ngduat Yambua.

Then he ran down the sidewalk strewn with fallen maple leaves, making verbal horn noises to warn pedestrians.

“Wait! Stop, citizen driver of invisible transportation! I’m talking to you!” shouted Senior Sergeant Dugletov of the Department of Traffic Police.

He too began running after the Driver of the Earth, stomping in his size-48 chrome boots without soles and clutching his striped baton.

But unfortunately, he failed to catch Ngduat Yambua. He finally stopped, limping badly and crying out in wild pain.

It turned out that Senior Sergeant Dugletov of the Department of Traffic Police had stepped on a rusty 125-millimeter nail, which pierced straight through his foot.

 

 

Chapter 5
Guests

 

 

The bouquet of snow-white water lilies that Ngduat Yambua had given her was placed by Malokhat in a vase of water, hoping somehow to prolong the life of the wonderful flowers gathered from the river. The bouquet filled her room with a certain coziness, decorating and easing the emptiness and loneliness she felt inside, reminding her of those pleasant moments and of her meeting with Ngduat Yambua, who had risked his life to help her in a difficult moment. She smiled, remembering his funny words, and thought only of him, unable to turn her mind to anything else. She was tormented by an overwhelming inner need, a spiritual hunger, an unbearable desire to see Ngduat Yambua again.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the conversation of her parents.

“Tolkunoy, I have thought about it for a long time and have come to the conclusion that we should thank Ngduat Yambua for helping our daughter and saving our cow when it got stuck in the swamp. I want to give him a smartphone.”

“Yes, you are right, father of my children. I have thought about it many times as well. Malokhat and I will cook a delicious lamb pilaf with fat-tail sheep fat and we shall go visit them. We can also visit his mother at the same time,” Tolkunoy agreed.

Hearing this, Malokhat was overjoyed and immediately began helping her mother.

“Ngduat Yambua is not such a bad fellow. Kind-hearted, harms nobody. On the contrary, he helps everyone however he can. Judging by his actions, one can see that he is no fool. Quite the opposite—in him there hides a capable, wise, even brilliant man who merely pretends to be a fool,” said Saidkaramatullo.

“I think the same,” Tolkunoy agreed as she continued working in the kitchen.

By evening the pilaf was ready, and the whole family went to visit them. Ngduat Yambua’s deaf-mute mother Rizvan was so happy to receive guests that tears of joy rolled down her cheeks like raindrops upon a windowpane. The visitors were surprised to find Ngduat Yambua standing in an inspection pit, climbing out while wiping his hands with a rag. When Malokhat saw him, she blushed deeply from embarrassment, like a ripe cherry in a summer orchard. It seemed to her that her heart had swollen from excitement to an impossible size and was about to burst.

“Oh, what honored guests we have! Assalamu alaikum, Uncle Saidkaramatullo. Assalamu alaikum, Aunt Tolkunoy… Forgive me, I was repairing my invisible Land Rover,” explained Ngduat Yambua.

“Wa alaikum assalam, Ngduat Yambua. Yes, even invisible limousines break down from time to time. What can you do? Machinery is machinery. Sometimes it requires repairs and technical inspections when the need arises. Well then, how are things with you? Nothing criminal, I hope?” said Saidkaramatullo with a sly smile.

“Thank you, Uncle Saidkaramatullo. I cannot complain. Everything is the same—I continue working as the driver of the Earth. I carry humanity through space, even though people fail to notice it. I guide the Planet, observing all safety regulations and traffic rules, steering through countless stars across the vast universe that has neither end nor edge. I do my best to ensure that the Earth does not collide with other planets and explode together with mankind,” replied Ngduat Yambua as he invited the guests into the hut.

The guests entered the dimly lit hut, ducking their heads to avoid bumping them against the low ceiling. They sat around the khontakhta, a low table with short legs. According to custom, they recited a brief prayer and passed their palms over their faces, asking God to preserve peace and prosperity in the home.

Then the pilaf was placed upon the khontakhta. Deaf-mute Rizvan began crying with happiness again, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her old patched dress while repeatedly thanking the guests through gestures. The shadows of the visitors grew and shrank upon the earthen wall of the hut in the light of the kerosene lamp, around which a lonely moth circled like an artificial satellite around the Earth.

Before beginning the meal, Saidkaramatullo rose to speak.

“Dear Ngduat Yambua, driver of the Earth, experienced international-class pilot-cosmonaut! We know that you are a good young man. Kind and responsive. You help everyone who needs help. We came to thank you for assisting our daughter Malokhat when our cow fell into the swamp. As a token of our gratitude, please accept this modest gift—a new smartphone.”

“Oh, thank you, Uncle Saidkaramatullo! Thank you! You really should not have spent so much. And I, fool that I am, do not even know how to use such a modern telephone. You are giving me something so precious, like a medal, as though I had performed a heroic deed,” Ngduat Yambua said shyly as he accepted the gift.

“Do not worry, Ngduat Yambua. My daughter Malokhat will teach you how to use it. She is a highly qualified specialist in that field,” Saidkaramatullo said proudly.

Then he added:

“And thank you as well, dear Rizvan-apa, for bringing such a fine young man as Ngduat Yambua into this world and raising him.”

Rizvan thanked the guests again and again for visiting them and for the expensive gift. She expressed her gratitude in her own language, moving her fingers swiftly as she signed.

“Do not worry, Ngduat Yambua. I will teach you how to use the phone. Soon you will open your own YouTube channel and become a blogger. You will build a personal brand, upload your interesting videos, and gather millions of views and subscribers,” said Malokhat.

“No, I would rather open my own online driving school where people can learn to become drivers of the Earth. They will take their exams by phone and receive licenses as Drivers of the Earth,” dreamed Ngduat Yambua aloud.

Hearing this, the guests burst into laughter together.

 

 

Chapter 6
The Island of the Dead

 

 

Autumn had settled over the courtyard. The weary sun no longer gave much warmth, and the air was clear and thoughtful. The cheerful songs of birds could no longer be heard. Silence and tranquility reigned in the orchards and groves. The wind danced with the leaves. Empty meadows and fields breathed mist. It felt as though harsh winter and snowstorms were not far away. The wind wandered through the courtyards like an orphan. Empty iron swings and garden gates cried as they creaked in the breeze, making mournful sounds like the honking of wild geese flying south.

Malokhat silently cleaned the backyard, sweeping away fallen leaves with a broom while thinking about her meetings with Ngduat Yambua, who taught her how to drive the Earth while sitting in his cabin like the operator of a tower crane. His cabin stood upon a huge tree growing above a deep ravine, its powerful roots gripping the earth like the sharp claws of a hawk.

Just then cranes began flying above the great autumn tree, calling mournfully.

“Kurly! Kurly! Kurly! Kurly!”

They cried as they glided across the sky in a great wedge formation.

Watching them disappear southward, Malokhat sighed sadly.

“The cranes are flying south. How sorrowfully they cry! It feels as though the soul becomes empty when they leave, like deserted autumn fields and meadows.”

“Yes,” agreed Ngduat Yambua.

After that there was a pause, and they remained silent for a while.

It was Malokhat who finally broke the awkward silence.

“Now it is my turn to teach. Look, Ngduat Yambua. To turn on a smartphone, you press this button. Then this one. And just like that, you enter the realm of the global Internet. The Internet is an instrument of control through which the world can be managed. That means you can now drive the Earth from anywhere—even from home. A telephone is like a genie that grants your every wish. Look, now we shall open YouTube and watch any video we like. There is a huge selection here. For example, let us listen to this blogger.”

With those words Malokhat started a video, and the blogger began to speak.

“Assalamu alaikum, dear dead people!”

Hearing such a greeting, Malokhat and Ngduat Yambua exchanged astonished glances.

The blogger continued:

“The topic we intend to discuss today is extremely relevant and fascinating. So do not forget to subscribe to the channel, leave a like, and post comments that will help promote this video. You may also support the channel financially through Patreon and help monetize the content. And now, let us begin.

“As always, you are joined by blogger, poet, and philosopher Zayniddin Zindaniy. ‘Zindaniy’ is the nickname I received in prison, where my fellow inmates and I referred to it as a zindan. After spending many years in prisons and labor camps, I became firmly convinced that those places were paradise compared to this world in which we exist. The greatest prison of all is the Earth itself. This planet is an airborne dungeon. Since then, under the pen name ‘Zindaniy,’ I have written various literary works, enriching the treasury of world literature with masterpieces.

“I know my greeting may shock you somewhat, and the word ‘dead person’ may sound insulting, especially to those who consider themselves alive. But that is far from the truth, ladies and gentlemen. We are all dead people—that is, the souls of people who died long ago and who, by God’s will, dwell in this world inside human bodies. The body is merely a prison uniform made of flesh and blood, the clothing of inmates sentenced to life imprisonment. Your home is your tomb, your crypt, and your city is a vast cemetery filled with apartment buildings resembling gigantic gravestones. In this hell, sinners are punished by a materialized dream called ‘life.’ Everything we see is a dream, an illusion, a deception, and everything we say is madness.

“The rich and powerful consider themselves demigods and the happiest beings in this spinning airborne prison. I will not deny that wealth and power allow them to bend others to their will and achieve their goals. Yet the time comes when these demigods become paupers like all other ordinary dead people, losing their immense fortunes. That is their greatest punishment. There are, however, wealthy benefactors who help the poor and make charitable donations, thereby sparing themselves divine punishment. Through charity they purchase God’s mercy and forgiveness for the sins they committed during life.

“Even in this hell suspended weightlessly in space, there is much beauty: inner peace, poetry, music, solitude, hobbies, silence, and of course love.

“Like all other dead people, I have a hobby as well. To tell the truth, I am not only one of the greatest poets in human history but also a simple, modest, passionate fisherman. I live and work in a city where dozens of factories belch smoke into the sky and release harmful substances into the air. Automobile exhaust adds to the pollution. Ambulances, police cars, and fire engines scream through the streets with soul-rending sirens. Even a city dead man who does not realize he is not truly alive sometimes longs to breathe fresh air and fish by a river, sitting alone in silence, listening to the water rustle through the reeds and the cries of seagulls while calming his frayed nerves.

“So one day I traveled to the village of Kuyganyar, situated on the banks of the Kashkaldak River.

“I was fishing alone on the shore, thoughtfully watching the float of my fishing rod, upon which a red dragonfly had landed, when suddenly someone behind me said, ‘Hello, fisherman. Well, are they biting?’

“I turned around and saw a beautiful girl holding a switch in her hand and wearing a lovely smile. Nearby her cow grazed peacefully. I smiled back and nodded. She smiled so beautifully that she completely hypnotized me with her gentle smile, and for a while I lost the power of speech. I could barely speak to her or even introduce myself. My mouth went dry from excitement.

“Since then I have thought of her day and night. I cannot sleep because I am tormented by longing, separation, and suffering. Ever since that day, the riverbank where fate brought us together has become a sacred place to me, an altar of my love. Sometimes I swallow handfuls of sleeping pills in hopes of seeing her face in my dreams, but lately even the pills have stopped working, no matter how many I chew with bread and wash down with vodka or water.

“My God, what hair she has—thick and soft, black as oil! Real eyelashes, long and luxurious. Enchanting eyes. Her lips are not duck-like, as those of our city girls often are. They are real, natural, not silicone. Her hands and neck are smooth and delicate, like ivory. She is astonishingly beautiful, without any of that foul makeup. A living work of art created by God Himself!

“I have traveled across all continents and through many of the world’s great cities, but nowhere have I met a girl as beautiful and captivating as she is. Believe me. Though I am one of the world’s great poets, I cannot paint her portrait with words or fully express my feelings. Words are powerless here.

“Eventually I learned her address. She turned out to be the daughter of veterinarian Saidkaramatullo, a tenth-grade student named Malokhat. I have written many poems dedicated to her.
Malokhat hurriedly switched off the phone and looked with astonishment at Ngduat Yambua, the experienced pilot-cosmonaut and driver of the Earth.

Once again they fell silent, watching the flocks of birds driven into the distance by crimson October. It seemed as though the poor trees had sunk their claws into the earth so that they themselves would not fly away.

 

 

Chapter 7
Farmer Gilaymergan Kalkhauz

 

 

The driver of the Earth, Ngduat Yambua, was working the night shift, steering the planet through meteors and comets like the captain of an oil tanker passing through the Strait of Hormuz, where wars are fought over resources. He sat in his office, resembling a doghouse, perched high in a huge tree growing above a deep ravine, its powerful roots gripping the earth like the hooked talons of a hawk. Above the ravine shone a full moon, crickets sang, and from the banks of the Kashkaldak River came the mournful voices of frogs. The stars were candles lit by God. Not even the wind could extinguish them. In the river delta, the reflection of the moon trembled speechlessly. Somewhere a cricket sang tirelessly, chirping as it searched for a mate. As though breathing through gills in the moonlit dusk, a lonely accordion sighed with music.

Then the driver of the Earth, Ngduat Yambua, saw the silhouette of a man staggering along a country road toward the ravine while playing an old accordion and singing weakly:

 

Oh Kotler, oh Kotler, accursed Kotler!
Why did you declare that war?!
At home there are children and a young wife,
They are waiting for meeeeee,
they are waiting for me!..

 

When the man came closer, Ngduat Yambua recognized him. It was Ivan the tractor driver. He was drunk and crying, wiping his tears with his worn cap.

“That’s it, I can’t live in this cruel, evil, unjust world anymore! I’ll jump into this deep ravine, damn it! Farewell, green world! Let this ravine become my nameless grave!” he said, throwing his cap to the ground and preparing to commit suicide.

Seeing this, Ngduat Yambua quickly climbed down from the tree like the legendary Tarzan and managed to save the drunken tractor driver from certain death, just as he had once saved a cow stuck in a swamp.

“Uncle Vanya, pull yourself together, calm down! Everything will work out! Think about your children and your wife! Suicide is a sin!” Ngduat Yambua tried to reassure Ivan, who had decided to take his own life.

“Let me go, driver of the Earth, let me go for God’s sake! I’ve worked my whole life as a tractor driver, plowing fields in spring and autumn, spending months away from home. I stole diesel fuel from the tank of my bulldozer and sold it on the side. What else was I supposed to do if my wife wouldn’t give me any? Money, I mean, for drinking. Yes, I like to drink. I’m a hopeless drunk. But that doesn’t give my wife the right to throw me out of the house, calling me a stinking tractor driver. She won’t even kiss me anymore, complaining that my breath smells of garlic, tobacco, and vodka, can you imagine? As if that weren’t enough, I got fired because I caused an accident while driving drunk.

“I didn’t do it on purpose. Yes, I was drunk, and I was riding with my drinking buddy, the barber Usta Garib. We were racing along in a T-28X4 tractor at insane speed, terrifying pedestrians, chickens, ducks, and geese, when suddenly disaster struck. Our machine tilted awkwardly to one side, and one of the wheels fell off. After that the tractor stopped obeying us and left the road. Then it rolled straight toward the poultry farm of Gilaymergan Kalkhauz.

“My drinking companion Usta Garib and I panicked and could only scream one sound:

‘Eeeeeeeeee!’

“The tractor rolled onward, raising clouds of dust like a giant iron chest, tearing through fences. Chickens, geese, ducks, and turkeys scattered noisily like startled birds in the pre-dawn gloom. I don’t remember exactly how our machine overturned. When I came to, I was lying there like a boxer who had been knocked out in the ring. Usta Garib was too. He was lying in a puddle among ducks and geese. I barely managed to revive him.

‘Well, that’s it. We’ve had it. Farmer Gilaymergan Kalkhauz is probably going to grab his shotgun and shoot us like partridges without trial or investigation,’ I thought.

“But no. He didn’t reach for a gun. Instead, he started helping us while taking photographs of us from every angle as souvenirs. At first we thought the poor farmer had gone mad after calculating the material and emotional damage. Because instead of crying, he was happy as a child and even thanked us.

‘Why are you so happy, you cursed bourgeois?’ I asked in confusion.

‘How could I not be happy, you stinking tractor driver? By destroying part of my farm, you’ve actually helped me tremendously.’

‘Have you gone crazy? We caused you enormous damage! Or do you want to take us to court? Keep in mind I’m a barber and I have a terrible temper. One day you’ll come into my barbershop and sit in my chair, and I can’t guarantee I’ll control myself. One swipe of my straight razor and I’ll cut your throat from ear to ear, and off you’ll go to the next world. I’ll tell the investigators I’m a hopeless drunk whose hands shake uncontrollably, especially when I work intoxicated,’ Usta Garib warned the poultry farmer threateningly.

‘Oh, please, barber with the awful hands! Why would I sue you when there’s a better way to profit? Thanks to you, I can now write off thousands of chickens, geese, ducks, and turkeys that were taken away by tax inspectors, bank employees collecting on loans, district policemen, and various petty officials!’

“Then he invited us to a free banquet to celebrate the disaster that had befallen his farm. While we drank tea and ate delicious fried eggs and roasted chickens, the crazy farmer ran off to the store for vodka, and we started drinking.

“After the tenth bottle, Usta Garib became so drunk he could barely pronounce consonants. He only smiled and uttered vowel sounds: ‘ee, ah, eh, oo, ee, oh.’

“The farmer’s wife turned out to be a talented woman. She put on an amateur performance and sang a song about chicks while dancing.

“After the twelfth bottle, the farmer himself became heavily intoxicated and suddenly addressed God, lazily licking his lips and staring at the ceiling with crossed eyes:

‘God, why do You torment only me?! Is there nobody else in the world? Why don’t You torment the tax collectors who skin poor farmers alive? Why don’t You punish unjust prosecutors, parasitic lawyers, and policemen who frighten people, throw innocent law-abiding citizens behind bars, and take away their last pennies? Don’t You see the pupils and students who, instead of studying, are forced to pick cotton on freezing plantations while governors beat teachers and make them kiss the boots of prosecutors and policemen because they failed to meet cotton quotas? Why don’t You destroy unjust leaders who plunder the people’s wealth and suck the blood from the nation like filthy leeches, giant bedbugs, and lice?

“And now this mad servant of Yours, this barber with the terrible hands, instead of asking forgiveness, intends to slit my throat with a straight razor the next time I sit in his barber’s chair! Is that fair, Lord? Though I cannot see Your face, I still love You, Lord! Tell me, please, God, what have I done to deserve this? Tell me! Why are You silent?! I helped clean up the disaster at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant! I hauled radioactive waste from the sarcophagus in a wheelbarrow! I manually cleared radioactive debris—graphite and fuel—from the roof of Reactor Unit Three!’ he cried.

“And then the chief mechanic fired me from the tractor depot. Let me go, driver of the Earth, Ngduat Yambua, let me go! Allow me to make my fatal leap!”

Ivan the tractor driver continued to weep, struggling to free himself from the grip of Ngduat Yambua, the driver of the Earth, who worked for free from dawn till dusk in his cabin perched in a huge tree above a deep ravine, its mighty roots gripping the earth like the talons of a hawk.

 

 

Chapter 8
Winter

 

 

This year winter came to Kuyganyar with heavy snowfall and severe frosts. These unexpected cold spells caught the village population completely unprepared. Because of the country’s antiquated systems of electricity and gas supply, poor people were doomed to sit in huts that felt like refrigerators. Not everyone had coal or firewood. Many families without access to natural gas, or struggling financially, prepared dried cow-dung fuel during the summer so they could heat their homes with this foul-smelling fuel in winter.

People say air cannot be seen. That is not true. You can clearly see air with the naked eye in the form of vapor rising from the mouths of people talking inside cold huts and apartments during winter days.

Lacking fuel, people sometimes cut down century-old trees growing at the edges of fields, disregarding administrative fines and criminal penalties, sacrificing themselves for the sake of their freezing children.

And so harsh winter once again ruled Kuyganyar. Gardens, streets, backyards, and rooftops were covered with snow. A white silence lay across the fields. It seemed as though the tired meadows and plains slept beneath a blanket of snow.

Outside the window, snow fell through the night, wrapping the countryside in a white blanket. Large snowflakes swirled like a swarm of harmless white butterflies, drifting toward the windows before soaring upward again. The snow-covered garden resembled an enchanted forest. The flakes kept spinning like dandelion seeds floating weightlessly across a summer meadow.

At such moments one naturally thought of rolling snowballs and building a snowman, giving him a carrot nose and black coal eyes. An old caretaker’s broom would serve as his arm. Children would slide down snowy hills, shouting and laughing merrily.

Lost in these thoughts, Malokhat called the experienced cosmonaut and driver of the Earth, Ngduat Yambua, and they began talking.

“Hello, Ngduat Yambua. How are you? Where are you now?”

“Hello, Malokhat. I’m in my office, located in a huge tree growing above a deep snow-covered ravine, its powerful roots gripping the frozen earth like the sharp talons of an eagle.”

“Ngduat Yambua, let’s agree on something. Starting today, you should address me informally. It feels awkward. I use the informal form with you, but you do the opposite.”

“All right, Malokhat. But how? My tongue isn’t used to it. I’ve gotten accustomed to speaking this way…”

“Just try.”

“Okay,” agreed Ngduat Yambua.

“Ngduat, be careful. Look at these frosts and snowstorms. A vicious blizzard is howling outside. Under the weight of all that snow, the tree you’re sitting in could split in half and crash into the ravine. And who would help you if you froze in that cold cabin like a mammoth during the Ice Age? In weather like this, normal people stay at home. God forbid anything happens to you. Aunt Rizvan wouldn’t survive such grief.”

“And you?” Ngduat Yambua asked, addressing Malokhat informally for the first time.

Malokhat fell silent for several seconds and quietly replied:

“Me neither.”

“What a priceless thing it is to hear you say those words! Thank you, Malokhat, for worrying about me. But you have to understand. Steering the Earth is more important than anything else when the fate of our planet and the lives of humanity hang by a thread.

“These abnormal winter freezes, the unbearable summer heat, dust storms, droughts, tsunamis, typhoons, volcanic eruptions, and earthquakes around the world all arise from global warming. Endless factories and plants release carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. Humanity burns coal, oil, and gas, while automobiles emit exhaust fumes. As if that weren’t enough, nuclear powers poison the seas and oceans, secretly dumping nuclear waste into them and killing plants and animals.

“And on top of that, foolish authoritarian rulers, dictators, and irreplaceable leaders start wars, throwing millions of young soldiers into the furnace of combat and reducing cities to rubble merely to remain in their rotten chairs a little longer. They shoot down civilian airliners carrying three hundred passengers and then try to blame other countries for these crimes against humanity.

“If things continue at this pace, I fear that within a few years it may become impossible to live on Earth, and humanity could perish from famine caused by drought.”

After hearing Ngduat Yambua’s wise words, Malokhat again fell silent.

“I never believed you were uneducated,” she finally said. “I think you’ve been secretly studying somewhere. You reason like a scientist. It’s impossible to reach such heights in knowledge without an education.”

“That’s a trade secret,” Ngduat Yambua replied with a smile.

“I love you, Ngduat Yambua,” Malokhat suddenly said.

At those words, Ngduat Yambua nearly lost control of the planet.

“No, Malokhat, no! Not that. I want you to be happy. You deserve a beautiful fairy-tale love. I’m an ugly creature, a loser, a fool. A little crazy too. You’re the smartest, kindest, most beautiful girl in the world. Why would you need an unattractive fellow like me? The great poet and blogger Zayniddin Zindani suits you much better. Just look at how much he loves you. He’s even ready to hang himself with his belt for your sake…”

Hearing his words, Malokhat quietly began to cry.

“What’s wrong, Malokhat? Are you crying? Oh, forgive me, forgive me, my dear… I think I went too far… Don’t cry… It was a joke. Can’t a person make a joke?” Ngduat Yambua pleaded.

But Malokhat continued crying.

“Forgive me… Malokhat… forgive me, my love. If you don’t forgive me right now, I’ll jump from the tree straight into the ravine, leaving the Earth without a driver, and humanity will perish!”

“No!” said Malokhat, wiping away her tears. Then she added:

“All right, I forgive you, but on one condition: you must never again talk about the poet Zayniddin Zindani. I don’t love him.”

“Done. Agreed, Malokhat. I won’t mention that unfortunate blogger Zayniddin Zindani again.”

After that the two lovers said goodbye. Malokhat turned off her phone and went to bed.

Outside, darkness reigned while large flakes of snow drifted down. Sad light from house windows spilled onto the snowbanks. The blizzard whistled and wandered through the snowy corridors of the streets, sweeping powdery snow before it. The snow fell more and more softly, as if trying not to wake anyone.

A blank sheet of paper lay on the table. Malokhat took a pencil and placed a single dot in the center of the page.

“How lonely that dot is in this snowy, deserted paper field,” she whispered.

Then she quickly erased the dot and sighed:

“Now the poor thing has vanished into the blizzard…”

With those words she gazed out the window where the snowstorm whirled. The snow kept falling, whispering with a divine rustle, softly tapping on the windows, covering roads and courtyards. The trees had nowhere left to run. The snow outside continued to pour down and down. A belated pedestrian trudged along, hunched and white as a miller dusted with flour.

 

 

Chapter 9
Ibn Zambar

 

 

The days had lost their leaves and lost their autumn. Snow had already fallen, and winter had arrived. White jellyfish of drifting snow pulsed along the corridors of the snow-covered streets. The snowy fields looked like bed linen ironed by the winds, while the gray blizzard alternately wept and sang. The snow-covered deserted field beckoned and called. The river was already firmly bound by ice, and the grass squealed up to its neck in snow. The trees looked in horror from afar at the woodpile where the firewood lay.

During recess, Malokhat stood by the foyer window, watching the schoolchildren playing snowballs, throwing packed snow clumps at one another, laughing merrily. She watched the snow battle with such interest that she did not even notice her classmate, the son of the wealthy pharmacist Dyryldaev, Ibn Zambar, approaching her.

«A funny game, this snow war. In winter nobody gets offended even if you hit them with a snowball like a sniper. On the contrary, they smile back or launch a counterattack, throwing snowballs of their own. As long as there isn’t a stone inside the snowball—not a precious one, of course,» began Ibn Zambar.

«Yes,» Malokhat replied with a smile, still thoughtfully watching the schoolchildren striking one another with snowballs, laughing and shouting like seagulls over the sea.

«Very soon the graduation exams will come, and we will all scatter in different directions like ships at sea,» continued Ibn Zambar.

Malokhat remained silent.

«Where do you plan to study after school, if it isn’t a secret?» asked Ibn Zambar.

«I want to enter a pedagogical institute,» replied Malokhat.

«What, you want to become a teacher?»

«And what of it?»

«Nothing. It’s a good dream. But studying at a university requires money for tuition. Forgive me, of course, but your opportunities in that regard are limited. I am afraid your father won’t be able to pay for your education. Veterinarians do not have money. My father, however, can. He owns our private pharmacies. Money flows like a river. Teachers receive pitiful salaries and live counting every penny, barely making ends meet. Why do you need such work? You would be better off enrolling in the school of your uneducated friend—that fool Ngduat Yambua who teaches people to become drivers of Planet Earth,» Ibn Zambar sneered.

«Oh, Ibn Zambar! If it were not for teachers, would your father have learned to read, write, and count? Don’t worry about me. My father will find sponsors who, unlike your father, provide assistance free of charge to those who want to study at institutes. That’s first. Secondly, don’t laugh at Ngduat Yambua. He is a hundred times smarter than you,» replied Malokhat.

«All right, all right. I was joking,» said Ibn Zambar.

«And where do you want to study after school?» Malokhat asked.

«I want to enter medical school, the faculty of pharmacy, like my father. I will manage pharmacies throughout the country. To earn big money, a pharmacist must work by secretly making deals with doctors who write prescriptions, prescribing patients lots of necessary and unnecessary medicines and directing them only to your pharmacy. You have to make sick people take unnecessary or expired medicines, rapidly increasing the multimillion-strong army of patients in the country. That’s business, baby. Without a doubt, I will become a billionaire in the future and move to America to live in a luxurious villa on the azure shore of the Pacific Ocean. I will travel the ocean aboard my own cruise liner with blue swimming pools worth over 160 million dollars. I will also have my own Boeing airplane and several helicopters. In the garages of my villa there will be expensive automobiles such as a Rolls-Royce Nightingale convertible, a Bentley, a Maybach, and a hand-built Ferrari. A trillion-dollar fortune, gold bars, diamonds in Swiss banks, stocks, bonds, currencies on the stock exchange. And from there it is only a short step to the presidential chair. I will become President of the United States,» dreamed Ibn Zambar.

«You certainly have an appetite, Ibn Zambar! And how exactly do you plan to achieve these dreams? You’re the worst student in our school. You’re always copying homework from others. Some billionaire you are!» said Malokhat.

«Don’t worry, Malo. In this world everything can be bought. For a little money or a bottle of vodka, teachers will give me good grades on my graduation exams. You’ll see. I’ll buy myself an honors diploma and receive a gold medal. Besides, I have compromising material on Principal Shamanov. I secretly managed to record his romantic relationship with the school’s tall and skinny librarian Kapolatkhon, who has an excessively long neck and eyes resembling fried eggs, and who walks with a limp. Let that so-called principal dare refuse me an honors diploma and a gold medal. I’ll upload the video to YouTube, and he’ll be removed from his position that very day. Naturally, his wife will divorce him once and for all,» boasted Ibn Zambar.

«What a disgusting person you are, Ibn Zambar!» Malokhat muttered with contempt.

Ibn Zambar smiled slyly, displaying his cunning and malice.

Then he continued:

«You know, Malo? Your father, Uncle Saidkaramatullo, should go to Europe or America, where every house and apartment has a dog. Veterinarians earn insane money there. He could also work in zoos where thousands of animals and birds are kept—elephants, giraffes, lions, tigers, wolves, monkeys, and predatory birds. Then you could move there too and work as a nurse in an animal clinic. Romance!»

«Idiot,» said Malokhat.

At that moment the bell rang, calling the students to class.

The snow continued falling indifferently, while the snow-covered trees stood along the roads, in the gardens, and by the gates, grieving together in the bitter frost like a people left without fuel. They stood numb beside the frozen river, shivering like grass in the cold wind. One wonders: do these trees really have no stove, and did they not prepare firewood for winter?

 

 

Chapter 10
Emergency Call

 

 

Veterinarian Saidkaramatullo sat in his office located on the grounds of the livestock farm, checking documents. Outside the office window, gray winter grieved. It could be felt that the cold was growing stronger day by day. Icicles hung from the edge of the roof like an icy beard. The blue snowy distance, the snow-covered expanses of fields, drew and beckoned the eye. It was as though nature had lost its memory from amazement and had been struck speechless. As though it remained silent so that snow would not accidentally fall from the branches.

Lost in such thoughts, Saidkaramatullo gazed thoughtfully out the window of his office. Firewood crackled in the stove. Somewhere in a crack of the clay wall, a lonely cricket sang steadily and monotonously, reminding the veterinarian of distant summer evenings.

Suddenly, interrupting his thoughts, the tractor driver Ivan burst into the office.

«Hello, Saidkaramatullo! Good thing you’re here. I need your help! Help me, for God’s sake! Save us, brother!» he said, nearly falling to his knees, clutching his cap to his chest.

«What happened, Ivan?» asked Saidkaramatullo in surprise, rising from his chair.

«Vasily’s life is in danger!»

