Holder Volcano «Falling Leaves»
(The short novel and stories)
(Translated by the author)
This short novel has magic. If you start reading this book, you won’t be able to stop.The story just drags you in like quicksand in the desert and swallows you in. Read and enjoy.
Holder Volcano was born in 1959 in Uzbekistan. He graduated from Tashkent State University. He has been writing poetry and prose since 1975. He lives in Canada. He has written 4 collections of poems, a number of novels, short novels,and stories in two languages, in Uzbek and Russian.His works have been translated into English.He has no titles or awards.
Review by an unknown reader about the short novel of Holder Volcano «Falling leaves» in the electronic library»Ridley».
Dear readers, we sincerely hope that the short novel of Holder Volcano «Falling leaves» will not look like any of the ones already read by you in this genre. Though images do not remain without attention, appearing in different places of the text they perfectly harmonize with the main line. It is clear that the issues raised here will not lose their relevance in time or space. Considerable attention is paid to the place of events, which gives the color and realism of what is happening. Fascinating, sometimes funny, very touching makes it possible to think about yourself, evoking memories from life. Portrait of the protagonist picked up very well, from the first lines imbued with sympathy for him, empathize with him, rejoice at his success, and upset failures. There is a certain feature, try to go beyond the basic idea and to introduce the uniqueness, thanks to which there is a desire to return to reading. As you get closer to the outcome, it becomes more important, great and beautiful, cleverly hidden than what it seemed at first glance. As you get closer to the apotheosis inadvertently freezes the spirit and later felt the desire to
follow multiple readings. In addition to the fascinating, exciting and interesting narrative, the plot also retains the logic and sequence of events. At first glance, the combination of love and friendship seem mundane and boring, but later come to the conclusion that the evidence of the selected studies. The short novel of Holder Volcano «Falling leaves» read free online is unusual, as the product is sometimes incredible, but at the same time, very interesting and exciting.
The second review of an unknown reader about the short novel of Holder Volcano «Falling leaves» in the electronic library «Ridley».
Dear readers, there are interesting books, and there are very interesting books. To what category include the short novel «falling leaves» Holder Volcano you decide! Unwittingly living out the book — then disappear completely in it, then resume, finding Parallels and a private Foundation, and suddenly grow a soul. From the first lines visual images draw attention to themselves, they are in many ways distinct, colorful. The finale is a little tightened, but it compensates for a totally unpredictable ending. Thanks to the dynamic and fascinating story, the book keeps the reader in suspense from beginning to end.
Harmonious mutual admiration of conflict episodes with the external surrounding reality, once again confirms the talent and skill of the literary genius. Thanks to the mind, charisma, wit and nobility, you instantly feel sympathy for the main character and his companion. Soft irony along with comic situations are so harmoniously woven into the plot that they become an inseparable part of it. This short novel is a kind of mystery posed to the reader, and the usual logic is not to solve it, until the very last page. The Creator is in no hurry to prematurely reveal the idea works, but through the actions with the help of the hints in the dialogues gradually brings to his readers. The themes of love and hate, good and evil, friendship and enmity, no matter what time they are touched upon, always remain relevant and urgent.
Spring, birds singing in the high poplars at field mill, where the white acacia. Recently, among the thorny branches of acacia could see a nest of magpies, and now it disappeared from sight among the leaves and flowering bunches of the tree. Magpies are very smart birds. They know that boys can’t climb a tree, whose thorny branches, as its sharp spiny thorns may hurt to scratch his hands and feet and even to rip their harem pants. Acacia flowers have captured the soul like Souvenirs made from pieces of white porcelain. The pleasant smell of these bunch winds spread across the field where farmers work.
Khurshida worked, knocking hoe on the rocky field. She was a girl of eighteen, fair-skinned, with a dense and gentle curly dark brown hair, with a slender figure and magnificent Breasts, with hazel eyes, and clear eyes. She has such beautiful smiling coral lips, showing white healthy and beautiful teeth, that a lot of guys in the village were crazy about her. But Khurshida did not pay attention to either one of them, as she felt for him the tender feelings called love. His indifference to her has increased «oppression» on the lovers. She didn’t even answer your love letters that boys wrote and passed her through her friends.
Khurshida’s father Abduljabbar is very strict towards his daughter Khurshida and his difficult character and behavior is more like a stepfather than her own father. He often drinks alcohol and is satisfied with drunken fights. But Abduljabbar is a good specialist in the field of sheep shearing. He works as a mechanic on a cattle farm. Repairs on the farm milking machines, automatic drinking bowls, conveyors, cleaning barns, combines, forage shredders and so on.
Although Abduljabbar is not a religious fanatic, he strictly prohibits Khurshida to go to parties dedicated to the birthday of her classmates, which was attended by boys. Abduljabbar swore that if his daughter Khurshida would disgrace their family, he would curse. So mother of Khurshida Raheela every day insisted that she did not play with fire and was cautious in communication with her classmates and other unknown guys. Raheela knew that not all girls were friendly with Khurshida. That is, some girls are jealous of Khurshida and look at her with contempt, because she’s pretty and many guys were in love with her but not with them.
With these thoughts in mind, Khurshida continued to work on the field, leveling soil for planting cotton. She loves to work in the fields alone, as nobody bothers to think about what she wants to think. Loneliness for her freedom was like the boundless sky. Sometimes Khurshida stops to straighten her back, listening to the distant of a sad voice of an alone hoopoe which comes from Willow Grove, where the wind wanders drunk. From far away came the muffled rumble of a lone tractor. Khurshida thoughtfully watched agile low flying swallows. They flew over the fields, almost touching the ground, and it’s white belly and wings similar to bent black daggers with sharp blades. Then again she set to work, humming a sad song about love. And the sun slowly but surely rose to the tip of the sky. Khurshida worked on the field under the scorching sun and stopped work only when on the hill, the cook Tubo shouting the beginning to entice people for lunch.
-Choygaaaaaaaaa!- she cried, and her voice flew over the spring fields, like a bird freed from its chest.
Leaving the hoe on the edge of the field, Khurshida went to the side of the field mill. Approaching her, she smelled a delicate sweet smell of fragrant acacia which bloomed near the field camp, which grew tall poplars and weeping willows. At this point, of the cultivator, which stopped near a field camp, jumped a young tractor driver of about twenty to twenty five, in a worn skullcap, tall, broad-shouldered, snub-nosed, with curly hair, with a mustache above fleshy lips, a peculiarity of the guy with a green scar on his left eyebrow. It gave him the appearance of harshness and masculinity. His appearance resembled a Roman Gladiator who fought with his bare hands with hungry tigers. Khurshida had not seen this tractor driver in these parts, but I just remembered his tractor, which she just watched from afar in the cotton field. While Khurshida was removed from the branches of the mulberry tree a small pouch in which was bread, sugar, welding, aluminum spoon, and a mug with a bowl, the tractor driver was already standing in the queue at the field tin samovar, where workers were poured theirself a Cup of boiling water. Taking her mug, Khurshida poured her the tea and also got in line. Seeing her, the guy turned to look and gave up his place. Not expecting such a gentleman, Khurshida thanked the young tractor driver and kindly smiled. After a few minutes the guy started to talk to her:
Girl, let me tell you an amazing story while we stand in line. In short, yesterday I go past this tree — beauty!- from the white acacia flowers that you can»t stop looking at. The acacia blooming was like a young bride in a white wedding dress! I stopped involuntarily admiring the unusual beauty of this tree, looking at it with delight, like a farmer who came from a distant village with a bag on his shoulders, who first saw the city. Then there was gunfire. I thought, there was a terrorist shooting at me from the machine gun. I quickly lay down on the ground, so he couldn»t fire the whole clip at me. I layer down for a while and I look, and there’s a singing magpie. Well, I felt ashamed about myself. Stood up, looked around, found my dirty skullcap, shook off the dust, jammed it on my head and went on. It»s a good thing nobody but me saw it.
After hearing the story of the tractor driver, everybody having lunch amicably laughed. Khurshida too, then came their turn. But, unfortunately, boiling water ceased to flow from the samovar’s tap. It turned out that the cause was the fact that in the samovar boiling water level dropped below the level of the faucet, so it stopped showering. But the tractor driver found a way out: he asked Khurshida to bend the samovar and pour the boiling water into a mug, which he set up.