«Which Vasily? Who is he? Has your drinking companion poisoned himself with surrogate alcohol, that industrial spirit?» asked Saidkaramatullo hurriedly.

«No, not that one. Our castrated hog that we’re fattening. We affectionately call him Vasily. He suddenly became ill today. God willing, it isn’t some infectious disease spread through the air. I don’t want all my pigs and piglets dying from it too. If urgent preventive measures aren’t taken, other domestic animals in the village could become infected as well,» explained Ivan.

«What exactly is happening to your hog?» asked Saidkaramatullo while hurriedly gathering his medical instruments.

«His belly is swollen like a drum. He’s lying on the floor, gasping for breath. My wife is afraid that Vasily’s swollen stomach is about to explode.»

Talking as they went, they rushed outside like soldiers responding to a combat alarm. Climbing aboard Ivan’s tractor, they drove down the unpaved road, frightening pedestrians, chickens, and geese.

At last they arrived and jumped from the tractor cab like paratroopers leaping from a military aircraft. Ivan’s wife Marusya met them at the threshold, and together they entered the pigsty where several pigs and piglets grunted while eating slop, smacking their mouths at the trough, squealing and pushing one another.

The hog Vasily lay on the floor with his swollen stomach, breathing heavily and grunting pitifully.

The experienced veterinarian Saidkaramatullo immediately recognized the symptoms and made a diagnosis.

«I see. Your Vasily has bloat. An excessive amount of gas has accumulated in his intestines,» explained Saidkaramatullo, pulling on rubber medical gloves.

«Is it dangerous? I mean… can it be cured?» asked Ivan.

«Don’t be afraid, Ivan. Just find me a funnel. I didn’t bring one. If you don’t have a funnel, find an empty bottle. We’ll break it in half and make one.»

Ivan turned to his wife.

«Marusya, my dear, run and quickly find a vodka or wine bottle. Hurry. Vasily’s life is in danger.»

Ivan’s wife ran off in search of a bottle and, several minutes later, returned carrying an unopened bottle of vodka.

«Vanya, it turns out we exchanged all our empty bottles at the recycling station for this vodka,» she said.

«Good, Marusya. Give it here. I’ll make a funnel out of it by carefully breaking it in half,» urged Saidkaramatullo.

«No, wait, Saidkaramatullo. It would be a shame to pour out the vodka. Let me drink it first for Vasily’s health, and then do whatever you want with the bottle,» pleaded Ivan.

Taking the bottle, he uncorked it with his teeth, drank the entire contents in one gulp, and handed the empty bottle to the veterinarian.

Saidkaramatullo took the bottle, broke it into the shape of a funnel, inserted it into the rear end of the castrated fattening hog Vasily, and immediately all the gas escaped from the animal’s swollen stomach with the sound of air rushing from a balloon that had slipped from the hands of a boy inflating it.

After that, Vasily recovered, and Ivan and his wife rejoiced.

«Thank you, doctor,» said Marusya, wiping tears of joy with the edge of her apron.

Ivan also thanked him, slipping money into the pocket of the veterinarian’s white coat.

«As soon as we slaughter our hog Vasya and divide up the meat, I’ll bring you some lard marinated with garlic too,» promised Ivan.

«Thank you, Ivan. But we are Muslims and do not eat lard. Allah does not permit it. Lard is haram—that is, forbidden,» said veterinarian Saidkaramatullo, gathering his medical instruments into an old black doctor’s bag that resembled the briefcase of a convinced communist.

After saying goodbye to Ivan and his wife, he went outside.

After that, the villagers stopped greeting Saidkaramatullo.

It turned out that the imam of the local mosque, Sheikh Abdurakhman, had declared him a kafir and ordered Muslims to keep their distance from him and not invite him to weddings. If they absolutely had to greet him, they should do so with the help of a stick rather than with their hands. Furthermore, they were instructed to immediately cut off with a knife any part of their clothing touched by the veterinarian Saidkaramatullo’s hand.

 

 

Chapter 11
Bonfire

 

 

The Driver of the Earth and experienced intergalactic-class astronaut-pilot Ngduat Yambua called Malokhat to tell her that people had gathered in the center of Kuyganyar for a rally, where the local official Garlapanov was threatening to burn himself alive. Malokhat became curious, and she ran there with her friend Mavjuda, their feet crunching through the snow. When they arrived, the rally participants were standing in a tight circle around the official, who was shouting while pouring gasoline over himself and holding a lighter in his hand.

“Hey, poor, oppressed people of our long-suffering Motherland! My fellow countrymen! Listen to me carefully! Before I burn myself, I must tell you two things: I am neither drunk nor insane! I am a monster in human form! Yes, yes, don’t be surprised! The time has come to tear the mask from my face! I shall do it myself! I will explain why. Because I am an especially dangerous embezzler, a hardened corrupt official! For many years I have secretly stolen the people’s money from the state budget in a conspiracy with my cronies who sit in the uppermost ranks of power! If you do not immediately write a statement addressed to the president of the country declaring that I have committed terrible economic crimes in violation of the Constitution, and if you do not contact the government portal and send a complaint with thousands of signatures by email to the president’s virtual reception office in duplicate, then I shall publicly burn myself alive before the cameras during a live broadcast! Let television journalists and bloggers come and film exposing reports about my vile crimes against our people and broadcast them on every channel of national television! Let our poor people learn about my robberies and collectively spit upon my disgusting face when it is shown on television! I have no right to remain an official for a single minute, nor to sit in the chair to which I have clung all these years with my hands and teeth! Let the president remove me from office, and let our most just court in the world send me to prison with a life sentence and no possibility of early release! What, am I really the only qualified person in the country fit for this position? There are intelligent, educated, enterprising, honest, brilliant people, and there are many of them! Let them work too! Enough! How much longer shall I continue stealing the people’s money and sending it through offshore channels into foreign banks, burying a huge portion of it in the ground as gold and diamonds for a rainy day?! Who gave me the right to rob my own people?! Do I have a conscience or not?! How shall I answer for these sins on Judgment Day? And you there, hey, mullah who calls himself rahimahullah, secret police informant! Why do you keep your mouth shut, knowing everything I have done and continue to do?! You only speak when you are praising me, drooling your yellow saliva like a power line—a strand of noodles stretching without breaking from my office desk all the way to your luxurious three-story house with a blue swimming pool, a house that even the Prophet himself never dreamed of! Tell me, why do I eat delicious pilaf with lamb and fat-tail mutton every day, tender juicy kebabs, drink golden Bavarian beer, hundred-year-old Scottish wine, exquisite French cognac, spend fabulous sums on my young mistresses, and live in a fairy-tale palace with every convenience, where electricity never fails, while our poor people starve in cold apartments and mud-brick huts without electricity and gas! While poor children do their homework by the light of kerosene lamps and candles, keeping their coats on and shivering beneath fur hats so they do not freeze in their cold hovels! Where do I get all this fabulous money, these expensive cars, villas, and apartments?! Even a fool understands that such cottages cannot be built and such elite apartments cannot be bought on a monthly salary, nor foreign villas worth billions of U.S. dollars! Where do I get all this money from, eh? Where?! No, I will not let this stand! Come on, call the journalists and bloggers, and let them start their livestreams! Bring the freezing children, gather them here, let them warm themselves properly by a living, two-legged bonfire when I commit self-immolation!”

Hearing the words of Official Garlapanov, the people burst into tears as one. Especially Sheikh Saraetdun Salovey, who had a small goat beard and a turban on his head resembling a flowerpot. Wiping his bitter tears with the sleeve of his robe, he began to speak.

“Oh, our dear, irreplaceable, most respected and wise guide, Mr. Garlapanov! Do not burn yourself, for Christ’s sake! How shall we live without you?! There is not a single person in our country worthy of an official’s chair except you! Only you have the right to sit in that chair! Do not think about your sins! I shall forgive them! The Lord God is merciful, and He will forgive all your sins, and you shall enter Paradise, believe me! I am one hundred percent certain of it! Do not worry about the people! They are hardened folk! The children of our nation have long grown accustomed to these cold temperatures, like walrus-men who swim in ice holes during forty-degree frost! The absence of electricity and gas, the cold, even hunger itself cannot break the steel will of our heroically minded people! And this cold is not foreign to us—it is our own, our native, private cold! The heat as well! Our people must train on the proving grounds of life to endure abnormal cold and unbearable heat while working in the cotton fields! Because this cold is not cold at all compared to the Arctic chill of Hell! In Hell there is such heat that a man’s brain boils inside his skull! May God bless you, dear Garlapanovich! In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen!”

“No, mullah! I shall burn myself, just as the Indians burn the bodies of their dead upon funeral pyres, without unnecessary expenses for graves, coffins, memorial feasts, and funeral services! Farewell, my oppressed, poor, obedient, and helpless people!” said Official Garlapanov in parting, and he sharply flicked open the lighter. He set himself on fire and began to burn, spinning like a fiery whirlwind, like a living bonfire. Seeing this, the crowd roared in horror, retreating backward as a single organism before breaking into a panicked run, stumbling and falling in every direction. The burning official began chasing the people, spinning and screaming shrilly. Then the sound of a siren was heard, and people thought it belonged either to an ambulance, a police car, or perhaps a fire brigade. But no—the heart-rending siren belonged to the invisible official limousine of the Driver of the Earth, the experienced intergalactic-class astronaut-pilot Ngduat Yambua.

“Woo-woo! Woo-woo! Woo-woo! Woo-woo!” he cried, turning the invisible steering wheel of his invisible official limousine, warning the fleeing crowd so that he would not run anyone over.

At that moment Malokhat awoke and could not regain her composure for a long time.

Outside the window, large snowflakes were falling while the blizzard swept snow across roads and courtyards. The drifting snow whistled and glided through the corridors of the streets like an octopus, blowing clouds of powdery snow before it. And the snow kept falling more and more quietly, so that people would not wake up.

 

 

Chapter 12
The Temple of Love

 

 

At long last, the magical sorceress Spring came to Kuyganyar, performing miracles and awakening nature from its sweet sleep. Water already murmured merrily in the streams. Spring had arrived—a young lady. Wagtails sang brightly in the gardens:

“Chka di-di-di-di-di-di-di!”

Hearing this, the people of Kuyganyar would pause for a while in silence and stop digging their vegetable gardens. Leaning upon their shovel handles, they would simply enjoy the singing of the birds.

Malokhat continued grazing her cow on the bank of the Kashkaldak River. One day she once again saw that passionate fisherman and blogger, Zayniddin Zindaniy. He sat on the riverbank with his back to her, staring at the float of his fishing rod, where a white butterfly had landed. Hearing the sound of the cow’s hooves, Zayniddin Zindaniy turned around to face Malokhat and froze. Then he rose from his place like a convicted man standing at a judge’s request from the defendant’s bench. His mouth went dry from nervousness, and he barely managed to say:

“Hello.”

Malokhat merely nodded her head, looking at him from beneath lowered eyes. Then she began to speak.

“So you’ve shown up, so-called blogger?! You disgraced me before my classmates and my parents by talking about me in your so-called livestream watched by millions of people! It’s a good thing my father isn’t vindictive and my mother is kind. Otherwise they would have sued you! Distributing information about a person’s private life without their consent is a violation! What are people supposed to think about me now, eh? Are you a fool or something? I don’t love you. I already have a boyfriend. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?! You yourself said that you’re married and have children. You’ve been in prison. And I haven’t even finished secondary school. Are we really a match? No shame, no conscience! And now you’ve gone and built a tent here! That’s how it is, Mr. Fisherman. The world is small. Mountains may never meet, but people do!” she said.

“Malokhat, you are right. I truly am a fool, a madman. But I deleted that video from YouTube after the scandal with my wife. She threw me out of the house. To be honest, all those years I lived with her only physically, not spiritually—without love. My wife and I were like opposite poles, like water and fire, like day and night. She never understood me and never even wanted to. Sometimes on winter nights, watching the snow fall outside the window, I would say to her: ‘Look how beautifully the snow is falling! The blizzard howls and calls out and cannot calm itself. It feels as though the wind is hurling grain against the windows, and as though winter itself is outside tearing apart its down-filled pillow. Under the light of the streetlamp, snowy flies whirl in swarms, and no one hurries to swat them with a flyswatter.’ When she heard such words, she became frightened and doubted my sanity.

‘Oh Lord! Why did I marry this crazy failed poet who torments me?! Tell me yourself, Lord, can winter really tear apart its pillow?! Can the wind throw grain at the windows?! This alcoholic must be seeing white flies and wondering why nobody is hurrying to swat them! I think it’s delirium tremens… I’ve had enough of living with this idiot! Tomorrow I’ll file for divorce!’ she would say, smashing vases and plates so that the neighbors could hear.

After that YouTube video she threw me out of the house. I came here to ask your forgiveness. Yes, I built a tent. What else was I supposed to do when I had nowhere to live? I am homeless. I understand that you are a young and charming girl and that you have a boyfriend. I am not opposed to your love at all. Because there is only one thing I want—for you to live happily in this world. Yes, I am not your match. You rightly pointed out that I am a former prisoner. I was imprisoned because I demanded that our society have democracy and a free press. I ask only one thing of you: do not drive me away from this place. It is enough for me simply to see you every day, even from afar. I need nothing more from you, Malokhat. I intend to spend the remainder of my life here, where I first met you. Oh, if only you knew how deeply I love you! I have decided to build here, on the bank of the Kashkaldak River, a Temple of Love made of clay bricks and dedicated to you.”

Listening to the words of the passionate fisherman and blogger Zayniddin Zindaniy, Malokhat burst out laughing.

“Oh, hold me back before I burst from laughter! Who builds a palace of love out of clay bricks?! A Temple of Love should have a reinforced concrete foundation, and it should be built at least from cinder blocks! Otherwise it will collapse during an earthquake measuring two points on the scale, or the rains will wash it away. You need marble and other building materials! Just look at how much money it takes even to build an outhouse. And you’re talking about a Temple of Love! To build a temple, you need cheap hired labor. Even if you hire local alcoholics for the construction, you’ll need a certain amount of money for vodka and snacks. Alcoholics can drink at least two or even three crates of vodka or wine in a single day! After they’ve drunk it all, they become lazy and stop working, even under the blows of the long whips used by circus tamers of wild beasts,” she insisted.

“You are right, Malokhat. I do not argue with that. But great goals require desire, time, patience, and constant labor. Most important of all is not to sit with folded hands but to begin. Everything else builds itself according to God’s will. Besides, you and I and all humanity were created from simple clay, and yet here we are, living in this world. The rain does not wash us away,” said blogger Zayniddin Zindaniy.

“Well then, how are you going to live here in your tent? On what money? Human beings are creatures who eat several times a day,” Malokhat asked.

“Thank you for worrying about me, Malokhat. But I can earn a decent living on YouTube by posting interesting videos there,” said Zayniddin Zindaniy.

Suddenly Malokhat cried out:

“Oh! I think you’ve got a bite!”

“Oh yes! Right away!” said the passionate fisherman, blogger, and poet Zayniddin Zindaniy, grabbing the fishing rod and hurriedly winding the line onto the reel. After some time, he managed to pull a small fish from the river. The caught fish flopped on the shore, coating its silver scales with sand.

“Well, would you look at that!” Malokhat exclaimed, admiring the fish.

“You see? And yet you worry about how I shall live in this tent! God does not leave His servants without food, even in the desert. It is like manna from heaven,” said the passionate fisherman, blogger, and poet Zayniddin Zindaniy, who dreamed of building a wondrous Temple of Love from simple clay bricks on the bank of the river.

 

 

Chapter 13
Bakhildakho Bebakho

 

 

The Driver of the Earth, Ngduat Yambua, happened to overhear a conversation between the barber Usta Garib and the tractor driver Ivan during lunch.

“Usta Garib, cough up some cash for vodka if you want to hear good news from me!” said Ivan the tractor driver.

“What news?” asked the barber Usta Garib.

“Your son, the migrant worker Bakhildakho Bebakho, who had gone missing, has been found! It turns out your son signed a contract and went off to war in Ukraine as a hired fighter! Members of the diplomatic corps got him released from Ukrainian captivity!” announced tractor driver Ivan, extending his cap so that barber Usta Garib could toss some drinking money into it.

“Oh, praise be to God! Praise be to Allah for not taking away my only son, Bakhildakho Bebakho! The theologians speak the truth when they say that God is merciful and compassionate!..”

With these words Usta Garib gave the alcoholic Ivan his last money and rushed home. Tractor driver Ivan put his cap back on his head together with the money and headed toward the bar, where a bartender deftly juggled bottles while pouring vodka and wine into glasses. The Driver of the Earth, Ngduat Yambua, became curious and followed Usta Garib in his invisible official limousine, sounding verbal signals to warn pedestrians aside so that he could see the soldier who had returned from the bloody war.

When they reached the barber’s house, they saw Usta Garib’s wife standing against the doorframe, weeping bitterly. Usta Garib approached his wife, breathing heavily and smiling. Then he said:

“Well then, congratulations, wife! I told you he was alive and well! But you didn’t believe me! Now then, call our son. Where is he, our hero with clusters of medals and decorations on his chest, awarded by the command for his bravery?!..”

But the wife of barber Usta Garib continued to cry, lamenting mournfully:

“Oh, may the homes of those who started this vile war burn to the ground! Scoundrels! What have they done to my son! May you be cursed forever and ever!” she sobbed.

“Stop it, fool! What nonsense are you babbling, you brainless hen, instead of rejoicing?!” said Usta Garib.

At that moment Bakhildakho Bebakho himself stepped onto the porch. Usta Garib spread his arms wide and walked toward his son.

“Well, hello there, my only son! How wonderful that you returned alive and unharmed from that bloody war! I heard everything, son. They told me how you were mobilized and sent to the war in Ukraine. Then you were captured! I begged you not to go to Russia for work. But you wouldn’t listen, and here is the result. Why did you sign that contract and volunteer for that vile, senseless war? The laws of our country forbid our citizens from fighting in the armies of foreign states. I understand—you wanted to earn more money and send it to us. Ah, Bakhildakho Bebakho, Bakhildakho Bebakho! Now you’re probably listed among the missing, and you can’t receive the money promised in that contract you signed. But never mind, son. Don’t worry. Everything will work out and be fine. The most important thing is that you came home alive!” he said, tears of joy in his eyes.

Bakhildakho Bebakho embraced his father and said:

“Ahhh, it’s you, Tapparov from Tyumen?! Well, hello, hello! I see you’ve grown old, my friend! Deep wrinkles on your forehead, and your hair has turned gray from the horrors of war. How are you? I remember, I remember… You used to play the balalaika like a virtuoso and sing!..”

Kalin! Ka-kalin! Ka, kalin! Ka moya!
In the garden grows the raspberry! My little raspberry!
Ai, lyuli, lyuli, ai, lyuli, lyuli…

“You danced, slapping first the soles of your boots, then the breast pockets of your military tunic, hopping like a frog.

Remember the tanks with barbecue cages on top, looking like crooked abandoned sheds? The mountains of dead young soldiers in black body bags? The unbearable stench of decomposing bodies? Torn-off legs still in boots, arms and other limbs of those poor boys… Don’t you remember?!… You must have a concussion… Oh no, no, you’re Gataulin… Or Ivan?! Yes, you’re definitely Ivan! Or maybe your ghost?! It seems a drone strike got you and killed you! You’re a ghost! Begone! Begone!”

Bakhildakho Bebakho stared wide-eyed at his father and suddenly shoved him away. Usta Garib stepped back and said:

“Son, what’s wrong with you? Are you joking? Please don’t scare me…”

At that moment Bakhildakho Bebakho grabbed a shovel, handed it to his mother, and shouted:

“Here, Mahmud, take these machine guns and fire them with both hands! Run quickly in a zigzag, with a headband like Rambo, rolling around to dodge bullets! Fire away, handsome! See over there? Beyond that wall, steppe Pechenegs and Cumans are shooting arrows tipped with explosives!.. Oh, run for cover, Mahmud! Hear that? The ‘birds’ are buzzing in the sky—Ukrainian drones! There, a Shahed kamikaze drone is coming, sounding like a moped!..”

Usta Garib’s wife stood holding the shovel, still crying. By then Bakhildakho Bebakho had approached the hearth where a fire was burning and, taking a burning log from it, shouted:

“Long live dear Comrade Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev, thrice Hero of Socialist Labor! Forward to the attack! Huraaaah, comrades zoldiers und offiziers!”

With those cries Bakhildakho Bebakho hurled the burning log directly toward Ngduat Yambua, who dashed outside and quickly slammed the gate behind him. The burning log struck the gate. Usta Garib, realizing that his only son Bakhildakho Bebakho had lost his mind, collapsed helplessly to his knees and wept bitterly, cursing the senseless war that had claimed the lives of hundreds of thousands of young soldiers and officers, killing innocent children, turning cities into ruins and peaceful people into refugees.

The Driver of the Earth, Ngduat Yambua, could not recover from what he had witnessed for a long time.

 

 

Chapter 14
The Loan

 

 

The avid fisherman and poet Zayniddin Zindaniy walked alone along a winding path toward the river, hoping to fish in silence and listen to the farewell horn of a riverboat sounding in the distance. The dreary day was gray and aged; a fine rain fell indifferently. In the river delta, beneath the clear water, crucian carp splashed their fins. It was as though the sky above the river quietly whispered and wept because, far away, a city was choking beneath the poisonous smoke of factories and plants. He loved listening to the divine whisper of rain and the mysterious rustle of green reeds. Today, however, fishing was not on his mind. He had decided to visit the city and apply for a bank loan to build the Temple of Love. Along the way he heard a signal—“Diiiiid, dit, didit!”—followed by the squeal of brakes. Turning around, he saw the experienced astronaut-pilot and Driver of the Earth, Ngduat Yambua.

“Where are we headed, sir?! Hop in, I’ll give you a ride!” said Ngduat Yambua.

“No, thank you, brother. I want to walk and breathe the spring air,” replied Zayniddin Zindaniy.

“As you wish. Dran! Dran! Drannannannanan!” smiled the Driver of the Earth, Ngduat Yambua, and ran off, gathering speed.

“Poor fellow, he seems a little touched in the head… Probably from a hard life… Maybe he’s pretending in order to get disability status and a pension… Yesss, that’s how we live… Still, he’s exactly the sort of character that makes interesting content for YouTube and attracts millions of subscribers,” thought the avid fisherman, blogger, and poet Zayniddin Zindaniy, exiled from his native home.

Lost in these thoughts, he did not notice that he had reached the bus stop. Then he boarded a bus and traveled to the district center where the bank was located. At the bank he was warmly greeted by one of the employees.

“Hello. How may I help you, sir?”

The famous poet, avid fisherman, and blogger Zayniddin Zindaniy explained his plans to the bank employee, who listened calmly and then began to speak:

“Not a bad idea, building a Temple of Love. But you see, any construction project is useful to society when it generates income. After all, you will have to repay the interest on the loan. Now, if you were opening a small business in that building connected to trade or rentals, that would be another matter,” explained the bank employee.

“Thank you for the excellent advice, Mr. Bank Employee. I shall do exactly that… Forgive me, what is your name?” asked Zayniddin Zindaniy.

“My name is Real Daromad,” replied the bank employee.

“A pleasure. I’m Zayniddin,” introduced the blogger Zindaniy.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Zayniddin-aka,” smiled the bank employee, shaking the hand of the client who wished to build a Temple of Love on the banks of the Kashkaldak River.

“The pleasure is mine,” smiled the poet, blogger, and avid fisherman Zayniddin Zindaniy.

After that the bank employee took Zayniddin Zindaniy’s passport and began typing rapidly on a computer, filling out various forms. He entered letters and numbers with remarkable speed without even looking at the keyboard. Once he had completed the paperwork, he returned the passport together with a sheet of paper bearing a long list.

Politely and with a kind smile, he said:

“Zayniddin-aka, in order to receive the loan, you’ll need to gather the documents listed on this paper.”

“Very well, Mr. Real Daromad. Consider it done,” rejoiced the avid fisherman and blogger Zayniddin Zindaniy, shaking the bank employee’s hand once more.

“Good luck,” said bank employee Real Daromad.

Zayniddin Zindaniy bid farewell to the employee and stepped outside. Gathering the documents took no less than two full weeks.

Two weeks later he returned to the bank carrying a thick folder stuffed with collected documents under his arm. After greeting the employee, Zayniddin Zindaniy handed over the papers.

This time the bank employee seemed much more serious to him. As he reviewed the blogger’s documents, he said:

“Zayniddin-aka, I must inform you that we checked your identity in our database and discussed whether to grant you a loan. The issue is that our bank does not place much trust in citizens who have spent time in prison. What’s worse is that your conviction was for political offenses. So…”

“But I served my sentence from beginning to end; in other words, I paid my debt for what I had done,” said the avid fisherman, blogger, and poet Zayniddin Zindaniy.

“In that case, let us do the following. Let’s meet somewhere discreet and discuss everything in a calm atmosphere over a cup of tea or coffee. Do you agree?” smiled bank employee Real Daromad.

“Yes, Mr. Real Daromad. Why not?” replied Zayniddin Zindaniy, recovering somewhat from the shock.

They arranged a meeting, and Zayniddin Zindaniy once again went outside. The next day they met in a café and began discussing the matter.

“Mr. Zayniddin Zindaniy, before we begin our conversation, I would ask you to temporarily switch off your phone. This procedure is for mutual security and trust. I know that you are a blogger,” the bank employee Real Daromad said with a crafty smile.

The avid fisherman and blogger Zayniddin Zindaniy turned off his phone and placed it on the table. After that the bank employee spoke again.

“I have done the impossible, persuading the bank manager, Mr. Ibn Kafolat, who was categorically opposed to granting you a loan. I did it because I respect creative people, especially poets. I hope you will justify that trust and not embarrass me before my superiors. Otherwise, not only could I be removed from my position, but I might also end up in the very places where you once were.”

“Thank you, Mr. Real Daromad, for helping me while risking your position and sacrificing yourself. I will try not to let you down, I promise,” said Zayniddin Zindaniy.

After that bank employee Real Daromad showed him a document. Upon reading what was written there, the poet, avid fisherman, and blogger Zayniddin Zindaniy was stunned with astonishment. The paper stated that he would receive only half of the total loan amount while signing a document declaring that he had received the entire sum.

“Well, do you agree? If not, there will be no deal,” warned bank employee Real Daromad. At that moment he resembled the corrupt generals of warring countries who, deceiving their military partners, steal billions of dollars through fictitious contracts, signing documents certifying receipt of weapons that never existed, while poor soldiers and honest officers fight in trenches, bleeding as they defend their country’s sovereignty and territorial integrity and perish.

Zayniddin Zindaniy thought and thought, and at last agreed to the terms, solely in order to achieve his goal and fulfill his dream by building a Temple of Love on the banks of the Kashkaldak River in honor of his beloved.

 

 

Chapter 15
The First Kiss

 

 

Malokhat was sitting beside Ngduat Yambua in the cabin perched high in a gigantic tree growing above a deep ravine, its mighty roots clutching the earth like the talons of a hawk.

«Thank you, Malokhat, for visiting my mother yesterday,» said the Driver of the Globe, engineer-mechanic, and world-class intergalactic pilot-cosmonaut Ngduat Yambua, continuing to steer the Earth.

«You’re welcome, Ngduat Yambua. We love and respect Aunt Rizvan. She is a good woman who gave birth to such an outstanding intergalactic pilot-cosmonaut and Driver of the Globe as you,» replied Malokhat.

«Hey, careful, my beloved. With so much praise I might lose control of the Planet, the way foolish rulers lose control of themselves when they start pretending to be demigods,» said Ngduat Yambua.

«I’m not praising you. I’m simply stating the facts. That’s exactly what you are. Oh, I almost forgot. Yesterday our school held its graduation ceremony, where we officially received our secondary-school diplomas. I received a gold medal,» Malokhat announced.

«Oh, congratulations from the bottom of my heart, Malokhat! Well done! I know you’re a capable girl. I remember how you managed to master an entire science related to steering the Planet in a single day. Now you can enroll at a university. I’m happy for you, and I’m sure that among the students you’ll find your true happiness,» said Ngduat Yambua.

«There you go again! How many times do I have to explain that I don’t need anyone except you! That’s it, I’m not going anywhere to study! I’d rather jump from this cabin into the ravine right now!» said Malokhat, preparing to leap like a paratrooper about to jump from a military aircraft.

«Hey, what’s gotten into you? I just wanted to test once again how strong our mutual love really is,» said Ngduat Yambua, embracing Malokhat tightly so she would not jump.

Their eyes met, and for the first time they kissed, sitting in the cabin like spring doves upon a rooftop. Malokhat blushed with embarrassment as she slipped free from the young man’s embrace. After that they sat in silence for a while. To avoid the awkwardness, the Driver of the Globe steered the conversation in another direction.

«You know, yesterday I had a strange dream. In the dream, we received a housing loan to build a luxurious wooden palace on this huge tree, with a balcony overlooking the deep ravine. But we couldn’t keep up with the mortgage payments and sank neck-deep into a swamp of debt. As a result, the bank confiscated our property through the courts. Then one day an unusual idea came into my head, and the two of us decided to leave for the forest and live in a burrow alongside wild animals. I found a suitable spot and dug us an earth-house, like badgers digging a den. I also dug a second tunnel as an emergency exit so we could evacuate quickly in difficult moments. One day we woke up in our burrow to a piercing scream. It sounded as if someone was calling for help. We came outside and cautiously approached the place from which the cries were coming. There we saw a terrible sight. A man with a horrifying face was writhing in agony after getting caught in a steel poacher’s trap.

«‘Help me, for God’s sake! Please…’ he begged, his face twisted with pain from his injured leg. I panicked and didn’t know what to do.

«‘Hold on, hold on, I’ll help you,’ I said, and with great difficulty freed the man’s leg from the trap. He screamed in pain at the top of his lungs and began to cry. Afterward I dragged him into the burrow.

«In the burrow, you gave him first aid, bandaging the wound by the light of a kerosene lamp and offering him tea.

«‘Thank you so much, kind people,’ said the man, his face contorted with suffering as he closed his eyes against the pain.

«After that we began to talk.

«‘Who are you, if it’s not a secret, and how did you end up here?’ I asked.

«‘My name is Salovach ibn Yalovach,’ he replied.

«‘Very pleased to meet you. I’m Ngduat Yambua. I used to work as the Driver of the Globe, sitting in a cabin atop a giant tree growing above a deep ravine, its powerful roots gripping the earth like the claws of a kite. Now I continue my beloved work here in the deep forest, far from wicked and treacherous people,’ I told him.

«‘Thank you very much, Mr. Ngduat Yambua, for saving me,’ Salovach ibn Yalovach said gratefully.

«‘It’s nothing, Salovach ibn Yalovach… Well, your leg is clear enough. But… forgive my foolish question—what happened to your face?’

«‘Ah, that’s a long story, Mr. Driver of the Globe. As you know, everyone in our country lives on credit. I too fell into a swamp of debt and had to hide for years from the agents of my creditor. I wore a welder’s protective mask so they wouldn’t recognize me on the streets or among crowds of pedestrians. I couldn’t repay the moneylender who had lent me money at enormous interest. His men began searching for me throughout the city, swearing they’d find me and settle scores. For years I lived hidden behind a welder’s mask, and eventually the mask fused with the skin of my face. Now no plastic surgeon can remove it. Since then I’ve lived in a burrow and fear people more than wild beasts. Sometimes I’m frightened by my own reflection in the water and try not to look into clear puddles after rain.’

«Hearing this, we gasped.

«‘Lord! How horrible!’

«‘Yes, Mr. Driver of the Globe, you’re right. It is horrible,’ agreed Salovach ibn Yalovach.

«‘Still, it’s comforting that you also live in a burrow like we do. That means we’re not alone in this forest,’ I said happily.

«‘No, you’re not alone. Many people think our towns and villages are empty because labor migrants have left for neighboring countries. No, that’s not the case at all, Mr. Ngduat Yambua. On the contrary, more than ninety percent of our country’s population has long been living in burrows like ours, like wild animals.’

«‘What are you saying, Mr. Salovach ibn Yalovach? Surely you’re joking!’

«‘No, Mr. Driver of the Globe. It’s the pure truth. What’s more, hunters and poachers hunt us. Here’s a living example—I nearly died after stepping into a steel poacher’s trap. If not for you, I might have died from hunger and cold, or wolves might have eaten me for supper. Or hunters could have hauled me away on a sled and sold me at the bazaar. Recently I accidentally overheard a conversation between a state environmental inspector and a poacher. The inspector said: «Citizen Poacher! Who gave you the right to hunt wild people who live in burrows during the closed season? Why are you violating hunting regulations during their breeding season in our nature reserve?» The poacher replied: «What people are you talking about, Inspector? Those creatures living in burrows aren’t people. You can hunt them any time of year. We’re not killing them. On the contrary, we carefully catch them with powerful traps and sell those idlers at the bazaar according to hunting laws, so they can work for free on their masters’ plantations and be of some use.» The inspector answered: «No, Citizen Poacher, you’re violating hunting laws and I’m forced to fine you. Imagine that! We spend all year caring for our feral underground people, providing medical aid and dropping food and salt to them from helicopters, while you mercilessly exterminate whole families of them out of season, damaging the environment in the process. Hand over your rifle! Immediately! Do you hear me?» The environmental inspector tried to wrest the hunting rifle from the poacher’s hands, but the poacher resisted desperately, and then a shot rang out. The inspector fell face-first into the mud while the poacher disappeared into the bushes.»

«‘Well, I’ll be…’ I said in astonishment.

«We wanted to continue our conversation, but then we heard human footsteps crunching through the snow and fell silent. After a while the uninvited guests above us began talking loudly among themselves. Then one of them shouted:

«‘Citizen living in this burrow! We ask you to come out peacefully! Resistance is useless! The burrow is surrounded by an operational squad! You have nowhere to run, do you hear us?!’

«‘Who are you people and what do you want, gentlemen?’ I asked.

«‘We’re from the tax inspectorate! Court bailiffs are here as well to confiscate your property in payment of debt! You’re living in these premises illegally without paying rent! And failure to pay taxes carries fines! Either pay rent or vacate the burrow immediately!’ declared the inspector.

«‘I live in a burrow that I dug myself! I own nothing but a kerosene lamp and a sheepskin!’ I replied.

«‘Citizen, arguing with representatives of the authorities can have consequences! The land belongs to the state! There is a cadastral map clearly marking this territory! I warn you for the last time—come out of the burrow immediately! Otherwise we will be forced to use force!’ the inspector warned.

«‘No! I won’t leave a burrow that I dug with my own hands!’ I shouted.

«‘Oh, is that so? Then you’ll have only yourself to blame!’ said the inspector, then ordered someone else: ‘Come on, throw a couple of smoke grenades into the burrow and let the bastard suffocate from lack of air!’

«After his command, smoke grenades were thrown into the burrow, filling it with acrid, choking, tear-inducing smoke.

«While the inspectors waited for us at the main entrance, we escaped through the emergency exit and ran deep into the forest.»

 

 

Chapter 16
Mister Mekadeil

 

 

When the barber Usta Garib arrived at work, the first thing he did was open the window of his barbershop, and at once the spring air rushed inside. Outside flowed a full river, on whose banks ancient willows and poplars grew. To keep clients from getting bored in the waiting room, he switched on a tape recorder. Before long customers began arriving, and Usta Garib got to work.

The first to sit in the barber’s chair was the red-haired businessman Mister Mekadeil, a man of about forty-five or fifty years old. The other customers played cards while listening to songs. Mister Mekadeil began speaking.

«Usta Garib, be careful. You’re cutting a human being, not a sheep.»

«Just sit there and keep quiet, Mister Mekadeil. Don’t teach me my trade. Otherwise I might cut off your ears, and when you get home your wife and children won’t recognize you. They’ll think you’re some kind of robber and call the police. That’s the good outcome. The worse one is that your neighbors come running with pieces of pipe, rebar, baseball bats, and pitchforks to administer frontier justice. They’ll send you to the next world before the police even arrive,» he warned the businessman.

Mister Mekadeil continued.

«Ah yes, Usta Garib, you’re a drunkard and probably insane besides, incapable of understanding your own actions because of some mental disorder. But I’m the sort of man who can find common ground with anyone. For example, I too love music. The only difference is that I adore symphonic works by great composers—Bach, Mozart, Strauss, Wagner, Giuseppe Verdi, Frédéric Chopin, Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff, and many others. When I listen to a symphony, I forget this world full of grief, suffering, deceit, injustice, betrayal, oppression, and evil, and I soar upward, leaving my body behind.

«Sometimes I fly back to where my childhood and youth passed. I drift through the air like a steppe eagle and look down. It’s spring. There I am in our yard, gripping our sheep by the legs while my father and I shear its wool. In my father’s hands are special sheep-shearing scissors. The lamb that was recently born circles around its mother, bleating pitifully with its tongue hanging out as it tries to drink milk from her while she lies there. The poor sheep, apparently thinking we are slaughtering her, struggles to free her legs, tightly bound with a rope, and bleats as if saying farewell to her lamb in the language of sheep. My father works away, a worn skullcap perched on his shaved ‘Fantômas-style’ head, looking like a bald fascist. He shears wool with metal scissors and suddenly—oh God—the scissors growl unpleasantly and slice off a good chunk of the sheep’s skin.

«‘Oh, bellat!’ my father exclaims, swearing in Russian.

«The poor sheep jerks in pain. My father takes a cotton stalk, wraps cotton wool around its tip, dips it into a black liquid with a sharp smell, and applies the medicine to the torn wound to stop the bleeding and disinfect it, like a fascist torturing a captive. The sheep jerks again and bleats miserably. Father resumes shearing, then accidentally cuts her skin again and says:

«‘Ah, bellat! Cut her again!’

«The sheep convulses from the terrible pain. Father applies the black, foul-smelling liquid once more and continues shearing diligently. Though the scene was tragic, for some reason I desperately wanted to laugh. I barely held it in. But when I heard Father say, ‘Ah, bellat, cut her again!’ I couldn’t hold back anymore. I exploded with laughter. My father did too.

«When we finished shearing, our sheep looked like a spotted deer…

«I rise into the sky again and continue my flight among the clouds. I fly and fly, then slowly descend into the village where my grandmother’s little house stands. There is the raised platform where Grandma and I lie side by side on summer nights while countless stars glitter above us like diamonds and topazes. Somewhere beyond the cotton fields wanders the quiet moon. I loved sleeping without a pillow, while my grandmother lay with four pillows under her head. It looked as if she were sitting rather than lying down.

«I ask her:

«‘Grandma, Grandma, why are you sitting there with so many pillows under your head? And why aren’t you asleep?’

«She replies:

«‘Ah, divana’ (meaning a wandering dervish), ‘I’ll soon be in the grave. I want to enjoy this beautiful world while I still can, gazing at the countless stars and the lonely moon.’

«My grandmother silently gazes at the starry sky and the softly shining moon for a long time. We lie there listening to the crickets and the distant chorus of frogs.

«Grandma asks me:

«‘Divana, are you asleep?’

«‘No,’ I say.

«She smiles and continues:

«‘When I die, will you cry?’

«‘Of course. How could I not?’ I answer, looking at the stars.

«‘And how will you cry? I’m very curious to know,’ she says.

«‘Enammo-oo! Enammo! Uyimizning ustuni enammo! Jigarimning butuni enammo! Men endi sensiz qanday yashayman!’ I say, pretending to cry like a little tragic actor.

«This lament roughly translates as:

«‘Oh, my grandmother! Oh, Grandma-aa! You were the sturdy beam of our house and the only uninjured piece of my liver! How shall I live without you now!’

«I look over—my toothless grandmother is laughing silently through her tears, shaking her thin shoulders and flashing her tongue in the moonlight. Her gray hair shines like silver…

«I rise into the sky again and continue my flight. In the distance I see people walking with mournful steps toward the cemetery carrying a wooden funeral bier. My beloved grandmother lies inside it. At the head of the procession walk my uncles Mashrab and Muhammad and I. We carry staffs and cry loudly. Especially me. I cried hoarsely:

«‘Enammo-o-o, enammo! Uyimizning ustuni enammo! Jigarimning butuni enammo! Men endi sensiz qanday yashayman! Oh, my grandmother! Oh, Grandma-aa! You were the sturdy beam of our house and the only uninjured piece of my liver, scarred and wounded though it is! How shall I live without you now!'»

Thus spoke the businessman Mister Mekadeil.

After Mister Mekadeil left the chair, Bazarbay Aksakal sat down. At the customer’s request, Usta Garib began shaving his head completely bald—»Fantômas style»—with a straight razor.

After a while Usta Garib noticed that Bazarbay Aksakal was crying. The old man wept so bitterly that his beard was soaked through with tears.

«Bazarbay Aksakal, why are you crying?» asked Usta Garib, freezing for a moment with the razor in his hand.

«Ah, Usta Garib! That song about kindness hit me hard. You know, when I was young I was a strong fellow, and whenever I drank alcohol I turned into a beast. Every day I beat my wife, dragging her across the yard by the hair like a sled across snow. I fought in taverns, staggered home dead drunk, then chased my wife with a kitchen knife, trying to behead her. The poor woman ran barefoot down snowy streets in her nightgown, stumbling and falling. My children hid in the chicken coop or the barn.

«One day I beat an old man in the street—Sheikh Mukimjan Aksakal—who was returning from the mosque. He started advising me to quit drinking and visit the mosque more often and pray to God five times a day.

«‘Don’t teach me, goat-beard! Yes, I drink, but not on your money! Why are you interfering in my personal life like treacherous aggressors invading a neighboring country under a fabricated pretext, violating its sovereignty and territorial integrity?’ I said as I continued beating the poor old man. He lay on the ground begging me to stop, but in my rage I kept striking him with my hands and feet until I grew tired. The poor old man finally got up, found his skullcap, dusted it off, put it back on, and then began asking me for forgiveness! He said: ‘Forgive me, son. Old age is no joy. Lately I’ve become skin and bones. Didn’t your hands hurt from striking my bones?’ Then he came up to me and kissed my fists, like the legendary boxer Muhammad Ali kissing the fists of Iron Mike Tyson. He kissed them, do you understand?! Every time I remember Mukimjan Aksakal, I feel like chopping off my own hands with an axe!»

Bazarbay Aksakal wept and continued:

«One day I fell ill and ended up in hospital. Suddenly a nurse said, ‘You have a visitor.’ I looked and there stood Mukimjan Aksakal, the very man I’d once beaten so savagely. It turned out he’d brought me fruit and food. I wanted to ask his forgiveness, but my pride wouldn’t allow it. Years passed, and Sheikh Mukimjan left this world. Wise men say that old sins cast long shadows. The sin I committed still pursues me and torments my soul. I was a fool. All my life I searched for an enemy. Only today did I realize that you don’t have to go far looking for one. The enemy is inside us. A person’s most treacherous and wicked enemy is himself—his animal passions, his destructive desires, gossip, and slander.

«Sometimes I want to take a rope and hang myself. But suicide is also a grave sin. We enjoy spreading gossip, mocking and ridiculing weak and helpless people, never realizing that we are committing serious sins for which we will answer not only in this world but in the next as well. Usta Garib, do me a favor—cut my throat with your straight razor! Tell everyone it was an accident.»

«No, Bazarbay Aksakal, I cannot fulfill your request. I’m not a murderer, first of all. And secondly, I have no desire to wander through penal colonies and be eaten alive by ticks, bedbugs, and lice. Don’t lose hope. Everything we do in this world comes back to us, like the throwing weapon of the Australian Aborigines called a boomerang. Just wait. Before long someone will beat you half to death as well, and then you’ll be kissing his fists and begging forgiveness,» Usta Garib kept insisting.

 

 

Chapter 17
Parliamentary Elections

 

 

The driver of the globe, Ngduat Yambua, who had put forward his candidacy for parliament from the Kuyganyar electoral district, lost to his rival Mister Matorkordon in the parliamentary elections. The debate took place at the club, where Ngduat Yambua presented his platform to the voters. Speaking before the electorate, he said: “Dear voters! If I become a member of parliament in our country, the first thing I will fight for is a free press in society. For a free press is the golden key of democracy. If independent newspapers and YouTube bloggers specializing in exposés exist in society, exposing thieves of the people’s wealth every day, then greedy officials, fearing a free press, will immediately stop stealing your money, and the country’s economy will begin to recover.”

The rival of the globe driver Ngduat Yambua, Mister Matorkordon, placed his bet on women and began speaking, promising to defend women’s rights in society. Hearing Mister Matorkordon’s words, one woman could not restrain herself and, raising her hand, asked to be given the floor. They handed her a wooden microphone, and she began speaking nervously:

“Thank God, there are people who will defend our interests! Our village has no electricity, no gas, and no water supply! The streets aren’t paved! Let a little rain fall and the streets turn into a swamp through which we walk on wooden stilts so as not to sink into the mire, testing the depth of the mud with long poles. From spring until autumn we work in the fields under the scorching sun almost for free. In autumn we pick white gold—that is, cotton—by hand for pennies! We can’t receive our tiny wages and pensions on time because the cashier, the scoundrel, gives our money to butchers, and the butchers use that money to buy fattened bulls and rams! Then, after slaughtering them, they sell the meat in butcher stalls. Then they buy more! In this way they keep our money in circulation for three or four months. After that they return our money to the cashier. The cashier, having received his share of the profit, finally pays us our pensions! You may not believe it, comrades, candidates for parliament! To receive a pension, we put our names on a waiting list and wait for the cashier from morning until evening, sometimes from evening until morning, bringing bread and tea in thermoses… Why are you laughing? Is it funny to you?! It isn’t funny to us! For three years now we haven’t been able to receive the money we honestly earned through slave labor, which the state was supposed to pay us for silk cocoons. I have a daughter who is about to turn forty and whom I still need to marry off! My eldest son has turned fifty! I still can’t get him married! And how am I supposed to marry him off?! With what money?! Producing silk cocoons requires infernal labor! Sometimes even sacrifices! As you know, silkworms that produce silk threads eat only mulberry leaves! But mulberry trees are disappearing year after year like a rare species listed in the Red Book! During winter, because of fuel shortages, people secretly cut them down. That’s why every year disputes arise between people who raise silkworms in their homes. Sometimes these quarrels end in knife fights. A vivid example is my husband, may he rest in peace! He fought our neighbor over a mulberry tree while defending our family’s interests, and that fool struck my husband in the head with an axe. I screamed in horror. Blood flowed from his wounded head like a crimson waterfall, and I begged him to go to a doctor. But he wouldn’t listen. Instead, he poured soot from a stove onto the wound, where his bloody brain, resembling a walnut, could be seen, and wrapped it with a footcloth. One day vegetable oil arrived at the village store, and people rushed there in a crowd so as not to be left without necessities. My poor husband died in the crush. What can you do? It must have been fate. Now I live with another man. Though he drinks heavily and chases me around with a kitchen knife trying to behead me. It’s bearable.

Do you know why he chases me with a knife? You see, I’m still quite an attractive woman, and he’s jealous like the mad General Othello who strangled poor Desdemona! One day he flew into a rage and shouted at me: ‘Why are you looking at that airplane pilot?! I’ll gouge your eyes out!’ But the plane was flying five kilometers above us. He rushed at me with a pitchfork, and I barely escaped with my daughter wearing only a nightshirt. My eldest son and eldest daughter also managed to evacuate. It was a harsh winter, the frost crackled. I ran through thirty centimeters of snow clutching my little daughter to my chest. Fortunately, my husband slipped and fell into an open manhole—the cover had been stolen by local drug addicts and sold for scrap to buy drugs from dealers. We hid behind some bushes. That day my daughter and I walked along a cold and deserted street until my husband fell asleep. I was so frightened I didn’t even catch a cold. Last year my eldest son nearly ended up beneath the collapse of clay walls. That day the earth began to roar. My son, whom I still need to marry off, was inside the house while I stood in the yard with my daughters.

‘Budzhurkordon! Run into the yard! Earthquake-e-e-e!’ I shouted.

Hearing my voice, my son Budzhurkordon shot out of the house like a bullet, and our house collapsed. It turned into ruins. Why? Because our people, lacking building materials, build their houses out of clay. We have no money for expensive construction materials!” said the woman into the wooden microphone.

She wanted to continue, but parliamentary candidate Mister Matorkordon interrupted her.

“Very well, citizen, I understand you. Thank you for the important information. Here I stand before you in the sacred hall of the collective-farm club and solemnly swear to defend the people’s interests when I become a member of parliament! I will do everything possible so that electricity is never cut off in the village of Chapayevka. Light bulbs will shine in every hut and shack even when the power is switched off! Gas in your stoves will burn like the Eternal Flame at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier! Every family will have its own water pipe with a valve and powerful water pressure. I won’t even begin speaking about singing and dancing colored fountains or swimming pools with emerald-green water where white lotuses, water lilies, and lilies bloom. As for cashiers, they will wait for your arrival from evening until morning and from morning until evening, bringing bread and tea in thermoses, so they can pay you three months of pensions in advance. We won’t merely pave the roads—we’ll lay carpet runners over them. You’ll walk to work in soft house slippers along carpeted streets! Furthermore, I will achieve constitutional amendments and force the president himself to sign a decree establishing that girls in our country will marry at forty-five and men at fifty-five! We will distribute spherical inflatable rubber houses with polyethylene doors and windows! Then you won’t waste money on building materials! In those rubber, spherical houses even earthquakes won’t be frightening! Most importantly, you will be able to move anywhere at any time by letting the air out of your house and reinflating it by mouth wherever you choose to live. During floods you will calmly float on the water while your neighbors drown, choking on it. I will make it possible for you to grow not cotton but hemp and poppies in the fields, from which expensive narcotics such as opium, heroin, cocaine, and marijuana can be produced. By selling these priceless goods, farmers can become enormously rich. First of all. Secondly, we shall ensure that Kuyganyar’s residents address one another respectfully, like the French. People will add the noble particle ‘Kordon’ to surnames: Budzhurkordon, Chotirkordon, Komirkordon, Dutarkordon… Immediately after becoming a deputy, I will introduce a bill legalizing theft in society. Yes, yes, don’t be surprised. We shall steal!

Why shouldn’t ordinary people steal when corrupt officials steal gold bars, diamonds, and public funds from the state treasury by the wagonload every day, secretly transferring them to foreign banks through offshore accounts?! We will open new kindergartens and schools where your children will be taught by hardened swindlers how to steal public money and other people’s property. Day after day your children will gain invaluable experience, and you shouldn’t scold them if they begin not by robbing banks but by robbing libraries and stealing thousands of books. Don’t worry—in this world everything can be sold. Even the Motherland. Books can also be sold to meat-processing plants that produce delicious pork sausages. Moscow wasn’t built in a day, was it? Thus, ladies and gentlemen, the younger generation, gradually gaining experience, will first begin stealing chickens, geese, ducks, horses, camels, cows, goats, sheep, and donkeys from neighboring countries. Then your talented children will learn to hijack expensive cars, civilian airliners, military bombers, submarines, and even ballistic cruise missiles with nuclear warheads as a last resort, so they can sell them to religious extremists and especially dangerous terrorists wanted by Interpol. We shall reward crooks, robbers, and smugglers with orders, medals, and certificates of honor for outstanding service to the Fatherland!” said Mister Matorkordon.

At his words, the jaws of those present hung open in amazement and admiration. Then, recovering themselves, they unanimously approved Mister Matorkordon’s program, and someone shouted:

“Now that’s a deputy! God must have heard our prayers and sent us this candidate! Let’s vote for Mister Matorkordon! Let him be not only a deputy but a senator as well!”

 

 

Chapter 18
The Opening Ceremony

 

 

Bank employee Real Daromad discussed by telephone with the bank manager, Mister Ibn Kafolat, the issue of granting a loan to the exiled poet, passionate fisherman, and blogger Zayniddin Zindaniy.

“Let him receive the loan and build whatever he planned. Once construction is complete, we’ll take the initiative into our own hands and write off all the money we’ve stolen by declaring that we spent one trillion U.S. dollars on his project,” said the manager of the Kabir Kamomad Bank, Mister Ibn Kafolat.

After that, the passionate fisherman, blogger, and poet exiled from his home, Zayniddin Zindaniy, received half of the promised loan, giving the other half to bank employee Real Daromad as a sign of gratitude, just as they had agreed.

As the blogger, passionate fisherman, and poet exiled from his native hearth began construction of the Temple of Love, inspectors from various agencies started arriving one after another—first from the tax office, then the prosecutor’s office, then the cadastral service—demanding legal documents, and they would not leave until they received their share. Matters reached the point where Zayniddin Zindaniy was left with only enough money to build the foundation. Despite everything, the passionate fisherman, blogger, and exiled poet worked day and night, making unfired bricks from clay and adobe, covering himself from head to toe in mud. An unprepared person might have been badly frightened upon seeing him by moonlight. Covered in mud, Zayniddin Zindaniy resembled a statue made of clay. This builder of the Temple of Love lived on fried fish. He worked from dawn until late evening without rest, until he collapsed from exhaustion like a horse with no hind legs. On this project he was the boss, the chief engineer, the foreman, and the laborer who worked for free like a slave. After a month, Zayniddin Zindaniy finally succeeded in building the Temple of Love from unfired bricks.

Seeing the completed temple, Malokhat, who was grazing her cow nearby while preparing for exams, burst into laughter.

“Is that really a temple? It looks more like junk. The walls of your temple are crooked! I’m afraid it might collapse on my cow,” she laughed.

“What? In my opinion the temple looks perfectly fine. Yes, its walls are crooked. I built it that way on purpose. It’s a masterpiece—the eighth wonder of the world after the Leaning Tower of Pisa, which hasn’t fallen for thousands of years,” said the passionate fisherman, blogger, and exiled poet Zayniddin Zindaniy, as though making excuses.

Malokhat wanted to laugh even harder, but suddenly froze in surprise when she saw a crowd running toward the Temple of Love, raising clouds of dust.

“Oh, it looks like an angry mob is coming to lynch you! Run! Hide!” she said.

The blogger, passionate fisherman, and poet exiled from his home was greatly surprised but did not run away. When the crowd arrived and they saw smiles on people’s faces, both of them relaxed. Two people from the crowd quickly stretched a red ribbon across the entrance of the Temple of Love. After some time, the manager of Kabir Kamomad Bank, Mister Ibn Kafolat, arrived in an expensive automobile together with his assistant Real Daromad. A brass band began playing in honor of their arrival.

“Doom-pop-pop, doom-pop-pop!” a light waltz sounded, while the crowd applauded the guests for a long time.

A portable podium with a microphone was set up. The distinguished guest, the manager of Kabir Kamomad Bank, Mister Ibn Kafolat, stepped onto the podium and began to speak:

“Dear compatriots! Ladies and gentlemen! The construction of the Temple of Love has finally been completed, and I sincerely congratulate all of you! Our bank, Kabir Kamomad, invested one trillion U.S. dollars into this construction project!” he declared.

Hearing this, the people applauded even louder.

The manager of Kabir Kamomad Bank continued:

“Today we have the good fortune to be present at the opening ceremony of the project of the century—the Temple of Love! Let us officially open it!”

With those words, the manager of Kabir Kamomad descended from the podium as if from the clouds and approached the ribbon together with his assistant. They cut the ribbon with scissors. The brass band began playing again.

“Go on, Real Daromad, you enter the Temple of Love first—the temple into whose construction we invested one trillion U.S. dollars!” ordered the manager of Kabir Kamomad Bank, Mister Ibn Kafolat.

Bank employee Real Daromad approached the Temple of Love and opened the door. But the temple door suddenly tilted and fell off. Then the windows collapsed as well. Seeing this, the crowd recoiled, murmuring in fear.

The employee of Kabir Kamomad Bank, Mister Real Daromad, leapt back and tried to run, but he was too late. A crooked wall of the Temple of Love, built from unfired clay bricks, collapsed onto him, raising clouds of dust like a nuclear mushroom cloud. Bank employee Mister Real Daromad was buried beneath the fallen clay bricks.

People began running in every direction, shouting in panic, not knowing what to do. By the time they dug him out from beneath the rubble, the employee of Kabir Kamomad Bank, Mister Real Daromad, was dead.

At that moment a siren sounded, and everyone turned around together, thinking an ambulance had arrived. But there stood the driver of the globe, the intergalactic-class pilot-cosmonaut Ngduat Yambua, who had just arrived in his invisible vehicle to find out why so many people had gathered there and were shouting.

 

 

Chapter 19
Moonlit Night

 

 

It was a summer night. Crickets chirped. The voices of frogs drifted from the distant river delta, like whispers.

“Look, my love, what a moon!” marveled Earth’s Driver, Ngduat Yambua, sitting beside Malokhat in his cabin, perched high in a gigantic tree that grew above a deep ravine, its powerful roots digging into the earth like the talons of a hawk.

“Uh-huh,” Malokhat agreed, resting her head on Ngduat Yambua’s shoulder and gazing thoughtfully at the moon shining brightly above the river. Then she continued:

“It’s perfectly round, as if drawn with a compass!”

“The moon has always looked round, and by looking at it, scientists once concluded that the Earth must be similar. For that thought and idea, they were publicly executed—hanged, drawn and quartered, burned alive at the stake. So many brilliant scholars perished for speaking the truth.

Today it is the opposite. If you claim that the Earth is square or triangular, even religious fanatics may laugh at you. Today one may loudly proclaim that not only the Earth, but galaxies and even the universe itself are round and move along a path resembling the symbol of nothingness—a zero, with neither beginning nor end.

And people are more like a compass, as you said. They come into this world to draw a circle upon the paper of life, from birth to death. If you do not believe me, go ask people what they are doing. They will answer briefly:

‘We’re spinning.’

Yes, they are right. Everyone in this world spins, rotating together with the Earth until one day they themselves become earth. Year after year a person grows older, and some say this process cannot be stopped.

That is not true.

Aging can be stopped—but only if time itself can be stopped. And time will stop only when the Earth ceases to turn.

I fear that people, hoping to remain forever young, may try to stop the Earth.

That must never happen.

That is why I sit here and steer the globe,” explained Ngduat Yambua.

Listening to his wise words, Malokhat fell silent in thought. Then she said:

“You know, yesterday matchmakers came to our house with expensive gifts, asking my parents to marry me to the son of the wealthy pharmacist Dyryldayev Ibn Zambaru.

One of the matchmakers smiled politely and said to my mother:

‘Dear Tolkunoy, we have come to ask for your daughter’s hand on behalf of our nephew Ibn Zambar, the son of the wealthy pharmacist Mr. Dyryldayev. The young man is tall, handsome, intelligent, does not smoke, and does not drink alcohol. In short, the bird of happiness has landed upon your head. Guard it well and do not let it fly away.

The wealthy pharmacist Mr. Dyryldayev does not send matchmakers to just anyone. He has connections everywhere—powerful friends in the highest circles of government. The moment you agree, we shall arrange the engagement, and then the wedding.

Your daughter will live in a luxurious home like a queen. And you yourselves will receive a new apartment in the very center of the capital.

How much longer will you live in this hut that resembles a cowshed?

Look—there is not even a copper ring on your fingers. Nothing hangs from your neck or ears either. If you become relatives of the wealthy pharmacist, not only your daughter but you as well may receive gold jewelry, pendant chains, diamond rings.

I can tell that you are embarrassed to smile because you are missing your front teeth. The toothless part of your mouth resembles the goalposts of the legendary football team “Pakhtakor.” I promise that before the wedding, my dentist friends will fit you with teeth capped in gold, and you will smile beautifully like all wealthy women.

Your husband will no longer have to work knee-deep in foul-smelling cow manure on a livestock farm. He will sell medicines from behind the counter of a pharmacy, dressed in a snow-white coat. He will even have an expensive automobile.

As for now, I see you do not even own a wheelbarrow for garbage.

Good Lord! How can people live like this?

Today Lady Fortune herself is peeking into your hut. Do not miss this historic opportunity. Such chances are not given to everyone.’”

“‘Thank you, dear guests, for visiting our humble home. But I must tell you that my daughter wishes to study at a pedagogical institute and become a teacher,’ my mother replied.

“‘Then let her study—even at a university. No one will forbid her. We have no objections. For heaven’s sake, she may study not only in our country but even abroad—in Harvard University or Oxford near foggy London, where people ride on double-decker buses,’ said the matchmaker.

“‘Thank you. But you see, there is also… how shall I put it… she already has a chosen one. A young man. We cannot go against our daughter’s wishes,’ my mother explained.

“‘Really? Interesting. And who is he, if it’s not a secret? The son of some billionaire?’ the matchmaker asked.

“‘No. An ordinary young man. Rizvan-apa’s son,’ my mother answered.

“When the matchmakers heard that, they exchanged glances and burst into laughter. After several minutes, barely suppressing their mirth, the same matchmaker spoke again:

‘But he’s crazy! The one who lives in a tree like Tarzan. The Driver of the Earth! His mother is deaf and mute, and the son is a fool! He is no match for your daughter, Tolkunoy!’

The fat matchmaker laughed on, flashing her gold-crowned teeth.

“I could not bear it any longer. I rushed out of my room and said:

‘Stop mocking us! I do not love your nephew Ibn Zambar! Ngduat Yambua is a thousand times smarter than your nephew! I don’t care about you or your wealth! Leave right now! Get out of our house!’

And I was holding a poker in my hands.

The matchmakers got frightened and hurried away, taking their gifts with them.

I threw them out,” Malokhat finished.

“Well done! You are beautiful, intelligent, brave, and courageous. Your parents are good people too. I respect them.

Once we are married, we shall go to Canada. We will live in a three-room house with a balcony, perched atop the tallest and mightiest tree growing above Niagara Falls, its roots digging into the earth like the talons of a bald eagle.

We shall sit together on the balcony, listening to the roar of the water and the cries of gulls, watching the blazing sunset and the hurried, noisy flight of Canadian geese, listening to their mournful calls that sound like the creaking of an empty bucket.

We shall admire the moon as it slowly and quietly rises above Lake Ontario,” said Earth’s Driver, intergalactic pilot-astronaut Ngduat Yambua, embracing Malokhat and gently stroking her thick black hair, shining like black silk in the moonlight.

 

 

Chapter 20
Conversation with a Donkey

 

 

Former farmer Gylaymergan Kalkhauz was riding along a deep rut cut through a field in his old creaking cart, harnessed to a donkey, on his way to mow grass. Gylaymergan Kalkhauz preferred cutting grass with a hand scythe, as in the good old days, without a motorized trimmer. He disliked the noise of gasoline-powered machines and the stench of fuel. He needed silence in order to work with pleasure, listening to the ringing song of a lark pouring out its trill above the vast open fields where tall grass swayed in the wind and blue-eyed cornflowers bloomed among snow-white daisies.