Okay — agreed Khurshida, and when the young tractor driver framed his mug to the tap of the samovar, Khurshida gently bent the samovar. But then disaster struck: Khurshida accidentally dropped the samovar, and he fell over, the young tractor driver scalded with boiling water. Tractor driver, making a face from a severe burn, started to jump from the pain, leaning on one leg, pulling air into the lungs.
Vsss -ah-aaah! Vsss-ahh-ahhhh! Ooooohhhh!- he jumped from the stinging pain and spun like a dog chasing its tail.
Khurshida started to cry, not knowing what to do and how to calm the poor tractor driver. And workers who had already begun eating, all got up from their seats, feeling for the tractor driver who accidentally scalded with boiling water. Some laughed, especially when the timekeeper Abdelkasim cried, you take off your pants and jump right into the pond!
Oh, excuse me, for God’s sake, mister! This is all my fault!.. Badly burned?! Poor!.. I don’t know Your name… what your name? — Said Khurshida, crying and circling around the guy in confusion.
A young tractor driver, holding his scalded thigh, stopped for a moment and with a grimace on his face said:
Me? A-aaaaah- ahhhh… My name is Sultan!
Oh, Mister Sultan, sorry! I didn’t want to… — said Khurshida with tears in her eyes.
-Don’t worry, girl, about anything… Aa-a-ahhh-ahhh… Ahh-ahh-ahh My leg will get better before
the wedding said tractor driver Sultan, smiling through the grimace on his face, continuing to jump on one leg.
Then he asked, distorting the face of unbearable pain:
-And You? What’s your name?
Me? Oh yeah, my name is Khurshida.
-Very nice… Vsss-aaaaa-aah Yyyyh! That’s a beautiful name, like you, honestly. You, Khurshida, do
do not pay attention to me. Better get yourself something to eat. It’s lunch time right now… — said Sultan, continuing to rely on one leg to alleviate the pain.
No, I will not eat. Well, how am I supposed to eat when you suffer because of me? — cried Khurshida.
Here the tractor driver Sultan stopped limping and said.
Well, Khurshida, now quit crying! After all, people are looking at us. Already released from the pain, don’t you worry. I have everything in order. Don»t you believe my words? Well, then I have no choice but to prove to you that I’m healthy as an ox.
Here look and, humming a tune, he began to dance, stamping their tarpaulin boots, as a dancer with great experience.
Sultan danced, whirling like a whirlwind and singing cheerful music. Seeing this, everyone around laughed as if the viewers were watching a funny presentation of a wandering artist. Khurshida was also smiling through her tears, rejoicing that the Sultan let go of the pain.
Although Khurshida with her own eyes saw the tractor driver Sultan climb to his cultivator, went back to the side of the field, she still could not forgive herself for what was scalded by negligence of the poor, innocent guy, drummer, mechanic of farm Tillaquduq. Poor thought only of Sultan, and she was sorry for the inoffensive, patient and funny guy. Another man in his place thought she would be angry and maybe even hit her, or, at least, would appeal to the court with a request to pay her a certain sum of money as compensation for the damage caused to his health, and, he? He, on the contrary, comforted Khurshida, dancing in front of the workers of the kolkhoz who could testify in court in his favor as witnesses. He groaned and jumped from the pain, and I, the fool, asked him his name. Despite the searing pain, he said. And not forgot to make a joke, saying that his wound will heal before the wedding. And how he danced! As the American Michael Jackson, I swear! I wonder why he even works as a tractor driver when he has the talent of an artist-humorist. After all, he could open his own theater of humor and satire to make serious money. I wonder why he works as a tractor.
With these thoughts in mind, Khurshida could not sleep, listening to the ringing singing of the crickets and looking out the open window, curtained by a curtain of white tulle, through which shone round the moon and twinkle of a distant star. From afar came the tired lazy barking of dogs and the croaking of frogs in the old pond with blooming white and pink water lilies.
Khurshida decided to go in the morning on the field, where he will cultivate cotton tractor driver Sultan, to ask him again for forgiveness, and discover how Sultan’s leg feels, which yesterday received a burn on her fault.
Meanwhile, at the open window not a strong night cool breeze gently fluttered and slightly blew the curtain, woven from tulle resembling a sail.
Khurshida was sleepy. She fell asleep like a patient under anesthesia during surgery. She dreamed of the tractor driver Sultan, who was working on his tractor plugging the endless and eternal sky covered with clouds.
Hello, Mister Sultan! — Khurshida said, looking up at the sky.
Hearing her voice, the Sultan looked at her and smiled, continuing to run his air -ship bulldozer in a boundless sky.
Oh, it’s You, Khurshida?! Well, how are you?! — he said.
I have everything in order! And how are you?! Are your legs okay?! -asked Khurshida.
Nope, not sick! Last night I anointed my scalded leg with toothpaste and by the morning the wound stopped hurting — it was gone! Honest mechanic! If you don’t believe me, I can show you the wound healed, just a second. Here, let me take my jeans off, and you»ll see this firsthand… said the Sultan.
With these words he rose from his seat and jumped on the hood of a bulldozer, moving on the balls of gray clouds. There is a tractor under his feet, famously shaken, and the Sultan nearly fell to the ground. Khurshida’s heart sank. She was so scared.
No, no, Sultan, don’t take off your pants! I believe you! Oh, be careful! -shouted Khurshida.
Yes?! Well, as you wish! Watch me, I will dance tap dance! — said Sultan, without waiting for a response, and began to dance right on the hood of the bulldozer.
Sultan danced with his tarpaulin boots, like the ring of iron horseshoes hitting the hood of the tractor.
Then he suddenly lost his balance and fell from the flying bulldozer. But he managed to grab the spotlight of the bulldozer. The young tractor driver was hung and tried by all means to stay, not to fly down. Bottom Khurshida fears a little crazy is not gone. And Sultan went flying down, plugging the clouds with their ploughs.
Oh, God save the Sultan! Hang in there, Sultan! Hold the spotlight bulldozer! I’ll call people for help, and we’ll work something out! Be patient!-shouted Khurshida, running here and there, but never taking his eyes off of the tractor and from the tractor of the Sultan, which hung in the sky like the great Hollywood stuntman, jumped at a chassis jet bomber in the movie about the American-Vietnam war.
Then something irreparable happened: the headlight air tractor came off with all the wires and the tractor driver Sultan flew down like a stone. He flew through the air with a wild cry like a paratrooper, who has a jammed chute. Khurshida fear covered her face with her hands, and in a few minutes with a crash he hit the ground, raising a cloud of dust. You should have seen how bitterly Khurshida cried hugging the body of the tractor driver poor Sultan, who fell from the sky!
Sorry, Sultan! Oh, forgive me, for God’s sake! This is my entire fault! If I hadn’t asked you about your health, you wouldn’t have got on the hood of your flying bulldozer that sails the boundless sky of our solar system where You tap-danced to convince me that your scalded leg doesn’t hurt anymore! — She cried, shedding bitter tears.
Here, surprisingly the tractor driver Sultan woke up. Khurshida was surprised and froze like a marble statue of Aphrodite.
Well, You’re roaring again, like a little girl in kindergarten, dear Khurshida? Would you please stop crying, I»m alive and healthy as an ox. If you don’t believe it, I can get up and dance tap dance — said Sultan.
And rising, he again began to dance, circling like a whirlwind.
Oh, thank you, God, for saving Sultan! Thank God! -Khurshida cried, shedding tears of joy.
She woke up, like a patient after a successful operation. Realizing, finally, that all this happened in reality, she breathed a sigh of relief and thanked God. She was delighted, thinking, saying as well that others will not see the dream that she dreamed. When she stood up, and opened the curtains, looked out the open window, she saw the morning sky, like a furrow.
After breakfast, Khurshida went to the field, eager to meet the tractor driver Sultan to know about his health. But, unfortunately, she didn’t see the tractor of Sultan. She was worried, thinking, what happened to him? Maybe his leg at night got swollen due to the fact that he danced to appease me? Poor Sultan! Well, why am I so careless and clumsy. Maybe he was up all night in pain and writhed in pain, and his parents called an ambulance at midnight. Then the doctor gently laid him on the stretcher, drove him to the hospital? Maybe he was lying and groaning still from the pain, and he has already began gangrene? Who knows, the doctors might amputate his leg to gangrene, not surprised by the weight of his body. The horror! A young guy in his prime of life, because he became disabled for life? Really now, Sultan will move with crutches and walk on four legs? Maybe the district social service will provide a free wheelchair with the wheels of a bike, and he will travel by spinning the wheel by hand; he could have fallen on the side and in a ditch? Or maybe he already died on the operating table and the surgeon wearily took off his mask, told his family the terrible news that they have done everything that depends on them, but, alas, could not save him, as they were not able to stop the gangrene. Maybe siblings of Sultan crying over his body took him home and buried? Who knows, maybe now his mother, crying in a loud voice, curses Khurshida because she was scalded by her son, who died on the operating table surgical Department, tormented in hellish pain? No, no, no. God granted that the Sultan everything was in order, she prayed.