When he began mowing with broad sweeps, keeping the ringing blade of the scythe close to the ground, the donkey started grazing while still harnessed to the cart. After laboring for a long time beneath the scorching sun and mowing a small patch, he lay down to rest in the cool shade of an old willow tree.

For some reason he suddenly felt like talking to the donkey and began speaking:

“Well then, how are you feeling, donkey? Still eating grass? Eat, eat, good health to you. Bon appétit. I prefer talking to animals rather than so-called people. Especially to donkeys, who know how to listen to their companion. You donkeys are symbols of patience. You never take revenge on anyone, even when people treat you cruelly and lash you with a whip. Obedience and diligence are in your blood. You work your whole life for free, never demanding that the abuse stop. You don’t study in schools or universities and you don’t like reading books. You live in cold stalls without electricity or gas during the winter. Quite right too—why would donkeys need schools, universities, books, electricity, or gas service when life is more cheerful without them?

You keep eating grass, donkey. Don’t pay attention to me. Just listen. I understand that you have a lot of work and no time to read books. As for me, it’s the opposite—I love reading. I’m a bookworm. The library is my favorite place, where I become intoxicated by the smell of books amid heavenly silence.

Recently I went to a flea market that resembled an ancient museum beneath the open sky, where people sold old things. You can find almost anything there. The most valuable things there, for me, are old books with yellowed pages and worn, torn covers. The vendors selling old belongings don’t know the value of those books because they don’t read them. They simply lack refined feelings—wonder, admiration, an appreciation of the magical influence of words upon the mind. Words can enchant like sorcery, giving a person a particular mood and allowing them to immerse themselves in a world of sensations, forgetting pain and suffering for a while in cozy spiritual solitude.

There I overheard a very interesting conversation between a buyer and a seller.

‘You know, yesterday I saw this leader in a dream,’ said a cheerful customer, smiling as he looked at a portrait of Stalin.

‘Really? Interesting. And what was Tashtalin doing in your dream?’ asked the seller in surprise, a smoking cigarette dangling from his mouth.

‘Well, here’s what happened. It turns out that in my dream I died and was taken into a stone cave where there was an enormous crowd of sinners standing in horror before the blazing fires of Gehenna. Their gigantic shadows trembled across the walls of the cavern. I looked around and saw some of them sitting on stone benches.

I approached a man wearing riding breeches and chrome boots with tall shafts. He was thin, sharp-nosed, wide-eyed, and had mustaches that looked like a beetle. He wore a brown uniform with an Iron Cross, and his forelock was combed to one side.

I cautiously approached him and said:

“Excuse me, uncle, could you move over a little? My legs are swollen… As they say, there’s no truth in one’s feet…”

When he heard my words, the man in the brown uniform flew into a rage. He became so furious that he turned red all the way to his neck like an enraged turkey. His eyes widened and his cheekbones twitched convulsively.

“What do you mean, uncle, Schwein! Don’t you recognize your Führer, blackface! I am Adolf Hitler!” he shouted.

I was frightened when I recognized the bloody, accursed dictator of the twentieth century, Adolf Hitler, who turned beautiful cities into ruins and destroyed fifty million innocent lives.

“Oh bitte, forgive me, Herr Schicklgruber,” I apologized.

Then, interrupting our conversation, a bald man about forty-five or fifty years old approached me. He was short, with a reddish goatee, wearing a suit and a red necktie. Smiling, he stared directly into my eyes as if into a deep well and began speaking with a pronounced lisp while holding his cap in his hand.

“And me, comyade? Do you yecognize me? Well… SDLP, Smolny, the Bolshevik payty… Kyupskaya Nadezhda Konstantinovna, the uprising of workeys and peasants in Petyogyad… the Winter Palace, the Octobey Wevolution… My hut on the shoye of Lake Yazliv, the winged phyase, the slogan ‘Woykeys of all countwies, unite!’… Well, do you wemembey now, Wed Aymy man?” he asked, holding the lapel of his world-famous jacket.

“Oh, it’s you, Comrade Vladimir Ilyich? Well, I’ll be! I never thought I’d meet you here. Forgive me for not recognizing you right away. That means you’ll become rich,” I said joyfully.

“What do you mean, become yich, comyade? Do you think befowe you speak? I shall nevew become yich, exploitey! I am the leadey of the wowld pwolletayiat, am I not? And yet you compaye me to those accursed bourgeois! You weason like a class enemy of the wowld pwolletayiat, like a Socialist Wevolutionary or a monarchist White Guayd! Not good, comyade, not good,” Lenin said, seriously offended.

“Forgive me, Comrade Lenin. I meant that you would become rich spiritually, not materially,” I explained.

Hearing this, Lenin’s mood immediately improved. He became as delighted as a child, and his narrow eyes sparkled with joy.

“Now that’s a diffewent mattey, comyade Wed Aymy man! Tell me, have the bloodthyirsty Basmachi bands of Kuyshemet and Ibyagimbek been defeated in Tuykestan?”

“Yes, Vladimir Ilyich, they have. They were defeated, but…” I answered, fearing my next words might upset the leader of the world proletariat once again.

“Stwange, comyade Wed Aymy man. Why do you say ‘but’?”

“You see, Vladimir Ilyich, I hardly know how to explain it. In short—the USSR collapsed!”

“What?! The U.S.S.W. collapsed?! What awe you saying, comyade?! How could it collapse, good gwief?!” cried the leader of the proletariat in bewilderment.

His mood darkened once more and he began pacing back and forth like a wolf in a cage.

“You weren’t aware of it? You mean you never heard about the dissolution of the USSR, Vladimir Ilyich?” I asked.

Lenin stopped abruptly.

“Awe you in youw right mind, comyade Wed Aymy man? How could I know? Thewe’s no teletype hewe!”

“Yes, you’re right, Comrade Lenin,” I agreed.

At that moment Hitler began rejoicing.

“Soldaten und Offizieren des Dritten Reiches! Kommunisten kaputt! Ich gratuliere! Huvakh-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaa! Yeh-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaa!”

He laughed and started dancing, singing Lili Marleen while skillfully playing a harmonica that he had pulled from the shaft of his chrome boot.

Lenin resumed pacing furiously, occasionally casting angry glances at Hitler. Then he stopped and asked me:

“So has the U.S.S.W. passed into the hands of the Ameyicans?”

“No, Vladimir Ilyich. First, General Secretary Mikhail Sergeyevich Gorbachev was elected president. Then came the State Emergency Committee, and power passed into the hands of Boris Nikolayevich Yeltsin, whom his associates supposedly stuffed into a sack and threw from a high bridge into the Moscow River. He survived by a miracle…”

“Who awe these people—Goybachev Mikhail and what’s-his-name… Boyis Yeltsin! Good gwief, why wewe they elected instead of appointed? Whewe wewe the communists looking? They wuinated such a countwy, the scoundwels! Fow heaven’s sake!” Lenin exclaimed, slapping his knees nervously.

“That’s nothing compared to what State Duma deputy Mr. Zhirinovsky once said. He claimed that your body should long ago have been removed from the mausoleum and cremated, with the ashes buried in Ulyanovsk where you were born.”

“Did he weally say that? Fow such wowds, countwewevolutionawies should be shot without twial, dekulakized to theiww mothews, and sent to hawd labow! Let them bweak gwanite in fowty-degwee fwosts and haul stones on theiw backs, wattling chains in stwiped unifowms!”

To distract Lenin from the subject, I changed the conversation.

“Forgive the foolish question, Comrade Lenin, but what are you doing here?”

“You see, comyade, I naively believed the wowds of Comyade Mawks—Karl—and his wealthy fwiend Fwiedwich Engels, thinking that Judgment Day did not exist. It tuwns out I was gweatly mistaken… Mewciful Lord, have mercy on Thy sinful servant…”

Lenin quickly crossed himself while staring in terror at the blazing fires of hell and the lava bubbling like molten metal.

At that moment another man appeared nearby. He wore a military tunic and riding breeches, was of medium height, with slicked-back hair, magnificent mustaches, and a smoking pipe clenched between his teeth. One of his arms appeared shriveled.

“Gamardjoba, genatsvale!” he said through pipe smoke.

I immediately recognized him.

“Oh, hello, Tashtalin! You’re here too?”
“Yes, unfortunately… Tell me, genatsvale, have the Crimean Tatars, Jews, Armenians, Ukrainians, Ingush, and Chechens whom we deported to Central Asia adapted to their new lives?” he asked.

“No, Tashtalin. Unfortunately, many of them died from lack of air in freight cars designed for transporting horses. They were forced to bury their dead children and other loved ones along the way in the sands of the Kazakh steppes. Many later died from hunger and disease. Only a few survived.

Many Jews, Armenians, Ukrainians, Crimean Tatars, Chechens, and Ingush were taken in by our Uzbeks, who shared with them their last pieces of bread during those difficult times.

And that’s nothing compared to those who perished in the concentration camps of the ‘Gulag Archipelago,’ in Solikamsk and Magadan. Mostly members of the intelligentsia were sent there, declared the worst enemies of their own people and accused of espionage.

Millions upon millions of people rotted alive in freezing barracks from lack of food, from dysentery, typhoid fever, and tuberculosis. Many went insane and hanged themselves. Others committed suicide by mutilating themselves.

And how many soldiers and officers, old men and children, innocent people, died in the war! Lacking weapons and ammunition, poor soldiers carrying wooden rifles went into battle by the company, shouting together, ‘For the Motherland! For Tashtalin!’ while the Germans shot them down like partridges, piling up mountains of corpses—soldiers, sergeants, and officers alike. Beautiful cities, factories, and plants were reduced to ashes,” I said with a sorrowful sigh.

“Well, what can you do, genotsvale? War is war, and it demands sacrifices. Let us talk instead about something positive…

At one time I was informed of the heroic labor of the Uzbek people, who built the Great Fergana Canal by hand in forty-five days with nothing but mattocks and shovels, under the leadership of that bald fellow—what was his name? Unfortunately, I can’t remember now. After my stroke, my memory became worse.

I remember giving him my watch when he arrived late to a meeting. Once I joked that I wanted to invite him to Moscow, but I was afraid he would dig canals all around Moscow. How we laughed then, Lord…

So, how are things there? I suppose the deserts of Mirzachul and Kyzylkum have turned into green cotton fields, gardens, and orchards rustling in the wind?” Stalin said, stroking his magnificent mustache as though petting a cat.

“No, Comrade Stalin. After the improper use of water resources, the water level in our rivers dropped sharply and our Aral Sea dried up. It has become little more than a puddle. An ecological catastrophe now reigns there.

Sandstorms rise and cover all of Karakalpakstan and Khorezm with salt. There are fears that before long the entire Central Asian region will turn into desert,” I replied.

Then I asked:

“Tashtalin, do you smell that disgusting odor drifting up from Hell? It smells like a decomposing corpse.”

“No, genatsvale. That rotten stench comes from my own mouth. My teeth decayed, and I hid them behind my mustache because I couldn’t smile,” Tashtalin replied.

“That’s strange! You were the head of government. Why didn’t you see a dentist?” I asked in surprise.

“Ah, genatsvale, life wasn’t easy for us authoritarian rulers, bloody and treacherous dictators though we were. We feared doctors like fire. They might poison us or install little transmitter bugs in our teeth, tracking beacons that could determine our location.

Remember the ‘Doctors’ Plot’? Under that project I destroyed many excellent and completely innocent physicians. What a foolish ruler I was!…

Look how Gehenna burns!

O Lord Jesus, have mercy upon and bless Thy sinful servant, Iosif Dzhugashvili! Lord, how many churches, synagogues, mosques, and Buddhist temples I destroyed to their foundations, secretly ordering the removal of crosses from church domes, crescents from mosques, and the Star of David from synagogues!

By my command, Red Army soldiers removed church bells and sent them to foundries so that tractor parts could be made from them! We turned sacred churches, mosques, and synagogues into vegetable warehouses!

We exterminated Christian, Buddhist, Jewish, and Muslim clergy. How many priests did I send to distant camps of death from which no one ever returned home!”

Stalin spoke sadly.

Just then a tall, heavyset, bald man burst from the crowd and approached Stalin.

“You summoned me, Comrade Stalin?” he asked.

Stalin removed his pipe from his mouth and stared at the bald man in surprise.

“Where have you been wandering, enemy of the people? English spy! This comrade here says that because of improper distribution of water resources, the Amu Darya and Syr Darya rivers in Uzbekistan have nearly dried up and the Aral Sea has become a puddle!

It turns out the entire Central Asian region is gradually turning into desert! Fertile land, cotton fields, gardens, and orchards are being covered with salt! Where are we supposed to plant cotton now—in your grandmother’s vegetable patch?

This is all your fault! Bukharin’s tail! Answer me, scoundrel, before I repress you! Otherwise, before dawn today, NKVD officers will arrive for you in the GPU’s Black Raven automobile and quietly knock on your door to take you where you belong!”

Hearing this, the tall, bald man dropped to his knees and began shuffling toward Stalin, clutching his cap to his chest like a cripple whose legs had been amputated before gangrene could spread.

“Oh, spare me, Tashtalin! Don’t repress me! Your GPU men might shoot me without trial! I am not an enemy of the people, nor am I Bukharin’s tail! We developed the Mirzachul desert according to Comrade Lenin’s own project! Lenin is the one to blame for everything!” he cried.

“Ah, you accursed countawevolutionawy! You want to accuse me—the leadew of the pwolletayiat—of a cwime that you youwself committed!

This is the fiwst time I’ve heawd of this ‘Miyzachul’ desewt! In my pwoject it says ‘Hungwy Steppe.’ Damn you! Scoundwel! Put youw pawty card on the table, Basmachi! Cwiminal element! Suppowtew of the bouwgeoisie!” Lenin shouted furiously.

“Never! I’d rather die than put my party card on the table!”

The tall, bald man sprang to his feet, shouted “For Tashtalin!” and leapt straight into the abyss where the fires of Gehenna blazed and lava bubbled like molten metal.

“That was the end of the dream,” the customer concluded.

“You see, buddy,” the seller replied, “I’m no wizard, but it seems to me that your dream foretells the approach of your inevitable death. To prevent that, you should buy this portrait of Comrade Stalin or this bronze bust of Comrade Lenin.

I also have Karl Marx’s Capital. Buy it. I don’t think you have any other choice. I’ll sell it cheap—practically for nothing. It would be a shame to throw it away, you understand?”

“No, I’d rather buy that wool ceremonial tunic with all the state orders and medals,” said the customer.

“Listen, you. What’s your name?” asked the seller.

“My name is Valdemar Kotin. Why?”

“Ah, Kotin, Kotin! Tell me honestly. Why do you need the worn-out tunic of a veteran who died long ago in the Second World War?”

“Why? By putting on that tunic together with the medals and decorations, I’ll take part in Victory Day celebrations, and everyone will congratulate me as a hero of that bloody war. Flowers, tears of joy, fireworks, and maybe even an air raid!” Kotin replied.

“Damn you, shaitan! How can you say such things? What a disgusting and repulsive character you are!” another customer exclaimed.

“What? I’m the disgusting one? Well, you illegitimate haramidan bogan! Take a look in that mirror and you’ll see what kind of monkey you resemble!

Your head is absurdly small, like a pumpkin. Your nose looks like an elephant’s trunk, like the breathing hose of a gas mask. Your arms are as long as an orangutan’s and hang below your knees. Your legs, on the contrary, are short and crooked.

And I don’t even want to talk about your backside. It hangs there like the enormous backpack of a tourist who came all the way from distant Europe to ancient Bukhara!”

After that a fight broke out between the customers, and I decided to leave the bustling flea market in a hurry, a worn book tucked beneath my arm, before the police arrived.

 

 

Chapter 21
Suicide

 

 

Early that morning, tragic news spread throughout Kuyganyar: the exiled poet, blogger, and avid fisherman Zayniddin Zindaniy had hanged himself.

The dreadful news seemed to freeze the blood in the villagers’ veins. At first, Malokhat refused to believe it, thinking it was someone’s cruel joke. She doubted it even after her parents confirmed it. But after speaking with her friends on the phone, Malokhat became convinced that it was bitter truth.

For some reason she wanted to cry, even though she had never loved the deceased poet, who had been madly in love with her. She stood like a tree struck by lightning atop a high cliff, quietly weeping as she remembered the words of the poet who had taken his own life.

Then she called Ngduat Yambua and asked whether he had heard about what had happened.

«Yes, I’ve heard, my dear, and I’m shocked. What a tragedy, Lord! It’s a pity, after all, for that poor lonely poet, exiled from his native hearth, who dreamed of building a Temple of Love in your honor on the bank of our Kashkaldak River out of unfired brick. It’s probably because you rejected his love. Or perhaps loneliness drove him to it. Or maybe the relatives of the bank employee who died beneath the collapse of his clay bricks pressured him.»

«What else could I do except reject his love if I didn’t feel anything for him?» Malokhat replied defensively.

«Did you happen to threaten him with a lawsuit for spreading information about you on YouTube?» Ngduat Yambua asked anxiously.

«No. I only told him that he had disgraced me in front of my classmates and my parents by talking about me during his so-called livestream that millions of people watched. I told him he was lucky that my father wasn’t cruel and my mother was kind, otherwise they would have sued him. I explained that distributing information about a person’s private life without consent is a violation. What are people supposed to think about me now? I only reproached him for having neither conscience nor shame, for ignoring ethical norms and feeling no guilt for his actions.»

Then she asked:

«And what about you? How did you get along with him? Maybe you had conflicts. Maybe you fought while I wasn’t around because of jealousy and gave him harsh ultimatums that drove him to suicide?»

«No, I never fought him and never made any demands. On the contrary, I was his friend. I helped him whenever I could. What are you implying, Malokhat?» Ngduat Yambua asked warily.

«Forgive me, dear. That’s not what I meant. I just want to know the truth—whether you had anything to do with this incident. If you did, then we’d have to do everything possible to keep you from being imprisoned.»

«Don’t worry, my love. I haven’t done anything illegal,» Ngduat Yambua assured her.

«I can see people gathering over there, and police cars with flashing lights. Shall we go?»

Malokhat agreed.

About fifteen minutes later she arrived at a deep ravine where a huge, towering tree grew, sinking its mighty roots into the earth like an eagle’s claws. Ngduat Yambua descended from the Globe, having switched it to autopilot, and together they walked toward the place where the irreparable tragedy had befallen the poet Zayniddin Zindaniy.

When they arrived, the scene had been cordoned off with orange police tape. Police officers stood guard.

The poet hung from the tree, while the river breeze mournfully stirred his hair like grass. It turned out he had hanged himself with wire.

Noisy gulls flew over the river, crying plaintively as though they too mourned the poet.

Nearby lay unfired bricks drying in the morning sun, bricks the poet himself had made from clay. The ruins of the collapsed Temple of Love stood black against the landscape, resembling an ancient amphitheater of the Roman Empire where gladiators fought to the death.

Beside the ruins stood the deserted tent of blogger Zayniddin Zindaniy and a stone hearth where the poor poet had cooked fish he caught himself. Wooden molds used to shape clay bricks lay scattered around.

The crowd gasped when forensic investigators pulled a small sack from the tent.

One of the officers opened it and read aloud:

«Dear people of Kuyganyar!

If anything happens to me, I ask you to give my manuscripts, stored in this sack, to the girl named Malokhat, daughter of the veterinarian Uncle Saidkaramatulla.

Among these manuscripts are many poems dedicated to her. I loved her more than anything in the world. But she did not love me, and that is normal.

I trust her as I trust myself. Let her preserve my manuscripts and pass them on to the chairman of the Writers’ Union.

I firmly believe that future generations will appreciate my works, publish them in large editions, and that my books will reach the hands of the people whom I loved.

Most of all, I wish for Malokhat to live happily and marry the man she loves—the driver of the Globe and brave pilot-astronaut Ngduat Yambua.»

Hearing this, Malokhat blushed deeply, lowered her head, and quietly wept.

When the forensic investigators promised to hand over the sack of manuscripts once the investigation was complete, the crowd burst into tears. Especially the women.

Ngduat Yambua stood there, not knowing what to do.

Meanwhile, the crime-scene investigators continued their work inside the cordon, searching for evidence. Collected items were carefully sealed in special bags. Footprints possibly left by the perpetrator were cast in plaster to create molds useful for the investigation. A photographer documented everything, flashes bursting from his camera.

Private detective Takhtakanayev Sukhbatullo Sunnatovich, after carefully examining the poet’s body, declared confidently:

«Gentlemen, this is not a suicide. Somebody ‘helped’ him.»

«Why do you say that?» one of the forensic experts asked.

«His fingers are smeared with dirt that hasn’t yet dried. But there are no traces of dirt on the wire. Tell me—wouldn’t a person being strangled instinctively try to grab the noose? His hands weren’t tied.»

«Logical,» one of the investigators agreed.

That evening, medical personnel transported the poet’s body to the morgue for examination.

 

 

Chapter 22
The Thunderstorm

 

 

The driver of the Globe, Ngduat Yambua, stopped his invisible limousine beside a country road and began checking the engine oil level, pulling out the dipstick and carefully wiping it with a rag.

At that very moment clouds began rapidly gathering above the cotton fields.

It seemed to Ngduat Yambua that the trees were staring anxiously into the distance like people frozen beneath a threatening sky. In summer, clear sunny weather in these parts could suddenly transform into a violent storm accompanied by torrential rain.

At such moments the skylarks would abruptly stop singing above the fields and meadows, just as they had now, foretelling the coming storm.

Tilting back his head, Ngduat Yambua looked up at the gray sky as large raindrops began falling, releasing the scent of road dust that reminded him of old books in a library filled with divine silence.

The raindrops drummed loudly against the ground, the stones, and the face of the driver of the Globe.

Distant silent flashes of lightning began connecting heaven and earth like welding arcs. Then thunder rolled directly above Ngduat Yambua’s head, sounding like the roar of a lion.

The gusting storm wind ruffled his hair like grass in a field.

The rain gradually intensified, turning into a deafening downpour.

Women and girls working in the cotton fields threw down their hoes and ran for shelter, shouting cheerfully and in unison like seagulls above sea waves.

Ngduat Yambua also ran toward a bus stop to escape the rain.

Then he saw his beloved Malokhat, soaked to the skin, running toward an old willow tree in search of shelter.

Ngduat Yambua shouted loudly, like a fisherman calling through a storm at sea:

«Malokhat, my love, run over here!»

Hearing his voice, Malokhat paused for a moment and turned toward him.

But suddenly she slipped and landed directly in a puddle.

Seeing this, Ngduat Yambua rushed over to help her.

By the time he reached her, Malokhat had already gotten to her feet, though she stood unsteadily like a child who had only recently learned to walk.

A sinister flash of lightning split the sky, followed by another tremendous peal of thunder.

Frightened, Malokhat threw herself into her boyfriend’s arms.

«Don’t be afraid! Everything will be all right!» Ngduat Yambua shouted over the deafening noise of thunder and rain.

Then he too slipped in the mud, and both of them crashed into a puddle.

«Lord!» Malokhat cried in panic, covered from head to toe in mud.

Even the main hero of our novel was hardly recognizable.

He stood up, lifted the girl as a groom might lift his bride, and ran toward the bus stop.

Lightning continued flashing, bathing the landscape in its eerie glow, while thunder boomed overhead.

Seated beneath the shelter of the bus stop, Malokhat and Ngduat Yambua laughed while gazing into each other’s eyes, which sparkled like the eyes of miners who had just emerged from the coal mines of distant Donbas.

Malokhat shyly adjusted the hem of her soaked dress and trousers.

The downpour continued, and the lovers sat there like wild people hiding behind a roaring waterfall.

«You’re not hurt badly, are you?» Ngduat Yambua asked.

«No, I’m fine. I’m so glad you happened to be here,» Malokhat replied happily.

«Yes, my love,» Ngduat Yambua said with a smile.

For a while they sat in silence, thoughtfully watching the rain.

«But how did you end up here? Weren’t you studying for your exams?» Ngduat Yambua asked.

«I came out to help a friend in the fields,» Malokhat answered.

At that moment thunder crashed so violently that both of them felt as though the sky had split cleanly in two.

Terrified, Malokhat once again threw herself into Ngduat Yambua’s embrace.

«Oh, come on, Malokhat! Don’t be scared. It’s only a thunderstorm. It’ll pass soon,» he said, holding her tightly.

Thunder roared across the world like the laughter of a madman. The wind raged. Dark storm clouds and the earth below were illuminated again and again by brilliant flashes of lightning, whose branching tendrils spread across the heavens like the roots of summer cornflowers.

When the thunder finally subsided, Malokhat slipped free from Ngduat Yambua’s embrace and began washing her face with rainwater pouring from the roof of the bus stop like the waters of Canada’s Niagara Falls.

By then the rain had stopped, and the clouds hurried westward.

The sun emerged. Birds began singing again.

Drops of rain trembled on wet branches and leaves like tears of joy upon eyelashes.

The clear, seemingly bottomless puddles glittered like mirrors fallen from heaven without breaking.

Above the cotton fields appeared an enormous rainbow.

Ngduat Yambua and Malokhat stared at the giant seven-colored arch with wild delight, as though it were the gateway to Paradise itself.

Just then police cars arrived at high speed, sirens wailing and lights flashing. They sped through the puddles, sending fountains of water and mud into the air.

When the lovers saw masked officers, they became frightened.

The vehicles screeched to a halt.

Detectives from the criminal investigation department jumped out and rushed toward Ngduat Yambua.

One of them shouted:

«Citizen Ngduat Yambua, you are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of citizen Zayniddin Zindaniy! We have a prosecutor’s warrant for your arrest!»

He displayed the warrant.

Hearing this, Ngduat Yambua turned pale with fear, while Malokhat began crying and trembling in horror.

Ngduat Yambua tried to calm his beloved.

«Citizen Ngduat Yambua, stop talking and place your hands behind your head!» another investigator ordered.

Then he snapped handcuffs around Ngduat Yambua’s wrists.

 

 

Chapter 23
The Investigation

 

 

Before the interrogation began, Investigator Primkulov Turdikul Tursunovich introduced himself to the Driver of the Globe and experienced pilot-cosmonaut Ngduat Yambua, presenting his credentials and explaining the suspect’s rights. He also warned him about criminal liability for giving false testimony. After recording the location, date, and time, he informed him that the interview would be video-recorded.

Thus the interrogation began.

«So, we are beginning the questioning in the presence of attorney Adalatov Shidjoat Motonatovich, who is representing the interests of his client, Ngduat Yambua.

«First question:

«Citizen Ngduat Yambua, did law enforcement officers use any physical force against you during your arrest?» asked the investigator.

«No,» replied the Driver of the Globe briefly.

«So everything was conducted according to the law?» Investigator Turdikul Tursunovich asked, typing notes into his computer with remarkable speed, scarcely glancing at the keyboard.

«Yes.»

The investigator proceeded to his next question.

«Please tell me, Citizen Ngduat Yambua, where were you on the night of the murder? That is, when the poet Zayniddin Zindaniy was killed?»

«I was at my workplace—where else would I have been? I was working the night shift, steering the Globe from my cabin, which is located in a huge, towering tree growing above a deep ravine, gripping the earth with roots like a kite’s talons.

«What are you implying, Mr. Investigator? Do you suspect me of involvement in the murder of the passionate fisherman, great blogger, and poet exiled from his native hearth, Mr. Zayniddin Zindaniy?

«Oh Lord! He was my friend! May the Kingdom of Heaven be his and may the earth rest lightly upon him. Yes, I was jealous, but I swear to you, I had absolutely nothing to do with this. I didn’t kill anybody!»

«So you weren’t there, if I understand correctly?»

«That’s right.»

«Then answer me this, Citizen Ngduat Yambua. Is this your phone?»

With that question, the investigator placed a mobile phone on the table.

«It looks like it. But… may I check it?»

«Yes,» the investigator permitted.

Ngduat Yambua unlocked the phone with his fingerprint scanner, just as Malokhat had taught him, and immediately brightened.

«Oh! Thank you, Mr. Investigator, for finding my phone! I lost it a month ago. It probably fell out of my back pocket while I was racing along in my invisible government limousine.

«I searched for it all night in the rain. I checked my office in that huge tree above the ravine, whose roots clutch the ground like a hawk’s claw. Then I climbed down into the ravine itself, thinking it might have fallen there.

«But unfortunately I never found it.

«How did it end up in your hands?

«Thank you, Mr. Investigator, for recovering my beloved lost phone. I was embarrassed in front of my girlfriend Malokhat and her parents because they had given it to me as a gift after I rescued their cow from a swamp.»

«So you’re stating that this phone belongs to you?»

«Yes, Citizen Investigator. It’s mine. I lost it a month ago.»

«Very well, Citizen Ngduat Yambua. Just don’t be in a hurry to take it back. Your phone is currently classified as evidence, at least until the investigation and trial are concluded.»

Then he added:

«Now, in your presence, we will carry out a lawful procedure. We will examine subscriptions, photographs, messages, and browser history for extremist content and related materials. Do you object?»

«No. Please check as much as you like, Mr. Investigator,» Ngduat Yambua replied calmly.

The investigator began examining the contents of the phone.

Suddenly he gasped.

«What did you find, Mr. Investigator? There should be some voice messages I sent to my girlfriend Malokhat…» Ngduat Yambua said awkwardly.

«No, Citizen Ngduat Yambua. This is far more serious and alarming than you imagine!

«Good heavens…

«There’s a huge amount of religious-extremist material here promoting the ideology of Islamic jihadists!

«And what’s this?!

«Incredible! The complete text of a book by the bloody twentieth-century dictator Adolf Hitler. Photographs of Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin, Osama bin Laden, and Stalin!

«Yes indeed—you are much more dangerous than we initially believed, Citizen Ngduat Yambua!

«Were you planning a coup d’état in our country?»

«What are you talking about, Mr. Investigator? What coup? What extremist content? What jihad?

«I’m the Driver of the Globe! An honored pilot-astronaut in the constellation Andromeda! I work day and night without pay, without weekends, tirelessly for the benefit of all humanity. I guide the Earth from my humble cabin atop a gigantic tree growing above a deep ravine, its roots gripping the ground like a falcon’s claws!

«I barely even have time to pray properly, let alone attend a church, synagogue, Buddhist temple, or mosque!

«Why would I need books by Hitler, Stalin, Lenin, or that fellow—what’s his name—Marx?

«I’m a law-abiding citizen and a patriot of my sovereign, independent country! I despise dictatorship and authoritarianism!»

The experienced Driver of the Globe, Ngduat Yambua, became visibly nervous.

Then he began to cry.

 

 

Chapter 24
A Quiet Knock at the Door

 

 

After officers from the Criminal Investigation Department arrested Ngduat Yambua, Malokhat fell ill.

She lost her appetite and all interest in life.

Day after day she lay in her room thinking about Ngduat Yambua, unable to believe that he could have killed the poet Zayniddin Zindaniy.

On the day of the arrest she had nearly broken her legs stumbling through puddles while running after the police car, sobbing like a madwoman.

When she finally entered the house, her mother Tolkunoy was terrified by the sight of her.