Although Khurshida mentally tossed in the assumptions, she also hoped that Sultan with the sunrise appeared in the cotton field on his tractor.
Finally the sun rose, and she saw in the distance, in the cotton field, the familiar tractor driver Sultan, happily smiled. Her eyelashes trembled again and tears welling joy like dew on a morning rose. Leaving his hoe, Khurshida ran down the path, with the two sides overgrown green lush grass, in the direction of the cotton fields, where Sultan worked on his tractor. She ran like a girl on the platform, struggling to meet with the dearest person in the world. And Sultan at this time happily glided over the cotton field, kicking up dust and taking a large flock of swallows.
When Khurshida came closer to the tractor, from what she saw she was motionless, like a wax figure of a girl in Madame Tussauds museum in foggy London. But Sultan was not in the cab of the tractor, instead an elderly person. Khurshida wanted to ask him about Sultan, but she was afraid of her father, she did not dare to ask about what happened to Sultan, thinking that suddenly this person would tell someone about their conversation, and if it reaches the ears of her father, it would be the end for her.
With these thoughts, Khurshida went back and began to work. Working, she thought only of the tractor driver Sultan. She wanted to see him. She felt a huge need. She began to feel that without Sultan, her life would turn into an endless desert. She felt in her soul a longing for the tractor driver Sultan. She wanted to cry, loudly and bitterly. She sat, and rested her forehead on her knees, beginning to cry silently, shaking her shoulders. The tears rolled from her eyes, dripping as large drops of rain before a storm. Khurshida stopped crying only when her mother Rahila came to help. Hearing the crackling of brushwood, where her mother walked, Khurshida raised her head and hastily wiped the tears from her eyes on the hem of the dress.
What’s wrong, daughter? Why do you have tear-stained eyes? Are you sick?
Oh, you naughty girl! How many times have I told you to have breakfast in the morning, and you? You eat very thin. Sometimes, you don’t even have Breakfast, and you run to work. And here is the result, now, perhaps, you have a headache or a stomach ache. Looks like you’ve lost weight recently. Like a model on a diet. So it is impossible. Well, okay, you go home and take a day off, my lovely. And I’ll work here — Raheela said, hugging her daughter and stroking her head.
No, mom, I don’t want to go home. And the headache is gone. I have everything under control; don’t worry, ‘ said Khurshida. After that, they began to work together, knocking hoe, leveling the soil in the stony field.
Khurshida with her mother worked at the spring field silently, leveling the ground for planting cotton. When the heat became unbearable, they moved to the edge of the field to be saved from the heat under the shade of mulberry trees, where there was an irrigation ditch, reshaping its course. After a little rest, they again set to work, and so to lunch. When the cook Tubo, standing on the hill began to entice people to lunch, they were suspending the work, went to the side of the field mill. Walking along the trail, Khurshida looked longingly at the sultry cotton fields where the tractor driver Sultan worked. She did not want to go to the camp and eat anything. But coming closer to the field camp, she saw Sultan, and for a moment stood rooted to the spot, not believing her eyes. Her heart was beating fast from excitement. She ran along the path ahead of her mother, stumbling and falling. Indeed, the tractor driver Sultan stood in line for boiling water as yesterday, holding his mug.
What’s wrong with you, daughter? Do not rush! You must be very hungry. I told you this morning that you had to have Breakfast properly. And you didn’t listen to me. Let this be a lesson to you — said Raheela.
-Yes, mommy, you’re right, Khurshida said, without taking her eyes off Sultan, who became her most precious person in the world. The run to the field camp, she again felt the pleasant smell of acacia blossoms. The first thing Khurshida took was her mug and hurried to the side of the tin samovar, where the tractor driver Sultan stood in line. When she came closer to the Sultan, he immediately noticed her and turned his face to her and smiled warmly:
-Oh, I see, who-Oh-Oh I see! Hello, Mademoiselle Khurshida, how are you doing? — he said.
-Thank you, Mister Sultan, I’m good. And how are you? No pain in your leg?
-Khurshida asked quietly, looking to Sultan from the bottom up, and blushing deeply.
-I have it all together, as they say the glory of the Almighty God. After yesterday’s incident, my foot was still healthy. If you do not believe my words, I can tap-dance — said the Sultan, ready to dance.
-No, I believe you — said Khurshida.
-Why not? Am I a bad dancer?
-Noo, you are a great dancer. That’s why I’m careful not to jinx — explained Khurshida smiling.
-Yes? Well, then I won’t dance — obeyed the tractor driver Sultan.
-I again beg your pardon, Sultan, about that burn yesterday. I spent the whole night worried about you and, in the morning, eager to find out about your health, I ran in the cotton field, and before you know it, you were not there. It works the other tractor; an old man was in your tractor. I was scared; I thought that you turned gray and aged with grief and pain on your leg after I scalded you with boiling water. And I was afraid that you were mad at me for life, never coming back here. Thank God, everything went well — said Khurshida, a sigh of relief.
-Yes, I have changed fields. I now work in another field. Over the poplar grove — said the tractor driver Sultan.
-I worked on the other field with my mother, where the tractor cannot drive. We are there leveling the ground manually — explained Khurshida.
-A family business, I mean — said Sultan. And she added:
Here is our turn. Give me your mug. I will turn the samovar, and you»ll be careful… — said the tractor driver Sultan.
-No, not that. It is not necessary. And your service is very costly for both of us, especially you — she said, hiding her mug behind as a little girl and smiling.
-Oh, Yes, of course. It seems to me that there is no need to tilt the samovar, the tap is fixed, in my opinion — said the tractor driver Sultan. With these words they poured the boiling water and dispersed. After lunch, Khurshida cheered up and worked from the heart, singing songs about love. Seeing the positive changes in the mood of his daughter, Rahila was happy.
-You ate and you got better again — she said.
-Yes, you’re right, mom — smiled Khurshida and her thoughts about the funny tractor driver continued to work. But in less than an hour, it started to torment a longing for the Sultan. She wanted to go on the field for the poplar grove, where he worked to see the tractor driver Sultan again, to talk with him. Then she thought about telling the truth to her mom. After much deliberation she decided to tell her everything.
-Mom, can I ask you a question — she said.
-Yes, dear, of course. What is the question?
-The fact that… But I don’t even know how to explain it. And you might not understand me and get mad at me.
-No, no, honey, just ask your question and don’t be shy.
-Tell me honestly, mom, have you fallen in love with someone? If so, tell me about your love, please. I am very curious. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about this, I swear. You’re not only my mother but also a close and loyal friend.
Hearing this from her daughter, Raheela laughed loudly. Then spoke:
-Your question is quite silly, but I think it somehow can be answered. I don’t know how to explain it.
Of course, anyone who has a soul, he or she in his youth, falls in love with someone… It’s… waiting, Wait, why are you beginning to ask questions like that, huh? Are you in love or what?! Come on; tell me who you’re in love with. I am your mother dear, the one closest to you. I need to know… Oh, my God, it really happened, what I had feared all the time! Dear, don’t play with fire. If you disgrace our family by their actions, consider that you end. Your father will curse you. And if your father find out- it will be the end for you, not only in this world but in the next world! God will turn away from a girl whose father was cursed! A man in the next world will forever burn in a fiery hell! If your father curses you, there is no reason to live, honey, because you’re the one for me. So, tell me about it — she said.
-Well, mom — Khurshida embarrassed, not wanting to talk about their innermost secret.
-No well. Tell me all about it, and immediately! I’m waiting for it. Who is he? Well… insisted Khurshida’s mom.
-I can’t tell you about something that is uncomfortable for me and embarrassing in front of you. But don’t worry, mom, I just met him and he ever touched me. That is, nothing happened between us. Believe me, I swear — she unconsciously revealed the secret Khurshida.
-Who is he? — Raheela asked again, as if the investigator during an interrogation.
-Well, mom, maybe not, eh? Well, you and dad won’t talk about it? — said Khurshida.