For a dreadful moment she thought someone had beaten her daughter—and perhaps even assaulted her.

«What happened to you, my daughter?» she cried, embracing the mud-covered girl and stroking her disheveled hair, trying somehow to calm her.

When she heard what had happened, Tolkunoy sank helplessly onto a worn carpet, unable to believe her ears. Then she rose and brought a cup of water in an aluminum mug.

«Calm yourself, dear. Here, drink some water.»

Handing over the mug, she asked again:

«My God! Why was he arrested?»

«They suspect him of murdering the poet Zayniddin Zindaniy,» Malokhat answered through tears as she drank.

«Poor Aunt Rizvan! What will happen to her when she hears her son has been arrested? Haven’t you told her?»

«No, Mother, no. How could I? She’ll faint when she hears such news…»

Malokhat continued crying.

Afterward she locked herself in her room and wept into her pillow so her parents would not hear her.

Especially after the full moon rose outside the window, shining through the silence of the night.

Meanwhile, Malokhat’s parents could not sleep either.

They lay awake speaking quietly to one another.

«My God, could it really be him?» Tolkunoy said in horror. «Such a harmless-looking, kind young man. How could he murder that wonderful poet, poor Zayniddin Zindaniy, exiled from his native home? It’s unimaginable! We trusted him so much!»

«Yes, dear,» her husband replied. «A person never truly knows who stands beside him or what is in another’s mind.

«I didn’t believe the words of pharmacist Dyryldayev—the father of our daughter’s classmate Ibn Zambar—when he called me.

«He said, ‘Dear Saidkaramatullo, we’re practically colleagues. You treat animals and I treat people. Your wife and daughter made a mistake when they sent away the matchmakers my wife and I sent to ask for your daughter’s hand on behalf of my son Ibn Zambar.

«‘But your daughter drove them out, saying she loved a congenital fool suffering from schizophrenia. Such people are dangerous. They should be isolated from society before they hurt someone. You never know what’s going on in their heads. They may seem harmless, but during episodes they become aggressive. They can suddenly attack, injure, or even kill.’

«‘My advice is to be careful.’

«And I replied:

«‘Mr. Pharmacist, thank you for your concern. But my wife and I trust this young man, Ngduat Yambua, and we cannot forbid our daughter from seeing him. They love each other. We cannot go against our daughter’s wishes.’

«The moment I said that, the wealthy pharmacist hung up without even saying goodbye.»

«Perhaps the pharmacist was right,» Tolkunoy said.

«Malokhat threw the matchmakers out when they started insulting Ngduat Yambua and openly mocking us. They laughed at our house, saying it looked like a cowshed, and joked that my missing front teeth resembled the goalposts of the legendary football club Pakhtakor.

«And despite all that, I still tried to treat them respectfully.

«Who knows? Maybe Pharmacist Dyryldayev was right after all. He may not be a psychiatrist, but he’s still a doctor, and doctors ought to be listened to.

«What horror, Lord!

«It’s a good thing they never married. Otherwise this Driver of the Globe, Ngduat Yambua, might have killed our daughter during one of his episodes, smothering her with a pillow in the middle of the night.

«And what if he’d pushed our poor daughter out of his cabin atop that gigantic tree growing above the ravine?

«Then he would probably have sent us to the next world as well, striking us with a metal pipe to eliminate witnesses.

«And afterward, to dispose of our bodies, he might have dismembered us, stuffed us into black bags, and thrown us from a bridge into the Kashkaldak River.

«Oh, what a fine man and great poet Zayniddin Zindaniy was!

«Malokhat and I have been reading the poems found in that sack. Such poetry—such poetry! Pushkin himself would have to step aside! True classics! Every poem is a separate work of art. A masterpiece. The tender symphony of a lonely soul.

«Especially the exquisite poems dedicated to our daughter!

«Oh, how Malokhat cried with those verses pressed against her face!

«And such a poet was murdered by villains—without a duel, without seconds, without a revolver, without a single shot fired!

«Oh, that cunning and treacherous Driver of the Globe!

«And we thought that behind his foolish appearance hid a brilliant and wise intellect.

«But instead he turned out to be a ruthless serial killer, a psychopath, a maniac!

«God Himself saved us and our daughter from certain destruction, father of my children!»

Tolkunoy’s eyes glimmered in the darkness as she spoke.

Because of such conversations, the couple remained awake until dawn.

The house was so quiet that the ticking of the wall clock could be heard distinctly in the predawn gloom.

Then suddenly they heard a knock at the door.

Someone was knocking softly.

The couple exchanged frightened glances, unsure what to do.

They quickly got dressed and listened.

The quiet knock came again.

«Who’s there?» asked veterinarian Saidkaramatullo nervously, staring at the door.

«Open up! Police! The house is surrounded! Resistance is useless!» someone shouted.

Hearing this, Saidkaramatullo’s mouth went dry with fear.

Malokhat awoke as well and ran from her room. She embraced her mother in an effort to comfort her.

Soon both women were crying.

Saidkaramatullo opened the door.

Law-enforcement officers burst into the house.

One of them shouted:

«Hands behind your head and face the wall! Quickly!

«Citizen Saidkaramatullo Sunnatillokhodzhayev, you are under arrest on suspicion of involvement in the murder of Citizen Zayniddin Zindaniy!

«Anything you say from this moment forward may be used against you in court!»

With those words, he snapped handcuffs onto the veterinarian’s wrists.

 

 

Chapter 25
Prison Science

 

 

In the cell of the pre-trial detention center where Ngduat Yambua, the Driver of the Earth, had been locked up, there were three other inmates.

One of his cellmates began speaking:

“Assalamu alaikum, brother. May I ask? What are you doing time for, and what trouble brought you here?”

Despite being the driver of the gigantic Earth and an experienced pilot and astronaut of international class, a highly qualified specialist in operating flying craft, Ngduat Yambua did not understand the words of his curious cellmate.

“What are you talking about, friend? Please speak in a language I can understand,” he said.

“I mean, how did you end up here, and under what article were you charged?” the cellmate explained.

“Ah… you should have said so right away! I don’t understand such complicated words because this is my first time here. They suspect me of a crime I didn’t commit. Out in freedom, I worked as a driver,” said Ngduat Yambua.

“A taxi driver, you mean? Transporting passengers for hire?” asked the curious cellmate.

“No. I worked as the Driver of the Earth. Every day from morning until evening, without weekends and without pay, for the benefit of all humanity, I sat in my modest wooden cabin located on a huge, tall tree growing above a deep ravine, sinking its mighty roots into the ground like an eagle’s claws,” answered Ngduat Yambua.

“No way! You’re joking!” the curious inmate exclaimed.

“No, I’m not joking. We Drivers of the Earth are unusual people, unlike you. Tell me, who are you in life?”

“I am Zhurabiddin Turabiddinuvich. A hereditary window-thief. I earned my bread and butter by quietly cleaning out passengers’ pockets on public transportation and in crowded places—noisy bazaars, festivals, railway stations.”

“No, I’m asking what group of living organisms you belong to.”

“Ah… I’m a human being. What else would I be?”

“No, you’re not a human being. You’re a birdhouse. Everyone living on this planet is a birdhouse in which the soul once settled, like a starling. The time comes when that bird called the soul flies out of a person’s mouth as though from a hollow nesting box, emptying forever the nest of flesh and blood, never to return.

“With us—by which I mean Drivers of the Earth—the process works a little differently. The bird of our soul can leave and return to our body whenever it wishes, like swifts that fly south in autumn and return again in spring.

“Oh, how many times I’ve flown beyond the blue seas and oceans! Nothing can compare to such a flight. You soar high among the clouds alongside migratory birds crying out as they head for warmer lands.

“But during such long flights, extreme vigilance is required. Otherwise, you may fall into the claws of predatory birds—hawks, eagle-owls, vultures, falcons, eagles, and kites. Worse still, hunters hiding among the reeds of blue lakes may fire their guns, and then it’s all over.

“One summer I was flying with other birds over Ukraine, and suddenly—a missile from a Buk launcher came up from below and shot down the Boeing 777 operating Flight MH17 from Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur, carrying 289 passengers, all of whom died in the terrible explosion,” sighed Ngduat Yambua sadly.

“Wow! Incredible! You can turn into a bird and fly? Amazing! You’ve even been to Ukraine, where a full-scale war is going on? Then who shot down the Malaysian Boeing with 298 passengers aboard—the Russians or the Ukrainians?” asked the curious cellmate.

“Yes, a bloody war is raging there. Tens of thousands of young soldiers and officers, civilians, women, elderly people, and innocent children are dying, trapped beneath collapsed concrete slabs and bricks after missile strikes on residential neighborhoods. Civilian infrastructure lies ruined; hospitals, schools, and kindergartens have been reduced to rubble.

“I don’t know who shot down the Malaysian Boeing. Only God knows that,” said Ngduat Yambua.

Then he asked:

“And how did you end up here, if it’s not a secret?”

“This time they arrested me for distributing prohibited extremist literature. I can see you’re a well-read man yourself. Perhaps you’ve read religious books?” the curious inmate asked.

“No, I can’t read or write. I don’t go to the mosque and I don’t perform namaz. To be honest, I don’t have time for such things. I operate a gigantic spherical flying machine called Earth, carrying all of humanity aboard it. God willing, nobody shoots down that clay flying machine either.

“That’s the kind of highly responsible work I do, friend. Right now I’m on vacation,” explained Ngduat Yambua.

Just then the iron door rattled mournfully. A guard entered the cell and shouted:

“Zhurabiddin Turabiddinuvich! Out!”

“Yes, citizen chief!” replied Zhurabiddin Turabiddinuvich, leaving the cell under escort.

The iron door slammed shut again.

The remaining inmate addressed Ngduat Yambua:

“My name is Imindzhan Rizaev. Nearly my entire life has passed in prisons and labor camps. I get released, spend a little time outside, and then I come right back. Prison is my true home. I’ve gotten used to this way of life.

“I can see right through you—you seem like a decent fellow.

“Listen. Watch your tongue when you talk to other prisoners. Don’t chatter too much. That Zhurabiddin Turabiddinuvich is a snitch. A secret police informant.”

 

 

Chapter 26
The Jackpot

 

 

While sitting in the detention center, Ngduat Yambua, the Driver of the Earth, quickly began learning the skills necessary for survival. He listened to the fascinating stories of fellow detainees.

One of them began his tale:

“I used to sell instant lottery tickets in crowded places, especially at the bazaar, where the flow of people roars like a giant whirlpool.

“‘Step right up! Cheap lottery tickets! Practically free! Try your luck, ladies and gentlemen! Don’t walk past your fortune! Don’t miss your real chance to become rich! Don’t chase away the bird of happiness, Gamayun, when it wants to land on your head! How long will you remain poor? Your day has come! You can find out whether you’ve won right here—just scratch off the protective coating! It’s easy! Hurry, ladies and gentlemen! A grand jackpot of one hundred million U.S. dollars is at stake!’ I would shout, attracting gamblers.

“‘Brother in the checkered shirt that drunks usually wear, try your luck. God willing, you won’t regret it. I can see you’re lucky—it’s written right across your forehead! Fortune will definitely smile upon you and you’ll go home a dollar millionaire! Let us introduce ourselves. I’m Mister Matash. And you? What’s your name? Ibn Kishanbay? Well then, Kishanbay-aka, judging by the motor oil on your fingers and beneath your nails, it’s not hard to guess you’re a tractor driver. Oh, a winner of socialist labor competitions? See, I guessed right away! Buy an instant lottery ticket and your wife will stop calling you a loser and a stinking tractor driver!’”

“I said this to a stooped, dark-skinned man with a swollen belly and almost no neck, carrying a sack on his shoulder.

“He bought an instant lottery ticket and began scratching it.

“I watched as he suddenly turned pale and clutched his heart.

“I immediately realized he’d won the jackpot.

“He stood there unable to speak, opening and closing his mouth like a freshly caught fish.

“‘Stand back, people! The man is ill! Perhaps he’s having a massive heart attack or stroke! I graduated from medical school! I’m a doctor! I swore the Hippocratic Oath! Move aside and don’t interfere! I must provide emergency medical aid and honestly fulfill my professional duty! No need to call an ambulance!’ I shouted like a fisherman in a stormy sea so the crowd could hear me above the deafening noise of the market.

“At last the stooped, dark-skinned man with the swollen belly and almost no neck recovered somewhat, and I began calming him down.

“Then I packed up my things and loaded him onto a handcart. The man who had won the jackpot had lost the power of speech from joy.

“I tried to pull the lottery ticket from his hand but couldn’t. Sitting on the cart, he gripped the instant lottery ticket with tenacious fingers like a hawk’s claws.

“The tractor driver turned out to be a heavy man.

“As I pushed the cart with all my strength, I sweated like someone who had spent hours in a Finnish sauna.

“By the time I reached home, pushing the cart with my dark-skinned, stout passenger who almost had no neck, I was exhausted.

“After closing the garage door, I tried once again to take the lottery ticket from him.

“It didn’t work.

“So I had to use force.

“To make him lose his memory for a while, I swung a piece of metal pipe and struck him on the head.

A clang rang out.

“The pipe bent into the shape of the letter ‘L,’ but the dark-skinned, fat man with the swollen belly and almost no neck stood there like some universal soldier, like Frankenstein!

“He didn’t even lose consciousness.

“I thought to myself, what a skull!

“In short, after trying to subdue him, I strangled him with a mobile phone charging cable and killed him.

“At that very moment my wife accidentally entered the garage. Seeing what had happened, she fainted.

“I barely managed to revive her.

“Afterward, my wife and I carefully wrapped the body of the stooped, dark-skinned tractor driver with the swollen belly and almost no neck in an old, torn carpet, loaded it onto the cart, and carried it to the river.

“The streets and roads lay deserted in the pre-dawn gloom. Blue stars flickered above the distant fields. From afar came the weary, muffled barking of dogs. The dogs called to one another through the darkness, repeating each other’s voices like an echo.

“We counted to three and threw the body of the stooped, dark-skinned tractor driver with the swollen belly and almost no neck from the high Kuyganyar bridge into the Kashkaldak River.

“When we returned home, I checked the dead tractor driver’s instant lottery ticket.

“My wife and I were stunned.

“The lottery ticket wasn’t a winner.”

 

 

Chapter 27
In the Hospital

 

 

After Ngduat Yambua’s arrest, poor Rizvan went to the detention center to see her son and tried to convince the law-enforcement officers that her son was not a murderer but, on the contrary, the kindest person in the world, always helping others whenever he could in difficult times. She begged them to release him. But the police officers politely explained:

“Ma’am, we understand you, but there are laws. The investigation is still underway. If it is established that your son was not involved in the crime, the investigators will release him. Right now, we cannot allow you to see your son. To do that, you must submit a request to the investigator asking permission for a visit.”

“I brought food for my son. Please give it to him,” Rizvan pleaded, handing them a bundle.

She felt unwell. Barely managing to reach the home of veterinarian Saidkaramatullo, she knocked at the gate.

Malokhat opened it.

At the sight of Rizvan, she burst into tears. Tolkunoy came running, crying and lamenting as well. Then they all went inside.

Using gestures, Tolkunoy explained that her husband had also been arrested.

Malokhat began comforting Ngduat Yambua’s mother.

“Aunt Rizvan, it’s all slander! You’ll see, everything will be fine. I’m sure your son and my father will be released soon. They’re innocent and have nothing to do with the murder of the poet Zayniddin Zindani. They’re both kind, good people.”

“Yes, God willing, may your son and my husband be freed as soon as possible,” Tolkunoy wept.

Rizvan thanked them for standing by her side, supporting her, giving her hope, and comforting her during one of the hardest periods of her life, sharing her grief and reminding her that she was not alone.

Yet despite all their comforting words and moral support, her condition worsened with every passing hour. An ambulance had to be called, and after examining her, the medics decided she urgently needed hospitalization.

Since Rizvan had no relatives, Tolkunoy and her daughter decided to accompany her to the hospital and care for her until she recovered.

It’s true what they say: trouble never comes alone. Her son is under investigation, and now she herself has fallen ill. God willing, may the poor woman recover soon, Tolkunoy thought as she sat inside the ambulance.

After receiving an IV drip, Rizvan regained consciousness and her condition stabilized. Seeing this, Malokhat and her mother sighed with relief.

At that moment, a woman lying in one of the hospital beds addressed Tolkunoy.

“Hello, Tolkunoy. Do you recognize me? I’m Manzura. Remember? I came to your house as a matchmaker.”

“Ohhh… it’s you? Of course I remember! Tell me, you didn’t take offense back then, did you? My daughter behaved a little rudely.”

“No, not at all. We understand. Many girls act that way when matchmakers come to their homes. That’s perfectly normal. So, how are things at your house? Is your husband well? Is everyone healthy?”

Tolkunoy fell silent.

Then she began to cry.

“Oh, Manzura! I think my daughter and I offended you greatly that day, and perhaps God is punishing us for it.”

“No, what are you saying, Tolkunoy? We hold no grudge against you or your daughter. Don’t cry. God willing, your sister will recover. Human beings aren’t made of iron; people get sick from time to time.”

“No, our situation is much worse! My husband has been arrested! They suspect him of murdering a poet! They’ve slandered him!” Tolkunoy wailed.

“Oh Lord! What a tragedy! But don’t lose heart, Tolkunoy. God willing, justice will prevail, and your husband will be released from custody.”

Then she continued:

“You know, I have an idea. Why don’t we ask our wealthy relative, the pharmacist Dyryldaev, for help? I’m sure he’ll help you. He has long arms, so to speak—that is, connections with influential officials in the highest levels of government.”

“Do you really think that’s possible? We turned down his son’s proposal…”

“Believe me, Tolkunoy. Pharmacist Dyryldaev is a good-hearted man. He isn’t vindictive. I assure you, everything will be all right.”

“Oh, may God grant you health and a long life, dear Manzura! I’ll never forget your kindness as long as I live. Thank you so much!” Tolkunoy exclaimed joyfully.

 

 

Chapter 28
The Interrogation

 

 

The driver of the Earth, Ngduat Yambua, was taken for another interrogation with Investigator Primkulov Turdikul Tursunovich.

This time, for some reason, the investigator decided to conduct the questioning without either a video camera or a lawyer present.

There was no trace left of the politeness he had shown during the previous interrogation. It was as if he had become a different person.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, as though he were about to chop firewood, dig a vegetable garden with a shovel, or plant potatoes.

This immediately alarmed Ngduat Yambua.

The investigator sat down opposite him, lit a cigarette, and began speaking.

“Well then, driver of the Earth, starship commander, cosmonaut pilot, twice Hero of the Andromeda Galaxy, who rides around in his invisible company limousine—are you going to confess nicely to the murder of poor, homeless poet and builder of the Temple of Love, Zayniddin Zindani, who was living peacefully in a tent by the Kashkaldak River?

Tell us how you strangled him with a wire and hung him from a tree. Tell us how you planned a coup d’état. Who are your accomplices? Why are you silent? Come on, spill it.”

“How many times must I repeat myself, Investigator Turdikul Tursunovich? Have some fear of God! I didn’t kill anyone! What coup? What accomplices? I’ve been slandered! How could I upload books onto a phone if I can’t even read? I swear before God, I had absolutely nothing to do with the poet’s murder! I’m not a murderer!”

“No. It was you who killed him out of jealousy because he wrote love poems dedicated to your girlfriend Malokhat. And we know very well that you’re an extremely cunning individual who pretends to be insane in order to escape justice.

Personally, I’ll do everything I can to make sure they don’t send you to a psychiatric hospital but instead lock you up in prison for many years. You’re finished, driver of the Earth, unless you sign the interrogation record and fully confess to the murder. A confession reduces the sentence. So? Are we going to cooperate with the investigation?”

“No. How can I confess to a crime I didn’t commit? Why are you interrogating me without a lawyer? That’s against the law!” Ngduat shouted.

“Oh, is that so? Then you’ll regret it.”

The investigator stood up and angrily crushed his cigarette into the ashtray.

Then he began beating Ngduat Yambua with his fists and feet.

Ngduat fell onto the concrete floor, writhing in pain, his face contorted as he begged the investigator to stop.

Instead of stopping, the enraged investigator began using a stun gun on him.

Then he said:

“Well then, intergalactic-class cosmonaut pilot, let’s put a space helmet on your head.”

With those words, he pulled a plastic bag over Ngduat Yambua’s head and began suffocating him.

He released him only when he was on the verge of losing consciousness.

Then he poured cold water over him, forcing him awake again.

“Well? Back with us, driver of the Earth? You think Earth-drivers can do whatever they want? Not so, my friend. We have laws here! We won’t let you escape criminal responsibility!

You tell such fairy tales that even the great liar Baron Munchausen would be impressed.”

“Please, Investigator, do not insult the memory of my teacher, the most truthful man in the world, Baron Munchausen. Though he left this world long ago, I still speak with him through a telepathic communication system.

Once I apologized to him on behalf of all humanity.

I said:

‘Baron von Munchausen, though several centuries late, I ask your forgiveness on behalf of mankind for mocking you and calling you a liar when you told us how you pulled yourself and your horse out of a swamp by your own hair.

It turns out you were telling the truth, reminding us that nobody but ourselves can save us—that we must pull ourselves out of the swamp of our own desires.

Yes, Baron, you were right. Life is a dangerous bog, and one must cross it carefully with a long staff in hand to avoid sinking into the bottomless mire of sin.

And remember when you told us how you rode a cannonball? In truth, you were speaking about us—humanity—flying through space aboard the Earth itself, which resembles a cannonball.

Are we not flying on a cannonball? Is humanity not cannon fodder?

How accurately you described our age centuries in advance, Baron! We thought you were a liar, but you turned out to be the most truthful, honest, and wise man on Earth. Forgive us, Baron, for God’s sake, forgive us…’”

“So now you’re defending the fraud Baron Munchausen too?” the investigator sneered.

“You certainly know how to spin a tale.

Yes, yes—we’ve heard how you entertained your cellmates by claiming you can turn into a bird and migrate south with the flocks.

You called people birdhouses and their souls little birds that fly out through the mouths of their bodies and never return.

Only fools believe such stories.

We’re not fools. We’re not children.

We know how criminals pretend to be mentally ill so psychiatrists will declare them incompetent. Plenty of dangerous criminals escape justice that way by ending up in psychiatric hospitals.

But we won’t let you get away with it.”

“Investigator, I was telling the truth, just like the great Baron Munchausen, who foretold our times centuries ago.

The human soul is indeed a little bird that lives temporarily inside a person’s rib cage like a bird in a hollow tree. Sooner or later it flies out through the mouth, leaving behind an empty birdhouse.

You will understand me only when your own soul begins to fly out through the hollow of your mouth.”

“Then why don’t you fly out of your mouth right now and escape through the barred window? Why not fly to Ukraine?

Tell me, why were you flying over Ukraine knowing there was a full-scale war there—the same war in which a Buk missile system shot down Flight MH17, a Boeing 777 flying from Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur, killing everyone aboard in a horrific explosion?

It was your fault that the airliner was destroyed!

The missile operators weren’t aiming at the Boeing—they were aiming at you! They missed and hit the Malaysian plane instead!

That disaster happened because of you too!

You’ve committed crimes against humanity. You shouldn’t be tried here—you should be tried in The Hague!

I’ll make sure you confess not only to murdering Zayniddin Zindani, but also to bringing down that airliner and even to killing President Kennedy!”

“No! I will never confess to crimes I didn’t commit! Kill me if you want, but you’ll never beat a confession out of me!” Ngduat shouted.

“Very well.

Then perhaps we should bring in your mother and chain her to a radiator? No? Maybe your beloved Malokhat instead…

Or perhaps a mop handle where the sun doesn’t shine?

How does that sound?”

“What a vile man you are,” said the driver of the Earth, spitting blood.

“What? I’m vile? You animal!”

The investigator became even angrier and resumed beating him with his fists and feet.

He continued until Ngduat Yambua once again lost consciousness.

 

 

Chapter 29
Honest Presidential Elections

 

 

The people of Kuyganyar came out in peaceful protest under the leadership of Malokhat, carrying banners and demanding that the authorities release their fellow villager, Ngduat Yambua. They chanted in unison outside the gates of the police department, declaring that they would not disperse until the driver of the Earth was freed.

Then a riot-police unit arrived, wearing protective helmets and masks, and began dispersing the villagers, striking them on the head and legs with baseball bats. The protesters’ blood was spilled.

Hearing of this, the enraged population of neighboring villages rose up as well, and the flames of protest gradually spread to the cities. Soon, mass peaceful demonstrations began throughout the country.

The authorities tried to disperse the demonstrators with water cannons, tear gas, and rubber bullets. But the people did not run. Filming them was useless, because all the protesters wore masks and gas masks.

The protesters demanded that the authorities release Ngduat Yambua, the driver of the Earth.

Matters reached the point where all the security forces and military personnel—from ordinary soldiers to generals—went over to the side of the people.

The people themselves pulled the driver of the Earth out of prison, literally carrying him in their arms like a national hero.

Someone climbed onto a tall platform and said:

«Dear compatriots! At last we have overthrown the dictatorial regime! We have freed our fellow villager, the prisoner of conscience Ngduat Yambua, from prison!

Now we must hold honest democratic presidential elections in our country, and let the driver of the Earth and intergalactic-class pilot-astronaut, Mr. Ngduat Yambua, put forward his candidacy!

Personally, I am one hundred percent certain that he will bring order to the country!

Judge for yourselves: for how many years has he worked free of charge as the driver of the Earth for the benefit of all humanity, sitting in his cabin located on a huge, towering tree growing above a deep ravine, digging into the earth with mighty roots like an eagle’s claws?

He worked without days off, driving his modest invisible limousine, spending no public money on fuel or spare parts.

From morning till evening he guided the Earth so that we, dear Earthlings, could live peacefully on this planet.

Driving the Earth is no simple task—far more difficult than any of us imagine. This gigantic spherical cosmic craft has been flying weightlessly through space since time immemorial. It has no garage and nowhere to park.

God forbid this spherical clay space-bus should break down! What would happen then?

There are no repair shops for planets anywhere in the universe. Who would fix it, and where would we get spare parts?

That is why our driver of the Earth and experienced pilot-astronaut, Mr. Ngduat Yambua, constantly urges us to protect the planet!

He has always lived modestly, like the rest of us, in his dilapidated old hut with its low ceiling, surviving on tea and bread, talking at night with his deaf-mute mother through gestures by the light of a kerosene lamp, around which a lonely moth fluttered silently and merrily.

Yes, Mr. Ngduat Yambua is uneducated; he cannot read or write. But he possesses an innate and extraordinary talent, along with colossal experience!

This genius driver, who steered the Earth for many years, could govern the country with ease—even with his eyes closed!

If the people—that is, all of us—unanimously vote for him and he becomes President, the economy of our Republic will grow at a furious pace, surpassing even the United States and China.

Countless jobs will be created. People will work in invisible military factories, earning decent wages while producing invisible reconnaissance drones and formidable bombers that no radar can detect.

All humanity—including extraterrestrials—will depend on us and fear us. Especially our enemies, who will be unable to locate our military facilities and ammunition depots.

No terrorist organization will be able to threaten the life of our esteemed President Ngduat Yambua, who will travel in his invisible motorcade.

Mr. Ngduat Yambua will make not only our state but the entire planet invisible, and astronomers in other constellations will sound the alarm that Earth has disappeared from their instruments.

In short, Mr. Ngduat Yambua is the most worthy presidential candidate!

Let us therefore, dear compatriots, vote unanimously for him in the presidential election!

I firmly believe that the driver of the Earth, Mr. Ngduat Yambua, will not build palaces for himself, wasting trillions of dollars from the budget, emptying the state treasury, and squandering natural wealth such as gold, oil, gas, uranium, and other mineral resources.

On the contrary, he will continue to live modestly in a hut built upon a huge tree growing over a deep ravine, its mighty roots clutching the earth like a hawk’s talons.»

«That’s right! The people will unanimously vote for the great driver of the Earth and experienced pilot-astronaut Ngduat Yambua in the presidential elections!» someone shouted.

«Let veterinarian Mr. Saidkaramatullo become Vice President!» cried Sheikh Abdurrahman from the crowd.

After these events, Ngduat Yambua became President of the country, defeating his political opponents in the presidential election.

Malokhat ran toward the ravine to congratulate him on his victory. When she arrived, she was stopped by state security officers guarding the presidential hut, which stood atop a huge tree growing over a deep ravine, its mighty roots gripping the earth like a peregrine falcon’s claws.

At the most exciting moment of her dream, Malokhat woke up.

 

 

Chapter 30
The Evil Investigator Sariksimsakalov

 

 

«Citizen suspect, veterinarian Saidkaramatullo, you had almost everything: a family, a wife, children, and a respectable job at a livestock farm. So why did you kill that poor blogger and lonely poet?» asked Investigator Sariksimsakalov.

«Mr. Investigator, how many times must I repeat that I am a peaceful, law-abiding citizen? Yet you suspect me of a terrible crime I did not commit. I swear to God! I had absolutely nothing to do with the murder of the poet Zayniddin Zindaniy,» replied the veterinarian.

«Citizen Saidkaramatullo, stop pretending. I will expose you sooner or later. You are a veterinarian—you can do whatever you want with animals, but not with people.

We know everything.

It was you who persuaded Ngduat Yambua, a man with mental abnormalities who is in love with your daughter, to kill Zayniddin Zindaniy because the deceased blogger spoke insultingly about your daughter on his YouTube channel.

Listen. This is what we call video evidence.»

Investigator Sariksimsakalov turned on a recording of the late blogger Zayniddin Zindaniy.

«Even in this weightlessly suspended cosmic hell there is much that is beautiful: peace of mind, poetry, music, solitude, hobbies, silence, and, of course, love.

Like all other dead men, I too have my hobby. Truth be told, I am not only one of the greatest poets in human history—I am also a simple, modest, passionate fisherman.

I live and work in a city where dozens of factories and plants spew harmful substances into the air. Automobile exhaust fumes pollute an already polluted planet. The soul-rending wail of ambulance, police, and fire sirens never ceases.

Sometimes even a city-dwelling dead man who does not realize he is dead wants to breathe fresh air and sit quietly by a river with a fishing rod, listening to the water rustling through the reeds and the cries of seagulls, soothing his frayed nerves.

So one day I traveled to the village of Kuyganyar on the banks of the Kashkaldak River.

I was fishing alone, staring thoughtfully at the float on my line, where a red dragonfly had landed, when suddenly someone behind me said:

‘Hello, fisherman. Getting any bites?’

I turned around and saw a beautiful girl holding a switch in her hand and smiling. Nearby, her cow grazed peacefully.

I smiled back and nodded.

She smiled so beautifully that she hypnotized me. For a moment I lost the power of speech. I could hardly talk to her or even introduce myself. My mouth went dry with nervousness.

Since that day I think of her day and night. I cannot sleep because I am tormented by longing, separation, and suffering.

Since then, that riverbank where fate brought us together has become a sacred place to me—a shrine, an altar of my love.

Sometimes I swallow handfuls of sleeping pills just to see her face in my dreams, but lately even the pills no longer work, no matter how many I chew with bread and wash down with vodka or water.

God, what hair she has—thick and soft, black as oil! Truly long and beautiful eyelashes. Enchanting eyes. Her lips are not duck-like like those of city girls. They are real, not silicone.

Her smooth, delicate hands and neck seem carved from ivory.

She is breathtakingly beautiful, without any disgusting makeup. A living work of art created by God Himself!

I have traveled across continents and through many great cities, but nowhere have I met a girl as beautiful and attractive as she is.

Believe me.

Though I am one of the world’s great poets, I am unable to paint a complete portrait of her with words. Words are powerless here.

Later I learned her address. She turned out to be the daughter of veterinarian Saidkaramatullo, a tenth-grade student named Malokhat.

I even wrote many poems dedicated to her. One of them goes like this:

Malokhat, incomparable rose of mine!
I am madly in love with you, I love you, I love you!
If you do not accept my love, then I
Shall hang myself with a belt and take my own life!»

«Well? What do you have to say to that, citizen suspect?» asked the investigator. «Perhaps you should confess and receive a lighter sentence?

We know that you decided to have him killed through Ngduat Yambua in order to avenge those insulting remarks—a private act of revenge.

You thought doctors would declare the so-called driver of the Earth insane and send him to a psychiatric hospital?

What a cunning man you are, citizen Saidkaramatullo!

Not only do you hold hot coals with someone else’s hands—you juggle them from palm to palm.»

The investigator nervously lit a cigarette.

«Mr. Investigator, I swear to God, this is the first time I have ever seen this video!

If I had seen it earlier, I would have sued him for defamation and nothing more.

You speak of laws, yet you yourself violate the rights of a suspect by interrogating me without a lawyer present.

That’s enough. I will answer no more questions until my lawyer arrives,» Saidkaramatullo declared firmly.

«Oh, is that so?

Then I suppose I’ll have to get some exercise on a living punching bag.»

Investigator Sariksimsakalov rolled up his sleeves to the elbows and began beating the veterinarian with his hands and feet.

At that moment his mobile phone rang. He answered it.

«Yes, sir! Understood, sir! Yes, I understand completely! It will be done, sir!»

He stood at attention while speaking.

After the call ended, the investigator helped the veterinarian to his feet and began apologizing for the misunderstanding, dusting him off and straightening his clothes.

 

 

Chapter 31
The Telephone Conversation

 

 

After being released from the detention center, veterinarian Saidkaramatullo called the wealthy pharmacist Dyryldaev to thank him for helping secure his freedom.

«Hello, I’m listening. Who is calling?» said the pharmacist Dyryldaev.

«Hello, Mr. Dyryldaev. It’s me, veterinarian Saidkaramatullo. I wanted to thank you for the assistance and legal protection you provided. Thank you for helping me get out of the detention center and clearing me of those false accusations,» Saidkaramatullo said gratefully.

«Ah, it’s you, Saidkaramatullo! Hello, hello. Congratulations on your release! It was nothing. People should help one another in difficult situations, creating a network of mutual support in society. Otherwise, what is the point of living? The important thing is that you’re free. How are you feeling?» asked Dyryldaev modestly.

«I feel wonderful, Mr. Dyryldaev. It’s a great celebration in my family,» Saidkaramatullo replied joyfully.

«Well, you see? Everything turned out well. I have information that this Ngduat Yambua has confessed. It turns out that he really did kill the poor poet! Yes, yes, don’t be surprised. The investigation proved his guilt with irrefutable evidence—that he committed the crime out of jealousy.

Do you remember when I told you over the phone that people suffering from schizophrenia can be dangerous? They need to be isolated from society before they harm someone. You never know what’s going on in their minds. At first glance they may seem harmless, but when their illness worsens, they become aggressive. Such people can suddenly attack, wound, or even kill.

Didn’t I tell you that back then? I did. But you didn’t believe me.

That cunning murderer was lying right under your nose like a venomous snake curled into a ring. It’s a good thing the police neutralized him in time.

My advice is to stay as far away as possible from such people in the future.

And another thing, dear Saidkaramatullo: change your profession and stop treating animals. Is that really a job? Even a theater cloakroom attendant or a librarian earns more than you.

You’d be better off opening a private terrarium where you’d keep venomous creatures: black mambas, cobras, saw-scaled vipers, rattlesnakes, adders, gyurzas, scorpions, tarantulas, black widows, and poisonous frogs.

I assure you, selling venom would make you rich very quickly.

Don’t be afraid of venomous snakes, scorpions, spiders, or frogs. Even the most poisonous and aggressive black mamba is harmless compared to a human being.

The most poisonous creature in existence is man.

Snake venom can be treated with antivenom serum, neutralizing the poison in the body. But there is no antidote in the world for human venom.

I always knew that this so-called driver of the Earth was a dangerous individual pretending to be a fool. I suspect he’s a cunning foreign spy hiding behind the mask of a simpleton.

I even have doubts about his mother, Rizvan. Perhaps she only pretends to be deaf and mute.

People say that this driver of the Earth claimed he could communicate with people living all over the planet through a telepathic communications system. Who knows? Maybe he was secretly transmitting important information about the locations of our military bases while sitting in his cabin atop that huge tree growing over a deep ravine, its mighty roots gripping the earth like an eagle’s claws.»

«Yes, Mr. Dyryldaev, you’re right. It seems I’ve lived all these years in delusion, and you’ve opened my eyes. You saved me from prison without taking a single coin in return, at a time when lawyers’ fees in our country keep rising day by day. If not for you, I’d still be sitting in prison.

I’ve always wondered why the world hasn’t ended yet, why there hasn’t been an apocalypse. Now I understand. It’s because there are still good people like you in this world. I don’t even know how to thank you,» Saidkaramatullo replied.

«That’s very simple and requires little effort, Saidkaramatullo. It will be enough if your wife and daughter don’t drive away our matchmakers when my wife and I send them to your house again.

My son, Ibn Zambar, has fallen in love with your daughter. He’s intelligent, enterprising, and healthy. Your daughter is a good girl as well, and they’re well suited to each other.

Besides, the blessing of parents plays an important role in the lives of newlyweds.

As soon as the engagement is arranged, we’ll hold a grand wedding in one of the city’s finest restaurants. Don’t worry about the expenses. We’ll take care of everything ourselves,» explained the pharmacist.

«Thank you, Mr. Dyryldaev. But our daughter Malokhat wants to study at a teachers’ institute. What if we gave them some time to get to know each other first? The wedding isn’t going anywhere,» Saidkaramatullo suggested.

«Don’t worry about the institute either. I’ll call the rector personally, and they’ll admit your daughter into the first year without any entrance examinations,» insisted Dyryldaev.

«Very well, Mr. Dyryldaev. But I need to discuss it with my family first. I’ll call you back later,» promised Saidkaramatullo.

«Agreed,» said the pharmacist.

 

 

Chapter 32
Lost Hope

 

 

Ngduat Yambua’s deaf-mute mother, Rizvan, was still in the hospital.

Malokhat was summoned for questioning as a witness, where she answered the investigator’s questions in the presence of a lawyer.

To compare testimony, ask direct questions, and eliminate contradictions, the investigator organized a confrontation between witnesses.

Malokhat still refused to believe that Ngduat Yambua could have been involved in the brutal murder of the poet Zayniddin Zindaniy.

But during the confrontation it emerged that Ngduat Yambua had already confessed to the murder, signing the interrogation record in an old-fashioned way by leaving the imprint of his thumb.

Moreover, his confession had been recorded on video as direct evidence.

Ngduat Yambua asked Malokhat’s forgiveness for committing the murder out of jealousy and for concealing it from her.

Hearing this, Malokhat fainted.

A month later, by court order, Ngduat Yambua—the driver of the Earth and pilot-astronaut—was sent to a psychiatric hospital for compulsory treatment.

Day and night Malokhat thought about him, still doubting that he was truly a murderer.

She cried for long hours at night, soaking her pillow with tears.

Once again she lost her appetite and interest in life. She grew noticeably thinner.

One day Malokhat traveled to the city where the psychiatric hospital was located, hoping to see Ngduat Yambua.

The hospital grounds were immersed in greenery. Shady trees grew everywhere, making the place resemble a public park. If not for the doctors and nurses in white coats and the disturbed patients strolling calmly along the paths, one might have thought it was a recreation park rather than a hospital.

There Malokhat noticed a dark-skinned, heavyset man of about forty-five wearing a worn skullcap and the striped pajamas of the psychiatric hospital. He sat on a bench talking with two women who were also dressed in hospital pajamas.

Later, during their conversation, it became clear that the stout man was a blogger.

«Who are you?» he asked one of the women, a beautiful woman seated beside him.

«I’m a journalist.»

«Oh, then we’re practically colleagues. How did you end up here?»

«Ah, it’s a long story. Once I led a peaceful protest after believing a certain so-called poet who later betrayed me. But I continued my activities.

The police department repeatedly asked me to stop stirring up society, but I ignored them.

Then one morning I woke up and gasped in astonishment. Instead of my apartment door there was a huge hole, resembling a gap in the wall of a state treasury looted by corrupt officials.

It turned out that during the night law-enforcement officers had stolen the door of the apartment I rented, where I lived with my small children. Imagine that! Stolen it!

Afterward I created a political scandal online, and they sent me here for compulsory treatment.»

«No,» said the blogger, shaking his head. «I think it wasn’t the police who stole your apartment door. It was the Chinese.»

The journalist stared at him.

«And who are you?» the blogger asked the second woman. «Please introduce yourself.»

«I’m a writer. I write wonderful stories.»

«And how did you end up here?»

«Oh, that. Recently I wrote on social media that law-enforcement agencies had secretly replaced my close relatives with different people.

I sensed it intuitively and realized with horror that my brothers had become entirely different people. I knew for certain they hadn’t been like that before.

I kept wondering: how can a person be replaced? It’s beyond comprehension!

I was telling the truth, but nobody understood me, so they sent me here.»

«No way! That’s impossible!» the journalist exclaimed.

«There you have it,» the blogger replied confidently. «Another Chinese connection. It was the Chinese who replaced your brothers. Believe me. You can expect anything from the Chinese.»

Malokhat continued toward the reception desk.

But she was unable to obtain permission to see Ngduat Yambua.

The doctors refused, explaining that the patient was in a violent state and might harm visitors.

Hearing this, Malokhat burst into tears again and left the hospital.

She didn’t even want to return home.

She walked down the sidewalk, crying openly without caring who saw her.

When she returned to Kuyganyar, she went toward the ravine where the huge tree grew, its mighty roots digging into the earth like a hawk’s claws.

She climbed it and sat inside Ngduat Yambua’s cabin, remembering those distant, happy days.

Then she decided to end her life by throwing herself from the tree into the deep ravine.

But she could not bring herself to do it after thinking about her parents.

By evening she returned home and lay down on her bed.

Her mother, Tolkunoy, begged her to eat, but Malokhat refused.

«Mother, I will not marry the pharmacist’s son, Ibn Zambar. I don’t love him,» she said through tears.

«I understand, my daughter. But what can we do if there is no other way? Perhaps it is fate.

After all, the pharmacist helped your father in his darkest days and saved him from prison. How can we refuse someone who helped us climb out of such hardship?»

Tolkunoy wept as she gently stroked her daughter’s thick, soft hair.

 

 

Chapter 33
The Last Piece of Content

 

 

“Daughter, you know perfectly well how our fellow villagers turned their backs on us as soon as your father, carrying out his professional duty, treated Ivan the tractor driver’s boar. After your father’s arrest, the neighbors stopped even greeting us. God sends us one trial after another, and we must endure them with patience. The holy books say that marrying against your parents’ wishes is a grave sin. You cannot escape fate.

Have pity on your father. He is not like some fathers who threaten to disown their daughters if they marry against their will. They say this pharmacist has long arms—that is, powerful connections. If we refuse him, with a single phone call he could send your father back to prison. Your father promised him that you would marry Ibn Zambar.

Pharmacist Dyryldaev is a dangerous man. People like that are ready to do anything to achieve their goals,” said Tolkunoy with a deep, sorrowful sigh.

After hearing those words from her mother, Malokhat had no choice but to agree and marry Ibn Zambar. In short, she sacrificed her love for the sake of her parents.

The wedding was held in one of the city’s elite restaurants. Wealthy guests arrived, bringing expensive gifts, gold pendants, diamond necklaces, congratulations, songs, dances, and merriment. But none of it could lift Malokhat’s spirits.

From beneath her bridal veil she looked at the guests with a false smile on her lips, one that everyone mistook for happiness. She sat beside Ibn Zambar, thinking only of poor Ngduat Yambua, the Driver of the Earth, the experienced pilot-astronaut who had committed murder out of jealousy. She remembered the Driver’s cabin perched atop the enormous tree growing above the deep ravine, its mighty roots digging into the earth like the talons of a hawk.

After the wedding she began living with Ibn Zambar, but she constantly thought about Ngduat Yambua. Secretly and silently she cried whenever she saw drivers on the street or heard the horns of passing cars, which reminded her of Ngduat Yambua speeding through the streets of Kuyganyar in his invisible limousine, warning pedestrians so that he would not run them over.

Pharmacist Dyryldaev kept his promise, and Malokhat was admitted to an institute. However, not to the pedagogical institute she had wanted, but to a medical one. She studied at the Faculty of Pharmacy while also working as a sales clerk in a pharmacy.

She wanted to study and work day and night, anything to avoid returning home and seeing Ibn Zambar, who constantly complained that she treated him coldly and stared into space while speaking to him, thinking about someone else—perhaps Ngduat Yambua, the Driver of the Earth.

Whenever Ibn Zambar approached her, she would close her eyes. To him it seemed as though an endless snow-covered tundra lay between them, a silent Arctic of alienation, an eternal frozen ocean where one could occasionally hear the mournful horns of icebreakers.

Every day Ibn Zambar checked her phone, reading every message and reviewing every call.

“Malokhat, remember this: I do not forgive infidelity. God forbid I ever find out that you’re cheating on me—consider yourself finished! I’ll bury you alive along with your lover! I’ve hired a private detective who secretly monitors your every step,” he warned her one day.

In short, Malokhat began living as though she were in hell.

Her father-in-law and mother-in-law also looked down on her. Her cruel and arrogant mother-in-law would pointedly say to her son:

“Son, don’t be henpecked. Who does she think she is? The daughter of a lousy veterinarian! If she refuses to obey you, throw her out before it’s too late. To gain access to luxury and climb the career ladder quickly, you should have married the daughter of a high-ranking official or a major businessman. But you didn’t listen to me. You said you loved her. But does she love you? I don’t think so. To her, you’re nothing more than a floor rag she wipes her feet on before entering the house.

According to Sharia law, a Muslim man may have up to four wives at the same time! Yes, yes, Sheikh Abdurrahman himself said so. Want me to introduce you to a billionaire’s daughter? She’s a hundred times prettier and smarter than her.”

After hearing such words, most women would have packed their belongings and left. But Malokhat could not leave. Even while enduring such insults, she tried not to argue and avoided conflicts with her mother-in-law, knowing that the woman would never leave her alone, even after her departure, spreading rumors that would damage not only her own reputation but also that of her parents. And the pharmacist would begin pressuring her father.

Years passed one after another, and one day Malokhat learned that Ibn Zambar had another woman. She became convinced of it after accidentally finding a piece of women’s underwear forgotten beneath the bed.

After that, Malokhat bought a listening device and began her own secret investigation, recording voices as audio evidence that might help her escape this hell forever.

One day, while secretly listening to a conversation between her father-in-law and Detective Takhtakanaev, she was horrified.

“Well, Mr. Detective Takhtakanaev, how are things? What brings you here today?”

“Everything is wonderful, Mr. Dyryldaev. Keeping busy.”

“Excellent. What would you like? Tea, coffee, or perhaps cognac on the rocks?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Pharmacist. There’s something more important than tea, coffee, or cognac on the rocks.”

“Oh? Now that’s interesting. What kind of business?”

“Before we get to that, I should warn you: if anything happens to me, the evidence I have gathered linking your son to the murder of citizen Zayniddin Zindaniy will go straight into the hands of the country’s Prosecutor General.”

Hearing this, the pharmacist fell silent for a moment, then continued:

“Well then, Mr. Takhtakanaev. Go on. I’m listening carefully.”

“Here is the phone of the murdered poet and blogger Zayniddin Zindaniy. It was found and handed over to me. Some people helped me unlock it. It contains the very last and most terrifying piece of content recorded by the poor blogger, content he never managed to upload to his YouTube channel.

The deceased poet and blogger did not even realize that he was filming his own death.

In addition, I have irrefutable evidence that the blogger did not hang himself, but was assisted. The wire that served as the noose contained no dirt, while the victim’s hands were covered in it. That means he was killed while actively working, making clay bricks. In other words, he was first strangled with the wire and only afterward hanged,” explained the private detective.

“I understand everything, Mr. Detective. Thank you for saving us. We know how to show our gratitude. This sounds more like a business arrangement than an investigation. Don’t be shy—tell me directly and specifically what you want, and we will do everything possible to satisfy you,” said Pharmacist Dyryldaev.

“To bury this case, you’ll have to pay.”

“How much?” the pharmacist pressed.

“A million U.S. dollars. Cash.”

“Isn’t that a bit much, Mr. Takhtakanaev?”

“You’re right, Mr. Pharmacist. It is a lot. For us. But for you, it’s a trivial matter.”

“Yes, but you see, Mr. Detective, I simply don’t have that kind of money available right now. I’ll have to collect some from friends and relatives, and withdraw the rest from bank accounts. Give me at least two days so I can gather the full amount,” the pharmacist requested.

“Very well, Mr. Dyryldaev. Agreed. Just no tricks,” said Private Detective Takhtakanaev.

 

 

Chapter 34
Driving School

 

 

The Driver of the Earth, and experienced cosmonaut-pilot Mr. Ngduat Yambua, opened a free driving school in the psychiatric hospital, where all brothers and sisters in illness, as well as the entire medical staff—from the chief physician to the night watchman of the institution—could learn to become Drivers of the Earth.

All the students respected their teacher, the honored Driver of the Earth and highly qualified astronaut-pilot Ngduat Yambua, who steered the Earth while sitting in his cabin, located on a huge, towering tree growing in the courtyard of the psychiatric hospital, digging into the ground with its mighty roots resembling the talons of a hawk.

Training at the driving school lasted up to six months and included both theory and practice. First, students studied the rules of cosmic traffic, then completed several hours of driving practice, and the course concluded with examinations. After passing the exams, the students received invisible Driver of the Earth licenses.

The first to enroll was a swarthy, heavyset blogger in a worn skullcap who hated the Chinese. Then came the journalist whose apartment door had supposedly been secretly stolen at night by law-enforcement officers while she slept soundly, leaving behind a gaping hole. After her, a writer submitted her invisible documents to the driving school—the same writer who claimed that police officers had secretly replaced her relatives with other people who differed so drastically from the originals that she could not help but suspect the substitution.

At the front desk sat the gloomy honor student Madame Salo Abdulkhandak and her opposite, the cheerful Gangir Pastukh, both of whom had been planted in the school by a secret agency so that they could periodically report on the activities of Ngduat Yambua, Driver of the Earth.

The honored Driver of the Earth, Ngduat Yambua, conducted his lessons approximately as follows:

“Dear students! Before we begin our lessons, I must explain that this gigantic clay sphere called Planet Earth is a spacecraft, and humanity consists of passengers who are born upon the body of this machine, grow up, age, and die without ever disembarking from this cosmic vehicle, after which they are buried directly into the body of this flying sphere.

“It is a gigantic flying cemetery!

“Have you ever heard of people who spend their entire lives inside a bus or a train carriage? No? Then you should know this. Humanity lives on this planet without realizing that it is traveling toward its death.

“With this in mind, we drivers must steer the Earth smoothly and slowly, without increasing speed, so that people do not reach their final stop too quickly.

“This flying giant sphere is a strange and terrifying means of transport, carrying humanity, which has purchased a one-way ticket.”

“Teacher, may I ask a question?” asked the cheerful honor student Gangir Pastukh.

“Yes,” replied Ngduat Yambua.

“Should we stop the Earth whenever hitchhikers on the Milky Way raise their thumbs asking for a ride?”

“No, under no circumstances! That is dangerous.

“Sometimes so-called hitchhikers arrange cunning ambushes, pretending to be dying people lying beside the road or directly in the roadway. The moment you stop the Earth, their heavily armed accomplices appear—and then you are finished.

“A hitchhiker with a backpack may turn out to be a serial killer, a psychopath, or a dangerous terrorist. He may seem kind, decent, cheerful, and friendly, but suddenly he may pull a sharp object—a knife—from his jacket pocket, or worse yet, a laser pistol fitted with a silencer.

“He may stab you several times in the side or in the liver. Or worse still, he may point the barrel of a pistol with a telescopic sight at the back of your head and order you to fly to a neighboring galaxy, taking poor humanity hostage.

“What then?

“In this way, a hitchhiker could hijack the entire planet—with its oceans, its priceless air supply, and its natural resources such as oil, gas, uranium, tungsten, gold, and diamonds, the very resources over which we foolish Earthlings wage war.

“Cosmic terrorists could steal our planet and sell it dirt-cheap at the marketplace of the universe, practically giving it away in a bargain deal with extraterrestrials!

“As a result, all humanity could become slaves to those little green men!

“That is how responsible our work is, my brothers and sisters in illness.”

“Before picking up a hitchhiker, you should check his passport. The hitchhiker might be Chinese!” added the struggling student seated at the very back desk—the swarthy, heavyset blogger in the worn skullcap.

“Why is it always Chinese, Chinese, Chinese with you? What do the Chinese have to do with this, Mr. Underperforming Student, swarthy and heavyset blogger in the skullcap, sitting in the Far East—that is, at the back desk?” the honored Driver of the Earth, teacher and founder of the psychiatric-hospital driving school, grew irritated.

“Oh, my apologies, Mr. Rector,” said the underperforming student, the swarthy, heavyset blogger in the worn skullcap.

“Very well. And what did you wish to say, Madam Journalist, who once lived freely in a rented apartment whose door was secretly stolen at night by unknown persons, leaving behind a huge gaping hole?”

“I wanted to say that driving the Earth carefully to keep it from colliding with other planets is pointless. The greatest danger is not in outer space, but inside the planet itself.

“Many people believe that after death their bodies are eaten by graveworms. No, that is not true. In reality, the body is consumed by the vile worms that lived inside it throughout its entire life, from birth to death.

“Humanity is much the same. Like worms, it lives upon the Earth and burrows into it, pumping out oil, which is its blood.

“Humanity is the child of Mother Earth—and it will destroy her, just as an infant might feed not on its mother’s milk, but on her blood.”

“May I also say a few words, Teacher?” asked the writer, raising her hand.

“Yes, please speak, Madam Writer. The floor is yours,” permitted the Driver of the Earth, honored teacher, distinguished educator, professor, and doctor of cosmic sciences, Ngduat Yambua.

“I once read that scorpions are not born at all; they simply emerge into the world after devouring their own mother, leaving behind only her shell. They are very much like humanity,” said the writer whose relatives had supposedly been replaced by other people.

“Yes, my dear students, future Drivers of the Earth, you are all absolutely right.

“Humanity is indeed a dangerous creature. It is suicidal—a kamikaze!

“Look around at how some nations kill one another, destroy one another, level entire cities to the ground, threaten world war, and promise to turn all living things into nuclear ash!

“Humanity is polluting the atmosphere at such a pace that soon a smoky, poisonous veil of harmful gases may completely block out sunlight, and our poor planet may become a gigantic frozen sphere!

“That concludes today’s lesson. Recess!”

The students of the driving school rushed out of the invisible classroom together, shouting joyfully like squabbling seagulls above the sea.

 

 

Chapter 35
The Dismembered Body of Detective Takhtakanaev

 

 

Ibn Zambar came home drunk, carrying an opened bottle of vodka in his hand. He swayed like the pendulum of a wall clock while trying to kick off his shoes. To keep his balance, he leaned against the wall.

Malokhat wanted to help him, but he rudely pushed her away.

Then, lazily licking his lips and drinking vodka straight from the bottle, he began speaking:

“Don’t touch me! Leave me alone! I need peace…

“I drink, and not without reason… I drink because of you…

“Ah, how I believed in you, how I believed! I hoped that perhaps we would understand each other and become happy in the end.

“The proverb says it right: ‘No matter how much you feed a wolf, it still looks toward the forest.’

“Why did you go to the psychiatric hospital with that deaf-mute woman? To visit that fool Ngduat Yambua?

“I know you still can’t forget him. You’re always thinking about him…

“You probably brought him treats, fruit, sweets. Well? Did you meet with the murderer? Kiss him, perhaps?

“What a disgrace! Oh, what a disgrace! What an injustice!”

he cried, continuing to drink vodka from the neck of the bottle without any food.

“Stop it, Ibn Zambar!

“Yes, I went with Aunt Rizvan to visit Ngduat Yambua. We spoke with him, simply as human beings, asking how he was feeling and nothing more.

“I helped the poor woman communicate with the doctors by translating her sign language.

“What is wrong with that?

“Yes, he was sent for compulsory treatment by court order. But I do not believe he had anything to do with the murder of the poet Zayniddin Zindani.

“I have not cheated on you. Believe me.

“Stop drinking vodka. Give me the bottle,” said Malokhat.

“No! Take your hands off me!

“I want to drink until the ship of my mind sinks into a sea of vodka and cognac.

“I want to forget. To vanish into oblivion. To disappear from people’s memories.

“What else is a man supposed to do when nobody needs him?

“God, how I envy those filthy, toothless homeless drunks who live freely beneath the open sky—sometimes on rooftops, sometimes in basements, sometimes beneath bridges, sleeping on cardboard boxes.

“They have their own unwritten laws, their own philosophy of life.

“They think of nothing except vodka and wine.

“Oh, how I long to go live in the forest among wild beasts, digging a burrow for myself!

“I love animals.

“And you? Do you love anything in this life—or anyone—besides the Driver of the Earth?” muttered Ibn Zambar.

“Yes, I do.

“For example, birds.

“Unlike beasts and greedy people, birds do not worry about tomorrow.

“They eat whatever they find.

“They do not hoard money, gold, canned food, grain, pasta, sugar, salt, oil, Ceylon tea, Brazilian coffee, or toilet paper for a rainy day.

“They do not strive for wealth.

“They do not build palaces with money stolen from the people.

“They live in nests woven from twigs and grass.

“They understand that wealth and luxury are fleeting pleasures in this short life—a life as brief as a single instant, like the strike of an auctioneer’s hammer at an antiques auction.

“They fly all summer long, catching insects in midair and dropping them into the wide-open mouths of their chicks.

“By autumn they have fully taught their young to fly, and together they depart southward.

“But birds never reproach their children, reminding them of past favors:

‘You owe us gratitude. We fed you, raised you, taught you to fly. Now it is your turn to care for us.’

“We humans should learn how to live from birds.

“That is why I love them,” explained Malokhat.

Hearing her words, Ibn Zambar began laughing, his shoulders trembling.

“Why are you laughing? What’s so funny?” Malokhat asked in surprise.

“Oh, nothing…

“I just imagined a picture of you living with your Driver of the Earth and your children in a luxurious three-room birdhouse with a balcony, built upon a huge, towering tree growing above a deep ravine, gripping the earth with roots like the talons of a hawk,” said Ibn Zambar.

“Well then, keep laughing.

“Just don’t forget the proverb: ‘He laughs best who laughs last,’” said Malokhat, and switched on the television.

At that moment, the host of the program Breaking News reported information about the brutal murder of private detective Takhtakanaev.

It turned out that the dismembered body of private detective Takhtakanaev had been found inside a large wheeled suitcase that had been dumped in a garbage container.

Hearing the report and seeing the footage, Malokhat froze in horror, as if rooted to the spot.

 

 

Chapter 36
Winter Watman

 

 

“How did you end up here, my brother in mental affliction, Mr. Winter Watman?” asked the experienced Driver of the Globe, Professor Ngduat Yambua, of a patient who wished to enroll in the driving school.

The man began to tell his story:

“Out in the free world I was an independent astronomer, a corresponding member of the Academy of Sciences of the Universe, chairman of the Writers’ Union of the Milky Way Galaxy, and I invented a unique radio telescope. Then, in order to establish contact with extraterrestrial civilizations, I sent a radio signal into space with a message on behalf of humanity.

To make the message easier to decipher, I wrote it using pictures resembling cave drawings painted by primitive people on rocks.

The decoded letter read approximately as follows:

I want this radio signal to fly across the expanses of the universe, through meteors and asteroids, and reach intelligent beings of extraterrestrial origin living in other constellations.

Assalamu alaikum, dear aliens, esteemed humanoids, that is to say, little green men! How are you doing? Still flying to neighboring galaxies and nebulae in your flying saucers in search of work and a piece of bread?

Please forgive my poor handwriting, as I am writing this letter by moonlight, because the authorities have turned off the electricity to save energy.

I have only one request. As soon as you receive our message, please inform me immediately. We Earthlings worry about you very much.

Feel free to contact us if you need assistance in the field of social protection for the population of your planet, or in military matters. We also possess vast experience in the construction of nuclear power plants. A facility with reactors can be built for you.

There is only one tiny little detail: payment for the priceless nuclear fuel and isotopes produced by us will be your responsibility, dear little green men. In other words, you will become dependent on us.

We are always ready to help you and to develop trade, economic, and military cooperation with you on a priority basis.

For example, we currently need nickel because we are actively working on the creation of an unprecedented, terrifying, top-secret weapon capable of blowing up not only entire galaxies, constellations, and nebulae, but the entire universe.

How? I shall explain.

Perhaps you know that our nuclear scientists discovered nuclear energy by splitting atomic nuclei with neutrons.

Well then, dear aliens: the universe in which we live side by side with you is the greatest reactor imaginable. One could conduct a grand experiment called the “Billiard Effect.”

We only need to determine which constellations play the role of nuclei and which act as protons or neutrons. By impacting the constellation acting as a nucleus with a constellation acting as a neutron, we could obtain unheard-of amounts of energy.

With this energy we could create intergalactic cruise missiles powered by nuclear engines traveling at the speed of light. This weapon would become our cosmic nuclear club, with which we would intimidate and blackmail everyone living in the boundless cosmos. We would establish control over the inhabitants of the universe, manipulating them and openly mocking them.

We are also well aware that your planets lack fertile soil. Air and water are expensive there, worth their weight in gold.

Do not worry, dear aliens. Come as soon as possible. We will sell you our land, air, and water at very reasonable prices—almost free.

We have plenty of water! We will load our planet’s soil into your flying freight trains (secretly from humanity, of course), organizing shipments of this priceless cargo exactly where it is needed.

You may take as much of our soil, water, and air as you wish, provided you pay well. We can negotiate prices and discounts.

With deepest respect,

Your humble servant,

The great astronomer, academician, Chairman of the Union of Writers and Academicians of the Universe,

Mr. Winter Watman.

“While sending humanity’s message into the boundless cosmos through my radio telescope in the form of petroglyphs, I myself did not believe anyone would ever respond.

But no—several weeks later a reply arrived. After deciphering the response, which also came in the form of pictures and drawings, I froze with terror.

The decoded text of the reply looked approximately like this:

Wa alaikum assalam, Earthlings, and great scientist-astronaut, Chairman of the Union of Writers and Academicians of the Universe, Mr. Winter Watman!

We received your message!

After our specialists conducted a graphological analysis and deciphered your text, we aliens could not control our laughter. We laughed so hard our bladders nearly burst.