-Well, honey, how can I tell your father, if he heard about it, it would make a scandal — said Raheela.
-Okay, mom, I will tell you, because for me you are the closest person in the world — promised Khurshida.
And began to tell:
-His name is Sultan. He is very good, nice and a funny guy. He was driving a tractor over the poplar grove. You should have seen how he dances! Just like Michael Jackson. And he is also a humorist. Tells such funny stories, that after listening to him, you can die from laughter.
Yes? — said Raheela and from weakness sat down, clasping her chest, which was pounding her heart.
Khurshida was frightened and bewildered, and began to help her mother.
-Mom, what’s wrong with you? Don’t scare me! Oh, please… Oh why did I even tell you all of that? I could have kept everything to myself. I just wanted to fulfill your request. I could not hide the secret from you, mother, and my dear! — cried Khurshida.
Raheela also cried, tightly hugging her daughter.
-I understand you, daughter. I am just afraid; something might not be fixable among you? That’s what worries me. I want you to be happy. Well, good thing you love him, and him? He loves you? Are you sure that your tractor driver will not leave you and, in the end? Moreover, the tractor driver could be uneducated. Does he understand at all what love is? Maybe he is addicted to alcohol, like your father? One alcoholic is enough in our family, and I don’t want to aggravate the grief. Maybe he smokes marijuana? You should first check to see if he gambles? Who his parents were and where he lives? And I’m afraid if your father will let you marry him or not — cried Raheela.
-Mom, believe me, I’ll be very careful in dealing with this guy. I know if I’m overstepping my bounds, my father would never forgive me and will not leave you alone. I don’t know how to explain this to you. Well… long story short, I can’t live without him. I fell in love…Help me, mom! -roared Khurshida hugging her, and they wept together
Sitting in the shade of old willows, Khurshida was closely followed by driving the tractor to Sultan, working on a hot cotton field for poplar grove. She wanted to make a joke, and took out the mirror; she pulled him to the side of the tractor of Sultan. The reflected rays of the sun, bunnies, start cutting Sultan’s eyes. He stopped his tractor and jumped down. Shaking off the dust from clothes with a skullcap, he headed in the direction of shady willows, where she sat and mischief, Khurshida. He walked along the path, on the way making a bouquet of wildflowers. Butterflies flew, almost touching him…
-Oh, Bonjour, Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege! — said Sultan, using the weight of the Arsenal of French words that he learned in school. Then he went on:
-Then you sit there in the shade like a lazy person, when people are working heroically overcoming all the difficulties and vagaries of nature in the name of our prosperity or the economy of our impoverished country?!
-Moreover, you interfere with the work of guards of the fields, advanced mechanics, blinding their eyes from afar, using the secret weapon of saboteurs, high-power laser mirror- he continued, and smiling cheerfully.
Sufficient working comrade Communist, Monsieur Sultan de La Crua je’mapple a la maison general, la bien, merci beaucoup moi! It’s time to move to the shady trees! — Khurshida said, also laughing. After this dialogue, they shook hands and sat side by side.
-What a Scorcher, Lord! — said Sultan, waving his cap like a fan.
-Yeah, don’t tell, , Monsieur Sultan de La Crua je’mapple a la maison générale, la tge bien, merci beaucoup moi!. If the spring will be this hot what about in summer? Some natural anomaly now moves into our territory — agreed Khurshida.
Somewhere out there, beyond the olive grove, rhythmically and plaintive moaning, panting from the heat of the wild pigeon gurrak. Two lovers sat silently, listening to the sad moans of a lonely bird.
Khurshida was the first to break the silence.
Last night I slept, and suddenly I dreamt of you — she said.
Yes? I wonder what I was doing there, in your dream — asked Sultan.
Nothing, just led his lone tractor night in the autumn fields in a thick fog.
What are other people’s nightmares dreaming of you-said Sultan.
And you only Comedy, whether that dream with the participation of Louis de Funes? — said Khurshida.
— No, why? I dream about drama, soap operas, and documentaries too.
Khurshida laughed, listening to the words of Sultan.
You’re straight as Baron Munchausen — she said.
-Oh, if I was a Baron Munchausen! Such a great sage! This literary hero sometimes seems to me to be a historical figure. If you are referring to the falsity of the Background of Baron Munchausen, I think you are greatly mistaken, Mademoiselle. The fact that Baron Munchausen — the true man in the world. Yes, Yes, and don’t be surprised. For example, he talks about how he saved himself and his horse, pulling out of a swamp seizing him by the hair, right? But, you know, he’s right. That is, the man himself has to rescue himself by pulling himself to the top of your hair, pulling out of the quagmire of sins. Otherwise, he, after his death, will have to burn in a fiery hell. A man saves himself, purged from the swamp slime of sin. When Baron Munchausen says that he flew while riding on the Cannonball, it meant the planet similar to a Cannonball, a flying man, he meant mankind that flies cannon fodder in the giant-called «Earth». Indeed, the core of the Earth moves along its trajectory, and millions of people die in the hot spots of the world. And we of Baron Munchausen laugh, while the need to cry — said Sultan.
Yeah, obviously, you check well-read, wise as a member of the Academy of Sciences, Khurshida smiled, and then asked:
You have, among other things, the Royal name is Sultan! And Sultans rule the state. And why you operate a tractor, ride on your old unit, kicking up dust behind him — Khurshida said smiling.
What’s the difference between a tractor driver and Sultans, who is the President of the country? After all, the state is also a tractor driver, right? For example, if I’m wrong I get to drive my tractor; it could easily go off the track and fall into a deep ravine. Also, if the President does not properly manage state, oppressing its people, banning freedom of speech and a free press, illegally extending their powers by bogus referendums, expelled, say their opponents from the country and fabricate against them false accusations, such a state will also collapse along with his driver and a dictator in the political deep ravine, just as incorrectly managed the tractor. I, for example, have to settle for a piece of bread. Go wherever I want and anytime I can go wherever I want. Roam unguarded along the path wide fields, where the walk winds. I stop in the middle of the morning in a field of rye where rye larks sing happily, merrily fluttering in the air. I can spend the night in the fields, lying on the haystack when the haystack is shining bright a month and the diamond lit stars in the dead silence. As well, lie above the stack at night and listen to the murmur of water in the meadows, under the moon, where the swaying sea of daisies. So I have the opportunity and sufficient time to observe the sun at the crimson horizon and the slowly rising moon, to listen to the singing of the crickets and choral croaking of distant frogs, like a whisper. To sleep on a cot at the field camp under the huge willows and poplars, and at night when blowing nice cool breezes carrying the smell of blossoming olives. Wake up in the morning by loud friendly discordant birds, washing transparent dew, quietly to lunch, not thinking about the possibility of poisoning. Then again, somehow, I pause for a moment, only to listen to the sad call of the hoopoe, which was coming from over the fields. Live easily by throwing off all unnecessary loads. Live in harmony with nature.
How about Presidents? They will not step unable to leave their residences without enhanced protection and move freely, as an ordinary person in the city. Live with an overwhelming fear in the heart. They almost do not sleep at night for fear of not going to raise a riot. The angry people, like a Typhoon in the ocean and shudder to think and not hang them, the people who are not happy with their policy. Their hearts are filled with blood when you start to think about their officials, the sycophants in his entourage, who easily turn away from them when they are deprived of the throne of the Sultanate — government, and they will be the first to water them with dirt, praising new Sultan! They are wagging their tails in front of the new ruler, humbly looking into his eyes, raising his eyebrows and smiling lips, like a rosebud.
They can’t sleep until the morning. Even the sleeping meds will not help them.
To be a ruler — it’s like that burn in hell in life.
So it is better to be Sultan of a tractor than Sultan-ruler — Sultan said, looking thoughtfully at the butterfly that flew over a lonely trail, overgrown from two sides by high grass.
God, what a fragile and delicate winged insect. Quietly roams the field, no noise, like a living image of blessed silence. Even catch them sorry. They say that they live only one day and are not very upset because of this. On the contrary, pleased and satisfied. It’s a pitifully short life they spend in joy and peace, flying in the wilderness where there is no noise. Fly in Paradise. Then, not complaining about anything, die quietly. We do not even notice when and how they bid farewell to life, and the people?