Then, barely suppressing our laughter, we reached a unanimous conclusion and decided to inform you that we aliens have no intention whatsoever of having any relations with you Earthlings.

Frankly, do you Earthlings think with your heads when writing such letters?

After reading your message, we began to doubt that you even have heads on your shoulders. It seems more likely that what you possess is some kind of growth requiring surgical removal.

Why in the world would we need your polluted air, overloaded with radiation, or the soil of your wretched planet, saturated with extremely dangerous toxic chemicals such as pesticides and herbicides?

The most horrifying thing is that you call “water” the poison you consume every day while somehow remaining alive.

Good heavens, what a nightmare!

Thank God we have not yet gone insane enough to purchase the so-called water of your oceans and seas, into which you dump industrial waste, toxic chemicals, radioactive materials, spent nuclear fuel, and technogenic radionuclides.

Therefore, Earthlings, you must immediately change your name. You are not human beings but some terrible evil creature unknown to science.

You wage war against one another as though fighting your own reflections in a mirror. You violate the territorial integrity of independent nations, throw millions of young soldiers into the meat grinder of war, kill innocent people, old men, and children, destroy infrastructure, reduce cities to rubble, drown economies in the swamp of international sanctions, create refugees, and threaten one another with nuclear war.

You are monsters, suicides, kamikazes! Those names suit you much better.

We thought long and hard and came to the unanimous conclusion that the best way to rid the universe of you is to destroy your planet before you begin polluting neighboring galaxies with radioactive waste from your primitive spacecraft and stations, and before you start aggressive wars while threatening everyone with your secret weapons capable of destroying not only entire galaxies but the whole universe.

We have already launched our advanced intergalactic cruise missiles armed with nuclear warheads. Within one hour they will reach Planet Earth and destroy you together with your world, blasting everything to pieces and turning it into nuclear ash.

Respectfully,

Press Secretary to the President of the Planet of Humanoids and Little Green Men,

Comrade Bibon Bibon Dzhibladzhibon.

“After reading this, I ran out of my hut and shouted at the top of my lungs:

‘People! Inhabitants of Earth! Save yourselves if you can! Run to the bomb shelters! War! The humanoids from a neighboring galaxy have declared war on us! Interplanetary cruise missiles with nuclear warheads are on their way and will arrive within an hour!’

Hearing my words, people began to laugh, assuming I was drunk.

Soon local police detained me. Then an ambulance arrived with a psychiatric team from the capital’s central madhouse. After examining me, they immediately diagnosed me with schizophrenia and put me into a straitjacket with excessively long sleeves.

‘What are you doing, you scoundrels?! I’m completely healthy! Let me go at once! I’m telling the truth! In one hour advanced three-stage interplanetary cruise missiles with nuclear warheads launched by aliens will arrive! One hour, do you hear me? One hour!’ I shouted while resisting the doctors.

The doctors shoved me into the ambulance, and one physician politely said:

‘Don’t worry, my dear fellow… What is your name? Ah, Winter Watman?

Well then, Mr. Winter Watman, you must not agitate yourself. Yes, we believe you. However, you see, out there in space time and dimensions are different. By the time the aliens’ missiles arrive, millions of years will have passed on our planet. So there is no need to worry so much about such trifles, dear patient.’

After hearing the doctor’s words, I began shouting:

‘’Bibon Bibon! Dzhibladzhibon! Bibon Bibon! Dzhibladzhibon!”

 

 

Chapter 37
The Ngduat Yambua University

 

 

Immediately after a university was opened on the grounds of the psychiatric hospital, Chief Physician Kosmodromov appointed the Driver of the Globe, Ngduat Yambua, as rector of the institution.

His candidacy was unanimously supported by all the patients and the entire medical staff.

Academician Ngduat Yambua had to expand the university, where people studied to become Drivers of the Globe, by adding faculties so that patients could receive higher education.

His assistants worked day and night in the admissions office, accepting documents from a vast army of applicants.

These assistants included the swarthy, heavyset blogger in the worn skullcap; the writer who believed her relatives had been replaced by other people; and the journalist whose apartment door had supposedly been secretly stolen by law-enforcement officers while she slept.

They were also actively assisted by Corresponding Member of the Academy of the Milky Way Galaxy, Distinguished Chairman of the Union of Writers of the Universe, Mr. Winter Watman; Bahildakho Bebakho, the migrant worker and participant in a bloody war, son of the barber Usta Garib; and the former farmer Kalkhauz.

The number of applicants became so large that Ngduat Yambua had to open branches of the university throughout the country.

Things reached the point where, during one morning staff meeting, Chief Physician Kosmodromov happily informed Professor Ngduat Yambua that presidents of many countries also wished to study at the university and were prepared to write checks worth billions of U.S. dollars in payment for its services.

However, Doctor of Cosmic Sciences and Academician Ngduat Yambua firmly rejected their requests, explaining that such pseudo-presidents could not be trusted with the fate of humanity, since these authoritarian and foolish rulers might cause a terrible accident in space through improper management of the globe.

The chief physician also reported that the new educational system—the reform developed by the great reformer Ngduat Yambua—was rapidly spreading across the world.

Branches of the university offering bachelor’s and master’s programs appeared one after another like mushrooms after rain—first in the West, then in Europe, Asia, and Africa.

The entire planet gradually turned into a branch of a psychiatric hospital.

Hearing this, the swarthy, heavyset blogger in the worn skullcap raised his hand.

“Yes, struggling student—the swarthy, heavyset blogger in the worn skullcap who always sits in the Far East, meaning the back row—what would you like to say?” asked Rector Ngduat Yambua.

“Professor, I want to make sure that a branch of our invisible university is never opened in China!”

“Good heavens, Mr. Swarthy and Heavyset Blogger in the Worn Skullcap, the perpetually underperforming student from the back row—have you lost your mind? Why are you always shouting about the Chinese? The Chinese are a peaceful, ancient, wise, and hardworking people! Unlike certain states, they do not wage wars, kill civilians, innocent children and old people, or violate the sovereignty and territorial integrity of independent nations!”

“They conquer entire countries without wars—through debt! They make clever deals and buy whole nations without fighting!” said the blogger.

“Perhaps. But the Chinese do not force anyone to take loans from them. Underdeveloped countries willingly put the noose around their own necks,” explained Professor Ngduat Yambua.

“Professor, may I say a few words as well?” shouted the journalist.

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“I would like to suggest that, so criminals cannot steal the doors of rented facilities belonging to our university branches, we install modern smart locks with electronic security features like those used in major banks!”

“Do not worry, Ms. Journalist. The alarm systems of our university branches are directly connected to the centralized police monitoring center. If an alarm is triggered, a rapid-response unit will immediately be dispatched!” replied Ngduat Yambua.

“Ms. Writer, what would you like to say?” he asked the writer, who was also sitting with her hand raised.

“I have begun to suspect that our chief physician, Mr. Kosmodromov, has secretly been replaced by another person. Haven’t you noticed?”

“No, Ms. Writer. Our chief physician is irreplaceable! God grant that he continue leading our psychiatric hospital until the end of his life—and after death, in the next world as well!” insisted the Driver of the Globe.

“What are you whispering about over there, you two on the front row—Madam Salo Abdulkhandak, the gloomy honor student, and her opposite, the cheerful Gangir Pastukh, whom the secret service infiltrated into the ranks of our students? Stop talking!” shouted Chief Driver of the Globe Ngduat Yambua, skillfully turning the invisible steering wheel of the Earth while seated in his cabin atop a huge tree growing in the hospital courtyard, its mighty roots digging into the ground like the talons of a hawk.

He delivered online lectures to students across the planet, who listened through wireless smartphone earphones capable of translating ninety languages.

“A Driver of the Globe must know every academic subject—especially astronomy and mathematics. This is not ordinary automobile driving. There are no traffic signs or traffic lights at cosmic intersections. The rules out there are entirely different, and you must master them,” Ngduat Yambua told his students.

At the university where people studied to become Drivers of the Globe, the academic year was divided into winter and summer semesters, each ending with an examination session.

Driving examinations for obtaining a Driver of the Globe license consisted of two main stages: a theoretical test on the rules of cosmic traffic and a practical examination in operating the Earth.

Many students failed these examinations and, as a result, did not receive the invisible diploma of Driver of the Globe.

Ignoring their tears, Ngduat Yambua continued his work, whistling a cheerful tune while sitting in his office atop the giant tree growing in the psychiatric hospital courtyard, its powerful roots gripping the earth like the claws of a hawk.

Below, university students practiced for their examinations, running along the hospital paths, turning invisible steering wheels and calling out signals aloud to warn pedestrians so they would not accidentally run them over.

 

 

Chapter 38
Giordano Bruno

 

 

“The world was created out of nothingness. And what else could it have been created from? Of course, from nothingness. If nothingness is the source of the real world, then, losing its former meaning, it turns into a raw material—like oil for fuel or cotton for fabric—that is, into objective reality. Then a question arises: what is objective reality if nothingness itself is also matter?

“So, ladies and gentlemen, fellow patients, the world in which we live is an illusion, a mirage! But even an illusion and a mirage must have a source. This is an eternal mystery beyond human comprehension.

“Naive people think that there is no life on other planets. No, ladies and gentlemen, people live on all planets—people whom we simply cannot see. These invisible beings long ago passed through a stage of development called transformation, applying invisibility technologies assisted by artificial intelligence. They have also silenced the noise of life on their planets so that outside beings such as ourselves cannot detect them. They do not trust us and are secretly terrified of us, observing us from afar and studying us.

“We—humanity—are the most backward creatures in the entire universe. We are only beginning to pass through this primitive stage ourselves, creating invisible aircraft with ‘stealth’ technology,” explained the experienced astronaut-pilot and Driver of the Earth, Ngduat Yambua.

“What wise thoughts! Bravo, Professor!” exclaimed the star pupil, Chief Physician Kosmodromov. “I am proud that our hospital treats such a brilliant scientist of galactic scale as yourself! You were the first to create and open an invisible university on the grounds of our psychiatric hospital. This is not merely an event—I would call it a natural phenomenon in human history!

“If developments continue at this pace, serious changes await us: expansion of our institution, equipping it with ultramodern devices, improving the quality of care, opening new treatment programs, attracting qualified specialists, and increasing comfort for our patients!

“Your initiative has already spread across the entire planet, and the Earth itself is turning into one gigantic madhouse! I am one hundred percent certain that very soon we shall conquer the entire universe, and you will become its one and only great and irreplaceable leader, chief, and supreme wizard! The deposits of oil, gas, uranium, lithium, gold, and diamonds on all planets will become ours!” he predicted proudly.

Then he turned to one of the patients.

“Comrade Kalkhauz, former farmer and longtime resident of our hospital—what is your opinion on the matter?”

“Yes, Doctor, you are right,” replied Kalkhauz. “I too am delighted by this grand project of global scale created by our teacher—the Distinguished Educator, Honored Instructor of the Milky Way Galaxy, and Honorary Academician of the Andromeda Nebula, Mr. Ngduat Yambua.

“To be honest, deep down I once doubted that our teacher truly drives the Earth from his office located in that huge, towering tree growing in the courtyard of our hospital, gripping the ground with roots like a hawk’s claws, and travels in his invisible official limousine.

“I doubted him just as our ancestors doubted that the Earth was round. Like the inquisitors of medieval Spain who burned the great scientist Giordano Bruno alive at the stake for telling the truth—that the Earth was round and revolved around the Sun. Poor Giordano! What cruelty! Those scoundrels executed such a brilliant scientist!

“At night I weep while gazing at the stars through the window of our ward, thinking that the stars I see are not stars at all, but sparks from the fire on which my beloved scientist Giordano Bruno was burned alive!”

“Yes, brothers and sisters in illness,” said the writer, “I believe a miracle has occurred in our institution. This is reincarnation! The soul of the great scientist Giordano Bruno, burned alive after being declared a heretic possessed by the Devil and an enemy of God Himself, has entered the body of our teacher, the Distinguished Driver of the Earth. Our teacher, astronaut Ngduat Yambua, has been replaced!”

“You’re right, Madam Writer, I completely agree!” shouted the dark-skinned, heavyset blogger in the worn skullcap, the perpetually failing student seated in the last row. “It was probably the Chinese who replaced our teacher, the experienced Driver of the Earth, with that fellow… what was his name… Giordano Bruno! It was definitely them!”

“There you go again!” snapped Chief Physician Kosmodromov. “Mr. Dark-Skinned and Heavyset Blogger in the Worn Skullcap, sitting in the Far East—that is, the last row—why do you always see the world through dark glasses? I warn you: if you mention the Chinese one more time, I’ll throw you out of the psychiatric hospital!”

“Oh, my apologies, Doctor,” the gloomy blogger said. “I won’t talk about China anymore.”

 

 

Chapter 39
A Beloved Profession

 

 

Veterinarian Saidkaramatullo awoke to find his wife sitting beside the bed, crying.

He was badly frightened, thinking he had died.

“Oh no! Have I died in my sleep? What a nightmare! Am I in the afterlife? How strangely it resembles the world where I spent so many years living and working as a veterinarian, treating animals! And I, fool that I was, doubted the existence of the hereafter.

“O Lord, forgive Your sinful servant for treating tractor driver Ivan’s boar and drinking vodka with him as brothers! My God, this place looks exactly like our low-ceilinged hut that resembles a cowshed,” he thought.

Wanting to test whether he was truly dead, he addressed his wife:

“Tolkunoy, my love, why are you crying and wiping your tears on that torn apron?”

Hearing his voice, Tolkunoy stopped crying for a moment and replied:

“Oh, so you’ve finally awakened, comrade tightrope walker of the traveling circus!”

“Strange. Why are you calling me a tightrope walker, Tolkunoy? What are you talking about? What circus?” the veterinarian asked, even more bewildered.

“You’re still asking? Do you even remember what you did at tractor driver Ivan’s wedding?”

“No. What did I do?”

“After drinking too much, you got drunk, stripped down to your underwear, and ran outside shouting:

‘Dear guests! I shall now perform a deadly stunt by running back and forth along these power lines without a balancing pole!’

“Then you started climbing a tall pine utility pole like a lineman, without climbing hooks or any equipment. Fortunately, you fell off with a tremendous crash, raising a cloud of dust.”

“Oh dear! How embarrassing! What happened after that?”

“You’re still asking? Then you spotted some elderly village elders returning from the mosque after the khuftan prayer. Flexing your muscles, striking martial-arts poses, and performing Shaolin kata, you shouted:

‘Aha! Come at me, bloodthirsty ninja squad, assassins, saboteurs, spies, infiltrators! Let us fight to the death! Attack me with your shuriken coated in snake venom! I’ll catch them with my hands and teeth!

‘Do you think I don’t know that your beards and mustaches are made of goat hide? I know perfectly well that sharp katana swords are hidden inside your staffs! Draw your blades and come closer if you’re tired of living! I’ll destroy every one of you with my bare hands! Kiiiaaai! Hha! Shha!’”

“Oh, what disgrace! How can I ever show my face in public again? What happened next?”

“The poor old men were terrified and ran back toward the mosque to escape from you. You chased after them. Fortunately, they managed to get inside and lock the gates in time. All the wedding guests laughed at us—especially the children,” said Tolkunoy, weeping bitterly and wiping her tears on the hem of her dress.

Saidkaramatullo tried to comfort her.

“Don’t cry, my dear. Save those pearl-like tears for my funeral. You know, if I’m honest, I do all those things deliberately—to avoid being jinxed.”

“Idiot!” said Tolkunoy, continuing to cry.

“Come now, stop crying, my red rose covered in morning dew. The truth is, I drink out of sorrow. I keep thinking about how I made our daughter unhappy by marrying her off to the son of Pharmacist Dyryldayev.

“He recently called me and said:

‘Dear in-law Saidkaramatullo, I’ve offered you a prestigious job many times. You could work selling expired medicines that help increase the number of sick people in our country, thereby expanding our business at an unprecedented rate.’

“I replied:

‘Mr. Dyryldayev, I cannot sell expired medicines. I fear God’s wrath! How could I answer for such grave sins on the Day of Judgment? I do not wish to burn forever in hell. Expired medicines are poison. People could be harmed by them, especially innocent children.’

“And he said:

‘Ah, you naïve veterinarian! It’s the twenty-first century and you still believe in God? Don’t worry. Our hardy population survived even when tons of poisonous pesticides and herbicides were sprayed over them from agricultural aircraft while they worked practically for free in cotton fields, standing in clouds of toxic chemicals!

‘Yes, those poisons damaged the nation’s gene pool and many people became disabled through inherited genetic illnesses, but they still exist—and they continue buying our expired medicines.’”

“I answered:

‘Thank you for the offer, Mr. Dyryldayev, but I love my profession. My work doesn’t require a high-tech hospital filled with advanced equipment. Why would animals need modern hospitals and pharmacies?

‘I can treat my patients—cows, sheep, donkeys, horses, dogs, and cats—anywhere: under the open sky, in dimly lit cowsheds, livestock pens, or pigsties.

‘And no one is going to sue me, throw me in prison, or fine me when an animal dies in a stall or on the operating table of a livestock farm.’”

After hearing her husband’s words, Tolkunoy silently rose and walked away.

 

 

Chapter 40
The Letter

 

 

Inspired by the radio signal sent into the boundless cosmos by the Academician of the Universe and Chairman of the Writers’ Union of the Milky Way Galaxy, Mr. Winter Watman, on behalf of humanity in an attempt to establish contact with extraterrestrial civilizations, the experienced Driver of the Earth, Ngduat Yambua, also wrote a historic letter to the President of the country on behalf of his students, who were studying at his Invisible University in order to receive higher education and earn bachelor’s degrees in the specialty of Earth Driving.

Greetings, Mr. President!

We, the patients of the capital’s psychiatric clinic, have decided to write to you with a unique proposal.

It is well known that healthy people consider us fools, yet paradoxically we are the most intellectual, the most brilliant people on the planet. Among us are famous poets, thinkers, philosophers of every variety, psychics, clairvoyants, prophets, great scientists, astronauts, valiant and undefeated generals, telepaths who read other people’s thoughts, people who have declared themselves prophets and even gods, wanderers through time, rulers of the universe, defenders of the rights of humanoids throughout solar systems and nebulae, and great opera singers with soprano, baritone, and tenor voices who sing better than the legendary trio of opera singers.

Among us are also the so-called disgraced opposition leaders, human-rights activists, drunkards and ragamuffins—in other words, your unsuccessful «colleagues.»

This raises a question: why shouldn’t our state make use of our free services in solving problems on the world’s political stage? Why not resolve issues through our efforts—the efforts of the patients of our madhouse—in the field of national defense?

We often hear that in the world’s hot spots, hundreds and sometimes thousands of mentally healthy young soldiers of our country die without cause. But what if, instead of healthy young men, psychotics, paranoiacs, and schizophrenics were drafted into the army?

First, we are strong, healthy, brave, and courageous people.

Second, we fear nothing and have nothing to lose.

Third, we do not wish to sit idly on state subsidies, as they say, hanging around the neck of our poor independent country while innocent young compatriots perish in war zones.

We are not interested in money, rank, bonuses, titles, orders, or medals. We do not need apartments, families, or other unnecessary things.

We, the brave and valiant mentally ill sons of our homeland, can defend our territories against any invaders—including aliens!

And we believe that life at the front would be much more entertaining than sitting here in this boring treatment center, believe us, Mr. President.

I never tire of repeating that we are very capable people. One need only teach us how to use firearms, how to operate anti-aircraft missile systems, bombers and fighters—and how to hijack them—how to fly military helicopters such as the Shark and the Apache, how to use nuclear submarines armed with intercontinental ballistic missiles, and so on. I assure you and guarantee that our brothers in illness will master this advanced military science no worse than mentally healthy cadets.

We shall soar like falcons in modern supersonic bombers and level settlements in the world’s hot spots, reducing beautiful cities, Orthodox and Catholic churches, mosques, synagogues, residential districts, factories, schools, hospitals, pharmacies, and kindergartens to the ground, leaving not a single living soul behind.

Rest assured that an army of schizophrenics and paranoiacs, armed with anti-aircraft missile systems, would shoot down thousands of civilian airliners carrying hundreds of passengers, hitting the bull’s-eye every time, and then blame those monstrous crimes on the enemy’s air force and air-defense forces!

With immense respect,

Driver of the Earth, Commander-in-Chief of the Air Force and Ground Forces, Lieutenant General Ngduat Yambua

Deputy Driver of the Earth and Deputy Commander-in-Chief of the Air Force and Ground Forces, Independent Astronomer, Chairman of the Writers’ Union of the Milky Way Galaxy, and Corresponding Member of the Academy of Sciences of the Universe, Mr. Winter Watman

Several weeks later, a reply arrived from the President, astonishing everyone, including Chief Physician Kosmodromov.

The President’s response read approximately as follows:

Greetings, Mr. Driver of the Earth, Commander-in-Chief of the Air Force and Ground Forces, Lieutenant General Ngduat Yambua, and the highly respected independent astronomer, Chairman of the Writers’ Union of the Milky Way Galaxy, Corresponding Member of the Academy of Sciences of the Universe, Mr. Winter Watman!

After reading your letter several times, back and forth, I fell into deep thought as I gazed through the armored, bulletproof window of my office, which resembles the bunker of a bloodthirsty dictator and psychopath of the twentieth century—the cowardly Hitler.

«Well now… what a letter!

«Unlike mentally healthy people, you write not about your own problems, but about the pressing problems of our society and the strengthening of our nation’s defense capabilities.

«Although this letter comes from a psychiatric institution, your initiatives are worth considering. Especially since you offer to defend the Fatherland completely free of charge.

«If we realize your dream, defense spending, military expenditures, armaments, provisions, uniforms, and millions upon millions of pairs of army boots could be reduced dramatically. We would save colossal sums from the state budget.

«You are willing to fight anywhere on the planet, barefoot and without uniforms. Most importantly, you do not require salaries.

«Despite being seriously ill in the spiritual sense of the word, you are ready to carry out any task assigned by the Party, at any time of day, whether in forty-five-degree frost or fifty-five-degree desert heat.

«Just imagine how much strength and money would be saved! Why did we never think of this project before?

«You, living robots, have nothing to lose. You are kamikazes who fear no death.

«And our so-called soldiers and officers? At the first sign of danger they either flee or shoot themselves in the foot while hiding in trenches, then return home as heroes covered in medals.

«To be honest, I have never received such a proposal from my military experts, despite the enormous dollar salaries they receive. Parasites! Useless, every one of them!

«I must admit that I once laughed to tears at jokes about people like you. Apparently I was wrong to laugh. I should have wept instead.

«So this is how you think! Imagine that—such geniuses languishing in the madhouses of our vast country!

«And we supposedly treat people like you?

«It seems to me that those who consider themselves healthy ought to visit psychiatrists themselves before their illnesses worsen.

«Yes, you are unstable people and potentially dangerous to society. But if we approach the matter intelligently, I am one hundred percent certain that many problems can be solved.

«We shall place full responsibility upon your doctors, orderlies, and caregivers by drafting them into the army alongside their patients and sending them to the world’s hot spots.

«Today, governments seek total control not only over peoples, the media, and opposition movements, but even over tsunamis, typhoons, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions. Are we any worse than they are?

«We too can control you through your doctors in white coats, who possess advanced equipment, tasers, tranquilizers, and sturdy straitjackets with long sleeves.

«Most importantly, we shall automatically rid ourselves of annoying protests and demonstrations organized by loud human-rights activists and grant-eaters who defend the rights of mothers whose sons return from battlefields in sealed zinc coffins after dying for the economic and geopolitical interests of the state.

«Your deaths on the battlefield, by contrast, inspire no pity. Quite the opposite—they provoke uncontrollable laughter. People will laugh heartily when they see or hear of your absurd deaths in bloody combat.

«In short, I intend to submit this bill to Parliament immediately.

«Let our half-literate deputies and sycophantic senators discuss the matter behind closed doors, away from nosy journalists, and approve it unanimously on first reading. Naturally, these deputies and senators, with their slave mentality, will never vote against my proposals.

«I have no reason to worry.

«As I read your letter, I wept. Tears rolled down my face, trembling like distant stars in the cold December sky of our independent nation, while our people burn foul-smelling dung in their stoves and barely recognize one another through the veil of acrid smoke, coughing like gloomy janitors wandering through the fog of an autumn park.

«I ask your forgiveness, gentlemen, for our psychiatrists, who misdiagnosed you and locked you away in psychiatric hospitals, forcing you to swallow revolting medicines and tablets. The orderlies beat you like punching bags hanging in underground gyms.

«I also ask forgiveness for our fellow citizens, who laughed and still laugh at you, exchanging jokes and roaring with laughter at your expense.

«Today I have finally realized that you, the so-called mentally ill, are a thousand—perhaps millions—of times smarter than our deputies and corrupt officials.

«It turns out that we mistakenly locked up not only the geniuses of our country, but the geniuses of the entire planet.

«Tomorrow I shall issue a decree releasing all your brothers in illness from psychiatric institutions and locking up the psychiatrists and caregivers in their place.

«I shall order the immediate arrest of my sycophantic aides, bootlicking poets and writers, corrupt officials, bribery-taking deputies, and useless ministers.

«They do nothing and receive large salaries in American dollars while our citizens, crushed by unemployment, leave for foreign countries in search of any work they can find.

«They agree even to the dirtiest jobs simply to earn bread and feed their families. They sweep streets, guard warehouses, and labor in garbage dumps for next to nothing.

«I shall carry out a complete personnel reshuffle in every sphere of society. I shall appoint the two of you as my chief assistants and order that deputies, senators, and members of parliament be chosen only from among those who have previously received treatment in psychiatric hospitals.

«Governors, district administrators, collective-farm chairmen, and neighborhood committee heads shall likewise be selected from these geniuses—your brothers in illness.

«All current governors and officials shall undergo lifelong compulsory treatment in psychiatric hospitals until they fully recover.

«By presidential decree I appoint you, Driver of the Earth and Commander-in-Chief Lieutenant General Ngduat Yambua, Minister of Defense. Your deputy shall become Chairman of the Government.»

After reading the President’s letter, the brothers and sisters in illness burst into tears together.

 

 

Chapter 41
Mother

 

 

After the psychiatric patients had taken their morning medicines, Chief Physician Kosmodromov informed Ngduat Yambua, the Driver of the Earth, that his mother had arrived to visit him.

Their meeting took place in a specially designated room.

The deaf-mute Rizvan burst into tears as she embraced her son, who came to meet her wearing a striped hospital uniform. His poorly cut hair resembled autumn fields where uneven tufts remained after harvest; his beard and mustache looked much the same.

Mother and son communicated through sign language.

“Hello, Mother. Come now, don’t cry. Forgive me, dear, for the grief and suffering I have caused you through my foolish actions, instead of helping around the house, repairing the leaking roof of our hut, planting and digging potatoes. How are you, my poor little mother? Still working in the garden?” Ngduat Yambua signed.

“Don’t worry, son. Thank God, I manage. I live like everyone else. I fall ill often. Old age is no joy.

“Thanks to your beloved Malokhat, who visits me frequently and brings medicine, food, and fruit. We sit and talk by the light of a kerosene lamp while a lonely moth circles silently around it.

“We remember you.

“Malokhat still cries and refuses to believe that you committed that terrible crime out of jealousy. I don’t believe it either.

“Tell me the truth, son. Did you really commit those murders? If not, why did you confess to killing the poet and blogger Zayniddin Zindaniy?

“I don’t know how much longer I have left in this world, but I want to know the truth before I leave it and join your father.”

“Mother, I killed no one. I am not a murderer.

“The investigators in the detention center forced me to confess to murdering the blogger and poet Zayniddin Zindaniy. They threatened me. They promised to bring you and Malokhat into the basement where I was being interrogated, chain you both to a radiator, and violate you in front of my eyes.

“After such threats I had no choice but to sign the statement saying I had committed a crime I never committed.

“I had no other way out, Mother.

“But don’t tell anyone. I don’t want Dyryldayev’s people to kill you in order to eliminate an unwanted witness.

“Take care of yourself. I have no one closer to me in this world than you.

“Let people think I’m crazy. Malokhat knows that I’m only pretending to be a fool.

“Don’t worry about me. Although I live here in this psychiatric hospital like a nightingale in a cage, my soul remains free.

“Sometimes my soul flies out of my mouth as if from a hollow tree, and I soar high above wheat fields, singing in trills. The farmers working below shield their eyes from the sun and listen to my singing with kind smiles.

“Such miracles happen to me.

“My soul becomes a crow, then a nightingale, then a starling, then a hoopoe. Sometimes I fly south with migratory birds, live there for a while, and upon returning discover with amazement that only seconds have passed here during my absence.

“Once misfortune struck. I became trapped in a bird-catcher’s net. He placed me in a cage and took me to a bird market to sell me.

“I begged him in the language of birds to release me, but he did not understand bird speech.

“I sat in the cage crying and praying to God to set me free.

“God must have heard me, because a miracle occurred.

“A man with a kind heart bought me and asked the bird-catcher:

‘You sold it and I bought it. This bird belongs to me now, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir. The songbird is yours. Do with it whatever you wish.’

“The buyer opened the cage and released me before everyone’s eyes.

“Oh, Mother, if only you had seen how joyfully I soared into the sky!

“Another time I became a parrot, and once again I was caged.

“My owner forced me to speak a foreign language I didn’t know. Eventually I learned a few words and repeated them whenever wealthy guests came to visit.

“I spoke, and the guests laughed so hard their swollen bellies and double chins shook like the throat pouch of a gluttonous pelican swallowing fish whole.

“I kept wondering what was so funny.

“Later I learned that I had been shouting obscene curses and vulgar insults without understanding their meaning.

“I was terribly embarrassed. What kind of fool jokes like that?

“My owner loved showing me off, carrying me on his shoulder like a lanky Long John Silver.

“One day I seized the opportunity, took flight, and escaped home,” said Ngduat Yambua.

“Son, next time don’t turn into a parrot. Turn into an eagle instead—one that lives among high cliffs, glides almost without flapping its wings, circles proudly over mountain gorges, and cries out while searching for prey,” Rizvan advised.

“Mother, as soon as I escape this hell, I’ll teach your soul how to leave your body and return again, like a pigeon that rises high above the earth, tumbles in the air, and flies back to its dovecote.

“When your soul learns to fly, we’ll travel together to distant lands with migratory birds.

“Believe me, Mother, it’s a wonderful and exciting pastime.

“Tell me—which bird would you prefer to become? A flamingo? Or a secretary bird that kills venomous snakes and feeds on them?”

“Ah, son,” Rizvan sighed sadly, “it is too late for me to learn. One foot is still on the earth, but the other is already in the grave.

“Soon my soul will leave my chest and never return.

“Yes, I would like my soul to become a dove—a symbol of peace—so that the bloody fratricidal wars on our planet might finally come to an end.”

 

 

Chapter 42
The Death of the Pharmacist

 

 

A mass poisoning of children occurred in the country after they consumed a cough syrup called “Diethylene Glycol,” smuggled in from developing countries through customs checkpoints staffed by corrupt customs officers who, for a bundle of dollars, were willing to wave through not only counterfeit alcohol and toxic syrups without declaration, but even a squad of highly dangerous terrorists carrying nuclear warheads.

Reports stated that 68 children had already died from the toxic medication, while the others were in critical condition in intensive care units, connected to mechanical ventilators. The source of the toxic cough syrup, as well as its suppliers and manufacturers, could not be identified or traced.

The number of children harmed by the syrup was said to be in the tens of thousands worldwide, and 365 deaths from kidney failure had been recorded across Asia, Indochina, and African countries.

Pharmacist Dyryldaev was watching a television news broadcast showing footage of the poisoned children while calmly talking on the telephone.

“Kasum Kalandarovich, put out the spark before it becomes a fire. Extinguishing a small blaze in time prevents a major conflagration. If we fail to put out the fire in society, many people will burn in it—first and foremost you and your family. So get moving.

Four tons of ‘glycerin’ syrup and ‘diethylene glycol,’ together with expired medicines, must be removed from the warehouse immediately and hidden somewhere safe so we can continue selling them after the public uproar dies down.

Make sure our people in the highest levels of government bury this case! Otherwise, I’ll be forced to publish documents compromising their activities. In situations like this, we must use every lever of influence and pressure available to regain control of the situation.

Do you understand me, Kasum Kalandarovich?! Then act! Just don’t let me down. You know me,” warned Pharmacist Dyryldaev.

His thoughts were interrupted by the shouts of an angry customer coming from the cash register area where a pharmacy employee was working.

“Are you medical professionals or traders of old junk at a flea market?! Why are you violating the oath you swore to Hippocrates?! Do you have any conscience at all?! Do you heal people or cripple them?!” he shouted.

“What happened? Why are you yelling, citizen? Are you drunk?! This isn’t a tavern. This is a pharmacy. I can call the police!” the employee replied indignantly.

“I’m not drunk! In fact, I don’t get drunk even if I drink two bottles of vodka without a snack. First of all. Secondly, I should be calling the police, not you!

You ask why I’m shouting? What would you have me do when my life is on the brink? Last month I bought two packs of condoms from your pharmacy, and they turned out to be full of holes! Because of them I caught AIDS from a woman engaged in the oldest profession. Worse still, I infected my wife with the plague! Yes, I’ve been drinking, but I’m not drunk.

What else am I supposed to do after something like this?! My wife took the children and left me. Do you collect used condoms, wash them, and sell them again or something?! What a business! Disgusting and revolting! Aren’t you afraid of God?! How will you answer for such grave sins on Judgment Day?!

I’m taking you to court! You’ll pay me 145 million U.S. dollars in damages! I’ve got the receipt right here! Why are you staring, executioner in a white coat?! Health is priceless! Go get your boss! I want to spit in his face until there isn’t a drop of spit left in my mouth!” the customer shouted.

At that moment Pharmacist Dyryldaev came out to meet the disgruntled customer and greeted him politely.

“Well, hello there, dissatisfied consumer. You should be more careful with your language. Without realizing it, you’re insulting the honor of medical professionals around the world, and that is unacceptable.

Let’s talk in my office, in a calm atmosphere, over a cup of coffee or green tea. We’ll discuss everything and solve the problem like diplomats at a negotiating table,” suggested the pharmacist with a courteous smile.

The dissatisfied consumer agreed, and they entered Dyryldaev’s office. Closing the door behind him, the pharmacist pointed to a chair, and the customer sat down.

“Now then, let me see the receipt,” said Dyryldaev.

The customer handed it over. The pharmacist examined it and continued:

“One moment, sir. I’ll bring some coffee. What kind do you prefer? Brazilian or—”

“I don’t need coffee!” the customer interrupted nervously.

“I see. I have some ninety-six-degree alcohol. With ice or without?” asked Dyryldaev.

“It doesn’t matter. Right now, from grief, I’m ready to drink even kerosene or ink,” replied the dissatisfied consumer.

Dyryldaev left for a short while, then returned carrying a plastic bag and suddenly lunged at the customer. Pulling the bag over the man’s head, he began strangling him with all his strength.

“Go on, spit in my face, goat! Spit! I’ll show you where the crayfish spend the winter! You wanted to fine us 145 million dollars, you stinking dissatisfied consumer!” the pharmacist hissed through clenched teeth while continuing to strangle his victim.

At that very moment, heavily armed members of a tactical arrest unit wearing masks burst into the office.

“Face the wall! Hands behind your head!” they shouted, aiming their rifles at Dyryldaev.

He released the customer, and the officers quickly handcuffed him.

“Citizen Dyryldaev, you are under arrest on suspicion of murdering sixty-eight poisoned children following their consumption of syrup sold through your pharmacies. You are also suspected of murdering the private detective Takhtakanaev,” one of the officers said.

“That’s slander! I never killed anyone! Tomorrow you and your boss will be begging my forgiveness on your knees! I’ll personally rip off your epaulettes and shove them where they belong! It seems you have no idea who I am! I’ll show you what happens when you arrest innocent citizens!” threatened Dyryldaev.

“You are threatening law enforcement officers, citizen pharmacist. Threats carry criminal liability. All your associates have been arrested and are already giving testimony in the detention center. Your accomplice Kasum Kalandarovich was also detained with a large shipment of toxic ‘Diethylene Glycol’ syrup and four tons of expired medicines,” explained one of the operatives.

As they were trying to place Dyryldaev into a vehicle, something unexpected happened.

Realizing everything was over, the pharmacist bit down on the collar of his shirt and began convulsing. His arms and legs shook violently, and his eyes rolled back.

“Poison! He bit a cyanide capsule!” one of the officers shouted.

The operatives fought for his life for a long time, administering first aid despite his critical condition, but they were unable to save him.

Dyryldaev committed suicide.

Forensic experts later concluded that the poison located at the tip of the pharmacist’s shirt collar was, in fact, expired medication.

 

 

Chapter 43
The Trial

 

 

The Supreme Court classified the location of the closed court hearing in order to ensure the safety of all participants. The trial was held in a dilapidated, abandoned barn so as not to attract the attention of supporters of the late pharmacist Dyryldaev, who had committed suicide during his arrest by biting down on poison concealed in the tip of his shirt collar.

«All rise! Court is now in session!» announced the court secretary.

A judge in a black robe entered the barn and said:

«Good day, esteemed participants in these proceedings. Please be seated.»

Everyone sat down. The judge continued:

«This court session is hereby declared open. Today we are considering the criminal case against Nasruldaev Ibn Zambar Dyryldaevich, accused of murdering citizen Zayniddin Zindaniy by a publicly dangerous method. Representing the state prosecution is Prosecutor Karabaev Sharabay Arrabaevich. The defendant is represented by defense attorney Chuldabe Konstantin Matyak. Madam Secretary, have all participants arrived?»

«Yes, Your Honor. All witnesses have arrived and are waiting in the corridor. The jury has elected a foreman and is ready to take the oath.»

«Very well. We shall begin. Bailiff, please invite the jurors.»

The bailiff summoned the jurors, and the trial commenced.

«The floor is given to the prosecutor for the presentation of the charges,» said the judge.

The prosecutor read the indictment.

«The court will now establish the identity of the defendant. Stand up, defendant. You are Nasruldaev Ibn Zambar Dyryldaevich, correct?» asked the judge.

«Yes, Your Honor,» replied Ibn Zambar, who stood inside a wooden defendant’s cage resembling a livestock pen.

«Do you understand the charges brought against you?»

«Yes, Your Honor.»

«Do you plead guilty?»

«No, Your Honor. I did not kill anyone.»

«Very well. You may sit.»

«Order, comrades participating in these proceedings!» the judge said, striking his wooden gavel to restore silence. Then he continued:

«Since no victims are participating in today’s hearing, we shall begin with witness testimony. Bailiff, please summon witness Tepakalov Kamariddun Kashanda.»

The bailiff brought in the witness.

A man of about forty-five or fifty years of age entered the courtroom barn wearing worn military camouflage. He marched with a ceremonial goose-step, like a soldier during a military drill.

«What is this circus, witness?» the judge exclaimed. «Why are you entering the courtroom with such ceremonial steps, like an honor guard standing at the mausoleum of Mr. Ulyanov… what’s his name… Lenin?»

«It’s a habit, Your Honor. I’m a former soldier, and I’ve simply grown used to it. I always walk down city sidewalks in marching step and cross pedestrian crossings like an honor guard on parade,» explained witness Tepakalov Kamariddun Kashanda.

«I see. Witness, you are Tepakalov Kamariddun Kashanda, correct?»

«Exactly so, Your Honor!»

«Mr. Prosecutor, Counsel, your questions.»

«Thank you, Your Honor,» said the prosecutor, beginning the examination.

«Esteemed witness, Mr. Tepakalov Kamariddun Kashandaevich, please tell the court everything you know concerning the circumstances of this criminal case. Speak only the truth, and remember that knowingly giving false testimony or refusing to testify carries criminal liability.»

«Understood, Mr. Prosecutor. I’ll tell everything,» replied the witness.

Then he began:

«Like everyone else, I have a weakness—a hobby. I’m an avid fisherman. I usually go fishing in the evenings so the fishery inspectors won’t catch me. I love poaching. I bring explosives with me, which I frequently steal from a military garrison. I pull out the explosives—well, dynamite—from my backpack, light the fuse with a lighter, use it to light my cigarette, and then hurl it into the water with all my strength to stun entire schools of fish with the blast.

Kabooooom!

The fish float up belly-first. I carefully gather them into a sack and hurry home to make my wife happy.»

«Oh, come now, witness!» interrupted the judge. «There is no need to tell the court about your disgraceful adventures. Speak to the point! I must remind you that stealing explosives from a military garrison is a criminal offense.»

«Your Honor, I am telling the truth according to my oath. I simply cannot live without stealing. It’s in my blood. I’m a hereditary pickpocket.

In my youth I rode packed buses every day, where there was such crowding that not even an apple could fall. Riding public transportation was my profession. There I cleaned out the pockets of poor victims, risking my health and sometimes even my life.

People say stealing is wrong. But it’s also a craft, an ancient profession, a means of livelihood. More precisely, it is an art—the creation of illusions, manipulation, sleight of hand, magic.

Once I was riding a bus without a ticket. Back then passengers bought paper tickets. Suddenly a busty conductress approached me and said:

‘Grandpa, your ticket, please.’

I replied:

‘Young lady, what do you mean «Grandpa»? Maybe I look older, but that’s only because I’ve suffered greatly in life. Besides, I cannot buy tickets on public transportation.’

She said:

‘How can you not buy one? Then I’ll fine you.’

I answered:

‘Busty conductress, do you even know who I am? I am a veteran of the Afghan War! I shed blood for you! I am Lieutenant General Tepakalov Kamariddun Kashanda, retired! Right now I’ll call the president of our country and you’re finished!’

Then I said:

‘Now, where did I put my mobile phone…?’

As I said this, I began searching through another passenger’s pocket.

The passenger grabbed my hand and started shouting:

‘Help! Police!’

Seeing this, the busty conductress flew into a rage and began beating me with her handbag. So I leapt out of the bus—even though it was moving at high speed—raising clouds of dust behind me.

I nearly died and suffered an occupational injury. After that I limped around for a long time like a lame dog and even filed for disability benefits.»

«Who are you people listening to?» shouted the defendant Ibn Zambar. «He’s a complete lunatic! He belongs in an asylum alongside the real murderer and psychopath—the so-called Driver of the Globe, Ngduat Yambua, who steers the entire Earth from a cabin atop a giant tree growing on the grounds of a psychiatric hospital, its roots clawing into the soil like a hawk’s talons! Yet you’re accusing me!»

«Silence, defendant!» the judge barked. «Do not insult the witness. That is unacceptable. Sit quietly and do not interfere.»

«Forgive me, Your Honor,» said Nasruldaev Ibn Zambar Dyryldaevich.

«Proceed,» said the judge. «And you, witness, please stay on topic. Stealing other people’s property is not a good thing.»

«I agree, Your Honor. Stealing other people’s property is wrong. But compared to our nation’s corrupt officials, who steal public money from the state budget on a colossal scale, we pickpockets are angels without wings.»

«Do not argue with the court, Mr. Tepakalov Kamariddun Kashanda. We are interested only in facts relevant to the criminal case before us in this courtroom barn,» the judge replied, tapping his gavel.

The witness continued:

«Very well, Your Honor.

One evening I was heading to the riverbank to fish. I carried a sack and a hefty amount of TNT—dynamite—which, by force of habit, I had stolen from a military garrison. I was looking around carefully so as not to be caught by fishery inspectors.

Then I noticed someone working by the light of a kerosene lamp around which moths were circling. At first I was frightened and thought it might be a ghost.

Looking closer, I saw a man making bricks from clay.

I decided to secretly film the scene just in case.

Then your defendant appeared. He approached on tiptoe like a ballet dancer and suddenly tightened a wire around the victim’s neck, strangling him.

In the light of the kerosene lamp I clearly saw his terrifying face and remembered it forever.

After killing the poor man, he hung the body from a tree.

I couldn’t stop him. I was afraid.

To tell the truth, I’m a coward by nature.

After what I saw, I completely lost my desire to go fishing.»

«Esteemed witness,» the defense attorney interrupted, «please stop telling fairy tales. You’re not on a fishing trip. You’re in a courtroom barn. Speak to the facts.»

«You want facts, Counsel? Very well. Here they are in this telephone. You may watch for yourselves. The video is not for the faint-hearted,» said witness Tepakalov Kamariddun Kashanda, pulling a phone from his trouser pocket.

«Your Honor, I move that this evidence be admitted into the case file,» requested the prosecutor.

The court granted the motion.

At that moment the defendant, Ibn Zambar, kicked forward, smashed through the wooden barrier like Tractor Driver Ivan’s wild boar, and attempted to flee.

But he was quickly captured.

 

 

Chapter 44
Freedom

 

 

After hearing the news, the entire hospital staff and the patients rejoiced. Some even wept, wiping away tears with their fists.

«Professor, of course we’re happy that you’re being released, but how are we supposed to live without you now? If only you knew how hard it is for us to part with you! At this moment we feel like orphaned children who have lost their father. You were our steadfast support, our physical and spiritual leader. We are tormented by a deep sense of vulnerability, emptiness, and loss of direction. It feels as though not only the Earth but the entire cosmos and universe will be left desolate without you. There is no one wiser than you in this institution who could lead the university you founded here in our hospital. And who will steer the globe now, sitting in the office atop that enormous tree growing in the courtyard of our madhouse, its mighty roots gripping the earth like a hawk’s talons?» said one of the psychiatric patients, wiping tears with the sleeve of his striped pajamas.

«Do not cry, my brothers and sisters in illness. I shall continue steering the globe in freedom, seated in a cabin atop a great and towering tree growing over a deep ravine, its powerful roots clutching the earth like an eagle’s claws. I am glad that my years spent in this institution were not wasted. I taught you how to govern the world properly. You are all my finest students, and you are a hundred times wiser than certain aggressive, foolish, and greedy leaders of the world who wage wars over natural resources, feeding millions of young soldiers and officers into the meat grinder of war, killing civilians, helpless old people, women, and innocent poor children, destroying infrastructure and economies. Instead of building modern cities and improving life on Earth, they spend hundreds of billions on senseless wars, leveling beautiful cities to the ground!»

«Yes, Rector of our University, you’re right! Those foolish world leaders fight among themselves, while China, like the avid fisherman Zayniddin Zindaniy, sits quietly fishing in muddy waters and gathers everything into its own hands!» shouted a struggling student, a swarthy and overweight blogger in a worn skullcap who always sat in the Far East—that is, in the back row on a pine-board bench.

Hearing this, the Driver of the Globe, honored astronaut-pilot, distinguished educator, brilliant scientist, Doctor of Cosmic Sciences, corresponding member of the Academy of the Universe, Mister Ngduat Yambua, became upset.

«Now then, struggling student, swarthy and overweight blogger in a worn skullcap who always sits in the Far East—that is, in the back row on a pine-board bench—you’ve started again! How many times must I warn you? Why do you blame the poor Chinese for every sin? They do not wage wars, violate the sovereignty and territorial integrity of independent countries, destroy cities, or kill people. They live peacefully, quieter than water and lower than grass!»

«Oh, forgive me, Rector of our Invisible University where they train Drivers of the Globe. I’ll be silent. My lips are sealed,» apologized the struggling student, the swarthy blogger in the worn skullcap who always sat in Kamchatka—that is, in the back row on a pine-board bench.

«Mister Ngduat Yambua, may I say a few words?» asked a beautiful journalist, raising her hand.

«Yes, madam. What would you like to say? Please,» replied the honored Driver of the Globe.

«What a pity that you’re leaving us, teacher! This year we wanted to hold democratic presidential elections, printing ballots on toilet paper and dreaming of dropping them into toilets. We planned to write the name of only one candidate for president of our madhouse—your name—and vote unanimously for you,» she said with a sad sigh.

«No, I do not wish to become president. I have a different and far more important mission. I must guide the globe day and night, working free of charge for the benefit of all humanity,» said Ngduat Yambua, bidding farewell to everyone who had come to see him off.

Outside, he thanked God for finally granting him the chance to breathe the air of freedom with a full chest. He sped along in his invisible limousine, eager to see his mother as soon as possible. As he drove, he honked verbally so as not to run over pedestrians—or ducks and chickens as well. Whistling a cheerful tune and turning the invisible steering wheel, he thought of how happy his mother would be to hear of his release.

On the road he encountered the veterinarian Saidkaramatullo and stopped his invisible vehicle.

«Hello, Uncle Saidkaramatullo! I’ve been released!» he said.

Seeing him, Saidkaramatullo was genuinely delighted. Throwing his arms open, he embraced the Driver of the Globe tightly.

«Hello, Ngduat! Congratulations on your release! I’m glad justice has finally prevailed. It’s wonderful that they’ve let you out. Forgive us for believing the investigators who served not the people but the pharmacist Dyryldaev, who took his own life during arrest by biting down on the poison hidden in the tip of his shirt collar.»

«Please, Uncle Saidkaramatullo, there’s no need to apologize. I bear no grudge. Tell me, how are my mother, Aunt Tolkunoy, and Malokhat?» Ngduat Yambua asked, changing the subject so as to spare his companion any discomfort.

Saidkaramatullo lowered his head sadly. After a moment he said:

«Ngduat, forgive us once more, son, for not managing to tell you the sorrowful news of your mother’s passing. Gather your strength—your mother is gone. It is an irreparable loss not only for you but for all of us. May her soul rejoice in Paradise…»

 

 

Chapter 45
Happiness

 

 

Summer was drawing to a close. It was as if nature itself had fallen into thought, pausing on the threshold of autumn. Trees whispered softly along the dirt roads. A lonely wind, like an outcast child, wandered forlornly through alleyways, then awkwardly fiddled like a violinist upon the gates. It seemed as though no one remained in the world.

The frogs had fallen silent in distant marshes. On the river shallows, the water cooed like pigeons on a rooftop, while cows stretched sleepily toward the watering place in a slow-moving caravan. A silent waltz of butterflies filled the gardens. They circled in swarms and danced through the air. Weightless dandelion fluff drifted mutely overhead. Without nets, it was impossible to catch them; they floated like snowflakes in winter.

A heavenly stillness reigned over Kuyganyar, and the dandelion seeds drifted as lightly as thoughts. The distant August road shimmered in the heat haze, bending and dissolving.

It was in this beautiful season that the hero of our novel, Ngduat Yambua, regained his freedom.

Immediately after his release from the psychiatric hospital, the Ministry of Finance awarded him monetary compensation for material and moral damages, as well as for the harm done to his health through wrongful conviction and punishment for a crime he had not committed.

Afterward, Ngduat Yambua married Malokhat.

Following their wedding, they built a new two-room wooden house resembling a birdhouse atop a huge tree growing above a deep ravine, its mighty roots gripping the earth like a hawk’s claws. The house even contained a separate office from which the Driver of the Globe governed the planet, turning an invisible helm and working tirelessly from morning until evening, entirely without pay, for the good of humanity.

On memorial days, the couple visited the grave of Ngduat Yambua’s mother, laying roses, daisies, chrysanthemums, and carnations while bowing their heads in mourning.

Standing at her grave, Ngduat Yambua quietly let tears fall and spoke to her in sign language.

«Hello, Mother. Not only was I released from the psychiatric hospital, but I was rehabilitated as well. They apologized for the wrongful conviction and gave me compensation for the material and moral damages and the harm done to my health. The murderer of the poet and blogger Zayniddin Zindaniy was caught and sent to prison for many years.

«I married Malokhat. On the riverbank they built a small park named after the late poet and blogger Zayniddin Zindaniy. Brides and grooms now come there before their weddings to take photographs beside the monument of the great poet whom we failed to appreciate during his lifetime. We took photographs there too, released doves, and laid flowers at the memorial called the Temple of Love.

«I’m sorry, Mother, that you could not be with us during such days.

«Malokhat is beside me now. We built a new wooden two-room house atop a huge tree above a deep ravine, its roots clutching the earth like an eagle’s claws. Rest peacefully, dear Mother, and forgive your wayward son, who caused you so much pain instead of helping you.

«You gave birth to me, raised me, and dreamed that I would become a great official—or at least a tractor driver. But I, fool that I am, became the Driver of the Globe, as though no other profession existed in the world.

«My childhood passed among cotton fields. From spring until late autumn our people labored on the plantations almost without pay, like slaves, cultivating cotton known as white gold. In September, when the cotton bolls opened, the fields became covered in white fiber. To a newcomer, it would seem that clouds had descended upon the earth.

«At the height of the season, the fields were sprayed with poisonous chemicals—pesticides and herbicides—by agricultural aircraft to force the leaves to fall. The planes flew low, scattering toxins not only over the fields but over people as well, poisoning local waterways.

«We children would run through the fields to see the planes up close, remaining in thick clouds of poisonous chemicals dangerous to our health.

«Because of those toxins, much of the population developed cirrhosis of the liver, many died from the consequences of hepatitis, and countless others became disabled for life. It was a genocide of the people, like the medical experiments conducted on prisoners in Nazi concentration camps.

«One day I too fell ill with hepatitis. You sat beside my bed until dawn, praying to God in signs to spare my life. You were not afraid of catching the disease yourself. You even carried me on your shoulders.

«That is how you raised me, Mother.

«You were often sick too, yet you never complained. Instead, you always tried to help me.

«I grew up and became the Driver of the Globe. Many villagers laughed at me and refused to believe that I had been chosen by God to steer the planet. Only you sincerely believed. You were even proud to be the mother of the Driver of the Globe.

«You cleaned, washed, and cooked breakfast, lunch, and dinner for me. You wouldn’t even let me wash a spoon, saying it wasn’t a man’s job.

«Do you remember, Mother, how we used to eat supper together in our poor little hut beneath its low ceiling, seated beside our worn and patched dastarkhan, watching a lone moth circle joyfully and silently around the kerosene lamp? We would talk for hours in your language, with signs, just as I am speaking now.

«We were poor then, but we were the happiest people in the world.

«Without you, our hut has become empty, like an autumn birdhouse abandoned by migrating birds. The birds will return in spring, but you never will.

«My soul is like an abandoned nest whose birds have flown beyond the seas. I miss you. I need you, Mother. You were an angel without wings in human form.

«I’m sorry that I couldn’t stand beside you during the difficult days of your life. Sometimes I think it would have been better if you had strangled me the day I was born…»

And he wept.

Malokhat worked on a livestock farm, helping her father, the veterinarian, care for the animals. Her parents were happy for her as well.

«I’m glad you’ve finally found your happiness, my daughter,» said Tolkunoy, embracing Malokhat.

She apologized for having been forced to marry her daughter to the pharmacist’s son, whose father had killed himself during the arrest by biting down on the poison hidden in the tip of his shirt collar.

In short, Malokhat was truly happy now.

In the evenings she returned home to her husband, the Driver of the Globe, who tirelessly governed the planet without weekends, seated in his office atop the huge tree growing above the ravine, its mighty roots gripping the earth like a hawk’s claws.

The couple sat together until late at night, admiring the moon shining over Kuyganyar. They loved to gaze at the starry sky, making wishes. They adored sitting silently and watching the stars fall and burn away in the heavens, leaving behind only a brief, brilliant trail.

 

 

Chapter 46
The Woodcutters

 

 

The autumn poplars and willows in the groves were thinning now; the orchards were shedding their leaves and standing bare and forlorn. It seemed as though not cranes but days and weeks themselves were flying over the fields in a wedge formation. The winding roads had emptied completely, and geese flew low over the houses. In the autumn meadows, horses and cows grazed silently, knee-deep in the fog.

Avian blizzards swept across the fields. Crimson October drove the migratory birds into the distance. It was as if the poor trees, in order not to fly away themselves, had sunk their claws into the earth. Through the back lanes of Kuyganyar wandered a red-haired autumn. The maples and poplars in the groves burned like torches, blazing in the harmless cold fire of the season, while yellowed leaves drifted through the air like sparks from a bonfire.

In the deserted gardens and backyards, asters and late-blooming dahlias were withering, heralding the approach of winter with its frosts and heavy snows. It crept ever closer, like a tiger stalking a deer on soft paws. As if sensing this, caravans of migratory birds stretched noisily southward across the boundless desert of the sky.

Leaf-fall whispered absently in the gardens and groves, and the trees rustled sadly and forlornly in the autumn wind. The ponds and streams had noticeably shallowed, and their waters had become clear as mirrors. Gazing into those mirror-like pools, one could not help thinking that the water had lost its memory and fainted away.

Thick fog billowed over the meadows. The silence of the misty fields was like the wordless song of a mute. One found oneself wondering: what wrong had I done, and why has autumn slapped me across the face with leaves?

A raft of cranes drifted away across the endless blue ocean of the heavens. So that none would lag behind, they called to one another loudly.

“Crru-crru-crru-crru-crru!” they cried in chorus high above.

What a smooth and proud flight! The cranes were heading for distant lands. The fields and meadows lay empty; not a soul could be seen. It was as if a scarecrow were waving its long, tattered sleeve to the departing birds.

You could not tell for whom the train was weeping beyond the fields, nor whom nature herself mourned. At times autumn washed and washed the windowpanes with cold rains, like bitter tears, whispering its farewell to humankind.

In these parts, people did not live through the winter—they survived it in cold huts that resembled refrigerators. The aging electrical grid began to fail. Sometimes the weight of the snow, sometimes falling trees, would bring down wires that hung from poles like strands of noodles, like Italian spaghetti.

When the wires touched in the wind, short circuits erupted with sounds resembling “Dzbzhzdzerzhinsky,” and transformer substations exploded like atomic bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Then Kuyganyar would sink into darkness, like a gigantic cemetery shrouded in mist.

The people, having learned the lessons of survival through hard experience, prepared for winter as though for a harsh examination. During the summer they gathered dried dung for fuel and molded patties of cow manure, drying them on mud-brick walls. What else were they supposed to do if the authorities could not provide the population with natural gas and electricity? There were no forests here from which to stockpile firewood. Coal was expensive.

The barber Usta Garib, like all the people of Kuyganyar, was unprepared for winter. He spent his days serving customers, scissors or clippers in hand. His bad habits—alcoholism and gambling—never allowed him to grow wealthy.

The tractor driver Ivan was one of his drinking companions and a frequent visitor. At that very moment the two were playing cards in the barbershop and chatting.

“Hey, Ivan, you stinking tractor driver,” asked Usta Garib, “why don’t you use my services and always shave at home?”

“I’m afraid,” Ivan replied.

“Afraid of what?” Usta Garib asked in surprise.

“Afraid of you. I don’t trust barbers. Especially you. You know perfectly well that we’re both hopeless alcoholics. Just think about it, you foul-smelling, miserable barber—how can I trust a man who shaves people while drunk, wielding a straight razor? While shaving, you might slit a customer’s throat by mistake with your trembling hand. One little ‘snick!’ across the neck and there goes the customer. As they say, Allahu Akbar.”

They laughed.

Then they began actively discussing fuel.

“I don’t understand people,” said Usta Garib, “who are forever complaining about electricity, gas, or drinking water. If it were up to me, I’d destroy all those power lines, poles, and electrical panels. It turns out electricity is the most dangerous and harmful substance known to mankind.

“Look how many people in our village have died from electric shocks while poking around with screwdrivers, trying to rig their meters so they wouldn’t have to pay for power. A green-red flash, a burst of sparks, and the meter explodes together with the owner like a time bomb.

“Some people’s houses burned to the ground because sparks from those jumper wires flew straight into the attic, where they stored dry hay for the winter. Hay, it turns out, is a flammable substance too—like powder in a keg, like our Earth stuffed with nuclear bombs.

“It’s better to live without electricity or gas, like our ancient ancestors in caves. Some citizens complain about the lack of gas. Well, what can you do if those fools don’t even realize how dangerous gas is?

“Last winter, because of a gas leak, our little house with the low window nearly burned down. I looked over and saw our sheepskin mattress by the stove on fire. I barely put it out, stomping the flames with feet like diving flippers.

“How many people have gone off to dig potatoes early—that is, ended up in the grave ahead of their time—after suffocating from that choking gas! This year even dried dung has become more expensive, like oil on the world market because of the wars in the Middle East.

“There used to be plenty of cows and calves, and collecting fuel patties from the pastures was much easier. Now the cattle population has sharply declined. What’s more, people have started hanging sacks beneath the backsides of their livestock so the fuel from cow manure won’t fall into someone else’s hands.

“And mulberry trees are protected because their leaves feed silkworms. The meteorologists are warning that this winter will be colder than the last, with abnormal frosts. We somehow need to stock up on firewood—but where are we supposed to get it? We don’t have pine or birch forests like the neighboring republics. All we’ve got are cotton fields.”

“Don’t worry about it, clipper-boy,” said Ivan the tractor driver. “I’ve got a Chinese chainsaw—a gasoline-powered one. We’ll cut down that huge tree growing above the deep ravine, the one whose mighty roots grip the earth like an eagle’s talons, and our families will have enough firewood for the whole winter. What’s the problem?”

“Good idea, actually,” Usta Garib agreed.

The friends then took Ivan’s Chinese chainsaw from his shed and headed toward the ravine where the enormous tree grew, its powerful roots digging into the earth like the claws of an eagle. They started the engine and began sawing through the trunk.

“Hey! What are you doing? Have you lost your minds?! You mustn’t cut down that tree! Don’t do it! Trees absorb carbon dioxide and release oxygen! Trees are the lungs of the planet! Don’t destroy the ecosystem! It’s easy to chop down a tree, but it takes decades to plant one and watch it grow!

“Besides, my office is up in that tree! That’s where I steer the Earth like an oil tanker passing through the Strait of Hormuz! There are bird nests in its branches with helpless chicks inside! Stop!” cried the Driver of the Globe, Ngduat Yambua, in panic.

But the drinking companions kept sawing, paying no attention to his cries, and with a thunderous crash the enormous tree toppled straight into the deep ravine.

When Malokhat heard the terrible news that the huge tree growing above the ravine had been cut down, she abandoned her work in horror and ran with all her strength toward the ravine. By then, an entire army of gawkers had gathered at its edge.

Malokhat descended into the ravine by a narrow path, searching for her husband, who had fallen together with the tree. She wandered about crying and calling his name, hoping he would answer.

Then Ngduat Yambua’s voice rang out.

“Malokhat! Don’t cry, my love! I ejected! I was saved by a parachute my late mother sewed for me out of old jackets and worn-out denim trousers!”

 

 

17 April 2026
1:17 PM
Ontario, Canada.