They live a relatively long time, but in their long life they absorb the poison of hatred and envy, for profit killing of his brother, mocking the weak and the poor, oppressing the people and forcibly grabbing someone else’s business, poisoning the lives of others. People are fighting among themselves, destroy, kill children, destroy whole Nations flattening of the beautiful city, where the wreckage killed innocent people, burned alive in the cellars whole families lying in the streets part of the human body, torso without heads, dead little children with torn feet, crazy mother, looking at the broken shells of the bodies of their small children…
Yes, agreed, Khurshida, also not taking her eyes from the fluttering white butterfly, which flew like a fragile and delicate petal of the flower of acacia.
The next day early in the morning Sultan and Khurshida hurried to the camp together to meet the dawn as they agreed yesterday. It turns out that even girls are brave when you fall in love. Love gives us strength and courage. Khurshida hurriedly walked down the deserted morning country road in the direction of the field, where the distant whitened walls field camp was lush. In the silence she heard loud voices just woken up, morning birds, the sounds of their own footsteps, and the rustle of the hem of her dress. She was delighted, seeing from afar her beloved boyfriend Sultan who came before him to the meeting place and waited for her. Excitement Khurshida’s heart began to beat faster than normal. When she came to the camp, Sultan stood under the white tree, like Santa Claus under the tree, covered with white snow. Stood and smiled, hiding his hands behind his back. The funny thing was that he was wearing a black coat, a hat and white gloves. He stood leaning on his staff, like Pushkin before the duel with Dantes.
Oh, I see! Who do I see? Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege!- loudly and solemnly he said.
When he started to bow, removing the cylinder head, and as if scooping the air, exposing foot forward, then stepping back with a humbly bent head, Khurshida saw in his hands a lush bouquet of flowers dedicated to her. She loudly laughed out loud, seeing prepared the cheerful tractor driver Sultan agreed to the morning to lift her spirits.
Oh, Bonjour, Monsieur Sultan de La Crua je’mapple a la maison générale, la bien, merci beaucoup moi! — greeted Khurshida also bowing deeply. Finally, Sultan ceased to bow the old way, and sat down, standing on one knee and holding out the bouquet.
Khurshida took the bouquet and involuntarily began to smell the flowers, closing his eyes with pleasure.
Oh, what a heavenly scent! What a perfect nostalgic smell! Delicate French perfume! Thank you, Monsieur Sultan de La Crua je’mapple a la maison générale, la tge bien, merci beaucoup moi!, for the beautiful roses! — She said eagerly.
All right, Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege. You can smell these flowers, as they say, -Moi felicitation and… uhh… Vous a la bien said Sultan, putting on his top hat.
Where you bought these wonderful flowers, Monsieur Sultan de La Crua je’mapple a la maison general, la bien, merci beaucoup moi! Expensive perhaps! For dollars, or Uzbek som? Not worth to spend such big money on such an expensive purchase. I would suit wild meadow flowers said Khurshida, smelling a bouquet of red roses.
I never spent a dime or a cent or a shilling or sterling. Am I a fool, or something, to spend fabulous money to buy some flowers? In short, I go once at dawn here, rustling the tails of his old coat, which he took on rent from the father of a friend of the tractor driver Sultan, working and living with your enormous large family and with thick mother-in-law at the theatre of satire and drama named Hajibay Tadjibaev in a hurry to see You, running through the cemetery to gain time. Look on the tombstone, beneath which protruded edge white shroud, lies this bouquet of flowers. Give, I think, will please one Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege, the playpen and picking up his run here — said tractor driver Sultan.
-Oh my God, what are you talking about, Sultan? What a mess, Oh, what a nightmare! Ah, you rascal, Monsieur Sultan de La Crua je m’appelle à la maison générale, la bien, merci beaucoup moi! Take it! On! On! Trickster! Yes, I am gonna hit you with the bouquet!..
With these words,Khurshida began to slap Sultan with the bouquet of flowers, like a Russian slap each other with birch twigs soaked with boiling water in the steam rooms of the baths in the winter, when the low window howling snowstorm, patting the branches of white-trunked birches.
Oh, Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege! Khurshida, what are you doing?! Now quit beating a cemetery broom poor mechanic for our farm name Tillaquduq! You see, Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege, what a beautiful bouquet you made a mess! Well that’s not a real bouquet! And from such attacks sharp thorns of these roses would have torn to shreds, the ancient coat of the silver age, which I took on rent from the father of the other driver, whose father works and lives with his large family and many children with thick mother-in-law at the theatre of satire and drama named Hajibay Tajibaev. I was joking! What a joke, is that?! What kind of dictatorship! — defended by the hands of Sultan.
Hearing these words Khurshida stopped beating Sultan with the help of a bouquet, which now resembled an old broom, with which women beat over the head of their drunken husbands, returning home on all fours. Looking at the dismantaled bouquet, she laughed, shaking her shoulders. Sultan laughed too. They laughed for a long time then laughed in a voice not hesitating one, and there is, in principle, in addition to them, there was not a soul .Then they sat side by side at a makeshift field General table under blooming white acacia. Flowers of acacia, like amber bunches, hung over their heads. Here, Khurshida reached out to the white bunches of acacia, covered with morning dew, and when she touched a finger to his soft hands, the petals of the flowers of acacia fell down on the table like small pieces of broken white crockery.
Oh, what have I done! Ah, the poor petals, forgive me! Oh, how I feel sorry for you! -Khurshida said, looking at the fallen petals of acacia flowers and sighed.
Yes-Ah, well, what can you do? In this world everything has an end. Here an acacia, too, loses its flowers, dropping them like tears. This spring says goodbye to us, Madam Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege. — sighed Sultan. Meanwhile in the distance the pale ochre sky turned yellow Cirrus clouds.
Come, Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege, immerse yourself in silence, quiet as the very nature of the way this morning, as these fields, as the morning deserted roads, like paths overgrown from two sides of the spring wildflowers and red poppies, quiet as the ravines where growing silky grass covered with dew — Sultan, looking at the distant horizons, on the field, yellowing of the firmaments.
Yes, Monsieur, not a bad thing, we will turn, though for a while in silence and dissolve in it, as the silhouette of the outgoing belated traveller in the thick autumn fog-agreed Khurshida.
They stared at the field, sitting at a homemade wooden field Desk prescribed under the white acacia. Cloud slowly gaining gold, and then pink outlines, Israelis sharp morning rays of the rising sun. Over the field again merry larks sang, happily fluttering in the air, like miniature tropical birds hummingbirds. Delight forgetting his promise, Khurshida spoke first:
-Sultan, look at the distant mountains, the snow-capped peaks, the expanses, apricot trees, grape orchards, mulberry plantations! Wide fields like the soul of a good man, isn’t it?! They seem to Wake up, yawning as the morning sun!
Yes — said the tractor driver Sultan, looking sad into the morning fields.
At this time, poplars in unison began to make birds singing and their voices thunder banged in the silence, and the walls of the field mill echoed. Dissatisfied looking at poplar, where the noisy morning birds, Sultan shouted:
Hey, birds! Would you make the noise like lots of shopkeepers? This silence is broken! Oh, you ill- mannered, uncivilized village! Is talking so loud to each other?! One of you talks and the other listens carefully to him. Not offended, but you are just like our deputates in Parliament, making noise, fighting each other, only know how to gab, bla -bla -bla! — he said.
Then taking Khurshida’s hand, smooth as ivory, and gently kiss, said: You do not pay attention to them, Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege. Those silly birds don’t realize that it is not good to make noise breaking the morning silence. They do not understand that a person may be disabled in this field of peace, even if not being there is no fighting. But this happens! I, for instance, was a young mechanic, just a few days ago, fighting on this field for their existence, scalded with boiling water and almost died heroically, right? But, thank God, I miraculously survived and nothing happened. Now my leg does not hurt. If you believe me, I can prove it in practice. Dance «Lezgi » — he said and rose from his seat, went to the site and sang the melody, began to sing the famous energetic dance.
Seeing this, Khurshida laughed. Then she joined Sultan, and together they began to dance until they were tired.
The inscription on the sand
The southern sun is so unbearable that Sultan began to fear that his brain melted and spilled out of his skull through his eyes. It became impossible to breathe in the stuffy cabin of the tractor because of increased heat from red-hot to the limit of the motor. The radiator was boiling water, as boiling water in a samovar in the shade of the teahouse, around which the trees hung bird cage, the cells in which singing quail.
Sultan stopped his tractor and jumped down, went to the shady trees, simultaneously removing his shirt and swinging it like a fan to at least somehow colder.
Well, the roasting! — he whispered to himself, squatting in the shade of the olives and elms looking at the field, which was dominated by the heat.
The workers have long left the field and sat under the willows and poplars on the Bank of the ditch. There on the shore, where a huge willow made the noise cuckoo. Sultan stood up and walked down the trail which meandered along the canal in lush mulberry trees, olives and elms, in the direction of the field, which recently worked with Khurshida. But somehow on the field she could not be seen.
Apparently, she too was sitting somewhere in the shade of the trees, fleeing the impossible heat. Along the way, Sultan picked wildflowers and wove them a beautiful wreath for his lover to come to her with empty hands. He found it on the edge of the field, where an old single willow grew. Seeing the tractor driver Sultan, Khurshida was happy. They shook hands, not hugging, not kissing and not even shaking hands, cautiously looking round, as though fearing people who could secretly watch them from the bushes.
With a sleight of hand magician, Sultan put on his head Khurshida wreath which wove of wildflowers.
Here’s your crown, Lady Madam Duchess Khurshidabanum Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege! — he said.
Oh, thank You, Monsieur Sultan de La Crua, je m’appelle à la maison générale, la bien, merci beaucoup moi! -Khurshida thanked him. They were talking between themselves, joking and laughing.
What a Scorcher! said Khurshida.
Yeah, don’t tell, Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege. I’m afraid the sun will melt like a hot metal ball in the furnace at Almalyk mining and smelting plant and pour lava in the shape of our eyes — agreed the Sultan.
You are right, Monsieur Sultan de La Crua je’mapple a la maison générale, la bien, merci beaucoup moi! In this heat the birds, and those hiding among the leaves, and sitting quietly on the branches of the shady trees, in silence, with their mouths open, showing their tongues, similar to sharp poisoned arrows of the ancient warriors of Genghis Khan. When my late grandmother told me that before the hungry steppe, covered with hot sand dunes where the heat was at forty-five degrees. On the dunes, where grown saxaul tree, promptly ran lizards and Agamas with raised tails, sticking out their tongues. They fled not just for fun, but in order not to burn his belly and legs along with a tail, which they really need. And the birds were afraid to fly over these deserts fearing that the wings melted and fell off — said Khurshida.
Yes, Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege Khurshida the tender pace of sua e fusible arena, You’re right — confirmed the words Khurshida Sultan, looking into the distance eyes downcast. Then, concentrating, he said:
I see you know a lot of You have encyclopedic knowledge. Listening to Your words, I mentally imagine the landscape of the desert, on the sandy expanse where the winds rolled the dried ball-shaped plants called «tumbleweed». You won’t believe it, but I, having been once in the desert, just fell in love with the sandy world. Rolling, driven by the wind, thousands of dried balls of this unusual plant makes a person unforgettable. Can we ever go into the wilderness to observe torn by the winds rolling balls of dried plants, which is called «tumbleweed». But now that I think about something else.
Well, what do You think, what am I thinking? Don’t know? And I know — said Sultan as if showing off.
What do You think? — asked Khurshida.
-I will not say. Try to guess — said Sultan.
But I can help you, expressing your innermost thoughts in writing -said Sultan.
And how? — Even more surprised Khurshida.
So, simply — said Sultan and taking a stick he began to write on the sand the letters. When he finished writing, Khurshida smiled and blushed from ear to ear from embarrassment, as Sultan had written on the sand words «Khurshida, I love You!».
Suddenly, Khurshida also took a stick from Sultan, and wrote in reply. «Me too!» .
Yes! — said the tractor driver Sultan, with excitement.
Khurshida blushed with a smile on his lips, nodding his head in acknowledgement of her written words, and hastily wiping feet, the inscription on the sand.
Meanwhile, the sky began to gather dark clouds, casting shadows on the fields, and the sun suddenly disappeared during the Eclipse. When the clouds thickened around, it darkened considerably. It blew sharp gusts, rippling the grass, bushes and trees. Askance began to drop large rain drops, picking up the smell of dust, reminiscent of the delicate fragrance of books in the quiet library of the twentieth century. The storm broke, thunder pelted the thunder, the lightning flashed, and it lit the fields, trees, bushes and grass, as well as the happy faces of the lovers. The thunder was booming so much that Khurshida it seemed that the sky was torn and here at their feet the fearful cracks of the earth and a volcano erupted, throwing around flaming giant rocks the size of an old chest. From fright she was forced into the arms of the Sultan, and closed his eyes for fear of blinding lightning. Soon the rain turned into a downpour and started to pour from buckets. Sultan hugged the girl and laughed, laughing, looking glowing eyes in the stormy sky, all wet. Khurshida’s wet hair stuck to her beautiful smooth face, soft lips, chin, and delicate neck and to the shoulders, which was lighted up with silver in the bright light of lightning. And clinging to her body the dress was almost transparent, highlighting her beautiful figure, including elastic white tender and lush breasts. Under the wet hem of her sheer dress caught the eye of Sultan, her smooth white knees and part of her thighs.
Oh, I’m afraid, Sultan! Run for cover faster! -Khurshida said loudly, so that Sultan could hear her voice in the noise of showers and thunder.
Don’t be afraid, Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege! — Sultan comforted her.
It seemed, in the sky, thermonuclear bombs exploded, which mankind has been kept in deep mines on rainy days.
Run for shelter! Let me give you a lift, my dear lady Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege! I’ll carry you! — shouted Sultan, laughing like a tourist from the powerful Niagara Falls, like the fisherman in the surf when a storm at sea.
No, people will see! — shouted Khurshida.
They ran, holding each other’s hands. Under heavy rain, the trail became slippery, so when running they slid like a couple of skaters at the ice arena during the world figure skating Championships. The rainfall was so strong that from the veil of rain it was hard to see the trail. All the thunder rattled and the lightning flashed, illuminating the heavy tulle, silk curtain of torrential rain, like a powerful searchlight on the frontier. Finally they saw the camp, sheltering from torrential rain workers who smiled pointing the finger at Khurshida and Sultan who fled in the direction of the field mill. They successfully broke into the safe shelter that is at the field camp. The storm poured down and the thunder rattled, and from time to time the lightning flashed. People were looking at heavy rain, the streams of rain water which flowed from the roof as from the water jet and dull crawling zigzag through the land like a snake. Khurshida and Sultan, too, looked in the shower, and Sultan said thoughtfully to himself:
The rain not only washes the roads, trees, roofs and glass Windows. It also washes away all the bad, the entire negative from the soul of man that is accompanied with rain, we cleaned up the soul. In the rain there is some sort of mysterious joy, sadness and longing. Rain gives us peace, solace — he said aloud.
Khurshida was looking at a noisy downpour, silent and sad. Gradually, the noise of torrential rain subsided, and nature lifted the rain curtains. Again the sun was shining. Happily birds in the trees as if welcoming the king of nature, the sun.
When people came out of the field camp, they saw fallen acacia flowers that floated on the surface of the mirror puddles. In the sky appeared a giant seven-colored arc, overflowing people’s heart children’s pleasure. People in wet clothes delighted and marveled at the giant hangar of the rainbow. And on the top of the acacia the magpies were chattering.
Funny story of the tractor driver Sultan
Daughter, have you collected information about the guy? -asked Raheela.
Yes, mother, I learned that the tractor driver Sultan is from the village of «Tuyamuyun», located at the foot of the Charvak mountains. According to him, near the mountain village flows the river, which originates high in the snowy peaks, where even in summer the snow doesn’t melt. Healing water, the air crystal clear, the village is in the verdure he says. At the foot of the snowy peaks stretch for miles, pistachio, apricot and hazelnut trees, mountain ridges covered with tall thickets of wild raspberry, old spruce forests, where woodpeckers knock, run and jump squirrels in the pine trees, the chirping of birds
in short, a Paradise on earth. Here you will go there, spend a day or two, and all You have, says he, will disappear forever the desire to return home, it is here in the farm Tillaquduq. If you want You can stay there for life, he said.
And why is he leaving such a wonderful mountainous land here? How did he even get here? You did not ask him? — asked Raheela.
The fact that he is out of his mountain village went to Tashkent to enter the University, but he failed, and he was ashamed to go back. He decided to work here next year to try again to enroll at Tashkent State University. Prior to that, he graduated from Proof those College and received a lawn tractor. And he found a job here. In short, his fate is — explained Khurshida.
Well, that aggravates the situation, and I’m afraid that your father will never agree to let you marry him because you’re our only daughter. If you had brothers or sisters, it would be possible for you to give in marriage, at least in Canada, at least in Europe or in Africa .And I don’t want you to go away in distant lands, because without you, I can slowly fade away like a kerosene lamp, which is running out of fuel.
Yes, your father is strict but he loves you more than life, and that is why he is demanding to see you. In life anything can happen. In order for something irreparable to happen, we must be very careful.
Especially you, because it all depends on you — said Raheela.
What if he wants to stay here and live? — Khurshida asked, not looking up from his work.
And are you confident in this? He himself said this?
No. I’m just guessing.
I don’t know, daughter. You should talk to him about everything.A life of marriage is not a toy.
Marriage is for life. But many lovers parted with their beloved, who immediately after the wedding, who later when there are differences and different issues between them. It’s the fact that they didn’t know about each other before the wedding. The world is a market and life together. The person, who wants to buy something, must carefully inspect the goods. Or they can buy what he will soon have to throw in the trash. Well, let’s say, you bought shoes in the store. In a day or two you feel it’s too tight.
Going back to the store and changing them. A man is not shoes to be able to go and change. To not have to change after marriage, girls should be able to choose the right husband, after a careful examination and testing before getting married, said Raheela. Khurshida thought then asked:
Mom, what if I bring him here? I would talk about everything specifically in your presence.
Not a bad option. But will he agree to this? And what will the people who see it with us? — said Raheela.
I need to talk to him about this and bring him here — said Khurshida.
Good — agreed Raheela.
Mother and daughter worked until lunch, during lunch, Khurshida spoke to the tractor driver Sultan, and he agreed to go there, where Khurshida with her mother. After lunch, did not wait long, the tractor driver Sultan arrived at the appointed place. After they shook hands, Raheela the first to start a conversation:
I beg not judge us strictly, son. Frankly, I know about your warm relations, and see that you are a good guy. Although I believe in you, all the same I need to know the guy my daughter wants to link their fate. Don’t get me wrong. In my place any mother would do the same. Khurshida told me about a mountain village where you come from. In my opinion everything is fine .But, you know, to confess, father of Khurshida strict man with a tough character, and I’m afraid he will not agree with me if I say that I intend to give her husband for you, since you live in a remote mountain village «Tuyamuyun». My question is as follows. Once you are accepted into Tashkent State University, will you go back to your village, or want to live in our area?
To be honest, Auntie, I used to think that enrolling in Tashkent State University, I live in Tashkent.
After graduation, I think I will go to the native village, and there to teach lessons to students at a local school. And now I have other plans. You see, I am young and I am only twenty-five, but I’m still not married. I’d show you my passport, so both of you have seen this, but I left my passport at home in the tractor Park, where I live temporarily. I don’t want to carry all the time, both in the area where the curfew is, right? — He said.
After these words, Raheela, too, began to laugh.
Oh, You Joker. And I, naive fool, believed. Don’t worry. I believe you, son — she said.
Thank you for your trust, Auntie. To be honest, though, my name Sultan means king, but I’m really, pathetic slave of your daughter. Now I’m ready to do anything to be with Khurshida. Not to stay in these parts, I am ready even to go to the edge of the world if Khurshida wants. Day and night I thank God for what he sent me here, and Iet such a beautiful girl like Your daughter. My life acquired meaning only after I met her. I used to be a simple tractor driver. But despite this, I read a lot for example the novel «don Quixote Lamanchas». Loved the library of our village, where there was peace, comfort and tranquility. Come, walk between shelves, looking at books, and relax the soul. Dizzy from the fragrant smell of books, get drunk. Well, the library was for me something quiet, a free resort, where people restore their health. Read Jack London, Tolstoy, Turgenev, Gogol, Cervantes, Hemingway, Pushkin, Kafka, Yesenin, Abdullah Kadiri, Chingiz Aitmatov and many wonderful writers and poets of world literature. Once I was asked if I wanted to earn a little in the field of sports. I grew, interesting you people of the Lord. So, who wants to earn money, especially in my situation? Of course, I want to. After that we went. We drove for a long time through the wilderness, crossed the desert, and went to the trailer of the truck, «lorry» of the Stalin era, through the mountain passes, where we were being chased by the mute moon. A torn piece of bedspread fluttered in the wind like a tattered flag on Mars. We finally arrived in the city. Walked into a building where there were people — a full house. There I was told to take off my clothes. I stand, then, in his shorts and holey t-shirt. They put my skinny arms like sticks, Boxing gloves, and one of them said to me, I am your coach, Mr. Trendeldinov, and you will participate in the world championship on Boxing. Then I accompanied with healthy big boys went to the side of the stage, enclosed by ropes resembling a sheep pen. When everyone walked out on the stage, that is, in the ring, I left my opponent, a short, bald referee with a goat’s beard. When the referee introduced us, I was surprised to see his rival, with overly large heads and slanting eyes. The opponent reminded me of Bigfoot, and he continually jumped up and down. His muscular body, from head to toe was covered with tattoos. He drew on his body, the devil knows what: naked mermaid, an octopus, a dragon, devil, Rhino, skull, cemetery, graves, and crosses — in General, a gallery of creepy paintings. Despite his scary appearance, he seemed a good, honest, helpful friendly honest God-fearing man. Finally it was the long- awaited Gong. You see, slash the opponent hits me. I said that you, dear scythe rival, beat me, that said, have I done wrong?! And slash the opponent instead of stop and apologize, even stronger began to beat me. Well, I think things… Crazy to some patients who just escaped from a psychiatric hospital. He hits and I’m freaking out screaming, through crushing blows. Wanted was to turn to the undersized bald referee with goat beard, but he could not, began to poison us with each other:
Fight! Fight, grit, scum fighting dogs, rabid bulldogs and pit-bull in human form! Kill, gnaw, grit, throat each other, and tear, grit, meat ripped up!
I said shame on you, comrade undersized bald still narrow-eyed referee with a goat’s beard?! Then the opponent hit me in the face, and I almost fell. Look — my coach, friend of Trendildinov, also looks with interest and does not take the necessary measures of intersection to solve problems peacefully sitting at the negotiating table.
Help, people-All! Christians! Jews! Muslims! Buddhists! Godless atheists -Communists! Well though someone! — I shouted to the whole room.
But my voice disappeared in the noise of onlookers. And people used to to separate us, on the contrary shouting in unison:
Go-RIL-La! Go-RIL-La! Cross eyed gorilla, kill the skinny boxer with hands like sticks!..
Well, I think, really, not a bit of pity is left in this world. Well, to my happiness, came the long-awaited Gong, saving me from the apparent death. I was moving on all fours, barely reaching the stool, which was missing one leg. Sitting on a stool, my nose broken, eyes lined on his forehead a lump the size of a lemon, mouth dripping bloody saliva as the count Dracula. Breathe. Suffocating. Give, grow, water. The coach opened the thermos and poured me a Cup of boiling water. I said, well, you are a greedy miser, where did the sugar come from? Eaten?
Oh Yes! — remembered my coach, friend of Trendeldinov, and pulling from his pocket bodysuits sugar «Comrating », throws in a glass. Coach Trendeldinov, says he, let’s chug it down to the bottom, sugar, helps alert, which had lost a lot of blood in the ring. Then I started to rush, let’s great faster, they say, the second round started, and again sounded the Gong. One pot-bellied woman in a quilted jacket with short, curved and skinny legs in dirty canvas shoes without soles walked across the stage, raising high the banner with the words «Round 2». I said, comrade coach Trendeldinov, but it may not be necessary, they say, stop this bloodshed? Coach, says he is, no, not Sultan. People, grit, bought expensive tickets with great hope to see a bloody hand to hand combat modern Gladiator with a fatal outcome.
He says he, now, is doomed. If you pause the fight, the crowd, very angry and could attack us and trample, stoned. Can even apply to us in the Basmanny court, so we returned them the money they spent from the family budget to buy expensive tickets. You, says he, must fight to the end. Then I drank the second glass of water, got up, and again started beating him in the literal sense of the word. When the blows intensified, I began to suspect that slash the opponent whether wearing iron gloves, or inside the glove he put lead knuckles. I’m covered in blood, yelling wildly, beckoning for help, but no one, unfortunately, never responded to my call. In the skull of my head came a solid crack from where a red fountain spurted blood. Bald and diminutive referee with goat beard did not run in the paddock and was driving around in my blood, like ice skating at the arena and shouted, pitting us all against each other.
Then, to my luck, the doctor asked to suspend the combat, to cover a crack in my skull with something and bandage tape, and that skinny athlete (me) can die, and the carnage will stop earlier than scheduled, greatly disappointing the audience. Only then the referee decided to give me a break. After examining my wound and measuring its width and length by using a hand caliper, the doctors were so scared, with a pale face as if the boy was attacked by a vicious dog. In their conclusion, the crack in my head was so dangerous that through the crack was visible to my brain, like a walnut kernel. Doctors quickly after consulting among themselves, decided to cover the crack of my skull antiquated way, and they put her back a towel. When the towel disappeared in my head, they sealed the gap with tape. Then let me again return to the ring and fight to the end. But I could no longer fight, as I lost consciousness and fell. In-about-from, so please forgive me if I say silly words that you don’t like, -finished his funny story Sultan, wearing his skullcap, which he kept in his hand. After hearing his story, Khurshida and her mother laughed heartily.
A joke is a joke, but I do not intend to part with Khurshida, even in that light, if not ask about it me she — said the tractor driver Sultan.
Moon over the cotton fields
For the tractor driver Sultan there is nothing more romantic than the quiet hours of sunset, when the sun is setting over the cotton fields. He loved looking at a sad ball of fire, the sun which is slowly sinking into the crimson cloud. Then it starts to get dark. Looking at this landscape, the tractor driver Sultan somehow wanted to cry with a swarm of mosquitoes who mourn forever gone forever day.
Immersed in fields in the twilight, where workers still picking cotton, to complete the cotton harvest and to earn money for their daily bread. Most interesting is that cotton can assemble even in the dark, so as he white and it can be seen even in the dark. In the twilight fields Comptroller Abdelkasim shouts in the voice, something like:
Hey, bring the cotton! His voice is alarmed as the bird flies over fields in the evening silence. Sultan is a tractor driver with a trailer and carrying cotton on hirman, that is, to a point where the harvested cotton is sent to the dryer in the open air, under the sun. Stopping his tractor, he was with his beloved girlfriend Khurshida to carry harvested cotton to hirman. Together they folded the cotton into huge bales, barely tying the ends of the apron. When the tractor driver Sultan put the bale of cotton, Khurshida laughed.
Why are You laughing, Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige pace of sua e fusible manege? — asked the tractor driver Sultan.
Khurshida, barely suppressing his laughter, said:
You are very similar to the white spider, which carries its larva, she said, still laughing.
The tractor driver Sultan laughed too. Then they went to the side of the Maidan where the timekeeper in the light of a kerosene lamp, which lit up his face, weighed the bales of cotton. His assistant wrote down the digits in a worn notebook with a list of names of cotton growers. Khurshida and the tractor driver Sultan were in the queue at the last place. Weighing the cotton workers on the hanging weights attached to a self-made tripod, the timekeeper, shouting loudly for all to hear:
Twenty-nine kilograms! Next!
With these words he removed the bale from the hook of the scales and threw it to the side kick the knee. And there are two healthy guys who missed a bale with two sides, and swung at the expense of «one-two-three» and threw it into the tractor trailer. The trailer worked two porters who emptied the apron, threw it down. Blank white aprons flying in the gloom in all directions shot as swans and as the night parachutes paratroopers. Sultan with Khurshida sat on the edge of Maidan, bales, stuffed with cotton, as other workers who were standing around, slapping hands, killing and driving away mosquitoes bloodsuckers. Meanwhile, the sky lit up a distant star and the horizon beyond the fields slowly began to rise, the moon softly lighting hirman.
What a beauty! — Admiringly, said Khurshida.
Wow!What a beautiful moon! How brightly the stars twinkle! — confirmed her words to Sultan.
You see, over the slope shines the big dipper! — Continued to admire Khurshida- one, two, three, four… seven bright stars! They are similar to buckets! An amazing sight, isn’t it, and the moon? It is round-round, as if drawn by a compass, like a bowl of Chinese porcelain! -Khurshida said, waving away the pesky hungry mosquitoes.
And the crickets? How loud and in unison they sing! Night rings from their streets! Or is it grasshoppers singing? Honestly, I don’t know much about insects. But I love their monotone chorus, and you? — asked the tractor driver Sultan.
And who doesn’t like singing crickets?! This divine music cleanses the soul by the light of the moon, said Khurshida.
Yes. I had one friend, a poacher called Sultan. He engaged in fishing crickets, put them in matchboxes and sold them to the city fishermen, who used crickets as bait, fishing, stringing them on hooks of their fishing lines. Many citizens bought crickets that my friend the poacher and let them free in their apartments, where the crickets sang enthusiastically in the silence of the night, as on the lawn when the moon peeks out the window. And I think the citizens were happy, lying in their bedrooms and could not sleep until I stopped playing cricket. Romance!
So talking, they approached the scales on a tripod, made from willow sticks where the timekeeper weighed the last bales of cotton. At this time, almost all the workers went home. It was only the timekeeper and his assistants there.
Oh, Sultan, all gone. How will I now go home in the dark alone? — fearfully said Khurshida.
Don’t you worry Your Majesty Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege. I’ll take you home to this fabulous carriage with the iron horse. Just today I went to the cotton dryer place, through Your Street. What do You fear, when You humble mechanic athlete, who has long studied such martial arts as Jiu-jitsu, street fight, kung fu, Taekwondo, Muaythai, Aikido, and so on — began to calm his beloved tractor driver Sultan.
A joke is a joke, but I in any case will not sit beside you in the cab of your tractor. Just go in the trailer warned Khurshida.
Good — agreed the tractor driver Sultan.
Before leaving, Khurshida climbed into the trailer and lay down on comfortable cotton. She lay like an angel who is resting on white clouds. The tractor driver Sultan wanted to have the tractor engine, but the motor for some reason would not start. Heard only the sound of the starter — chgi-gigi — gigi -gigi!
Chgi -gigi -gigi -gigi!
Come on, Satan! — Sultan got angry and slapped his hand on the steering wheel. Khurshida was still drowning in cotton, as in a white cloud, and looked at the shining moon and bright stars.
Well, what have you, Sultan?! Won’t start or what?! — asked the timekeeper who just were leaving.
Lifting up the lantern, he lit the cabin.
Yes, with the carb, something happened. Or the plugs are wet. You need to check nervously said Sultan, and added:
You are the timekeeper, leave me a kerosene lamp. I’ll leave it in the field camp. And then, as luck would have it, I don’t even have a flashlight — said Sultan.
Okay — agreed to the timekeeper and leaving the lamp to the Sultan, went with his assistant home.
The tractor driver Sultan jumped out of the cab and turned to Khurshida:
Excuse me, Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege! I never thought that fabulous coach would break down! Go down, need your help! Hold this magical lamp of Aladdin, and I’ll try to fix the motor! he said.
Oh my God, what is it, huh?! My mother must have given birth to another Khurshida worrying for me. Now I’m done. Dad’s going to kill me! Well, what a fool I am, eh? Why could I not go home? — Khurshida said, getting off the trailer.
Frustrated, she went to the tractor driver Sultan; he took the kerosene lamp and began to cover the open hood of the tractor, illuminating his face with a red light.
Don’t you worry, Khurshidabanu, everything will be fine, ‘ said the tractor driver Sultan, digging in the motor.
This time around the burning of the kerosene lamp started flying little bugs. In the lamplight their transparent wings were glowing orange-yellow, then fiery red. To Khurshida they seemed fiery. Moths hovered around the light. After a while Khurshida began to swell hands. But the tractor driver Sultan was still fiddling with the engine.
Well, how long will there still be digging?! And my hands are swollen! -Khurshida complained.
Now, Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege, be patient and don’t drop the lantern, you hear?- said the tractor driver Sultan.
Well — said Khurshida complained, holding the lamp in the other hand. Finally, the tractor driver Sultan fixed the motor and raised his head, wiping cloth stained dirty hands.
Well, that’s all he said, smiling and jumping down. And you were very impatient majesty, Mrs.
Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege.
Closing the hood, he climbed into the cab, and Khurshida climbed into the trailer. Convinced that Khurshida was in the trailer, the tractor driver Sultan started the engine, and the tractor smoothly went to the side of the field mill. On reaching the field camp, the tractor driver Sultan stopped the tractor and got out of the cab, carefully holding a kerosene lamp, which shone like a large precious diamond. As he promised, put the lamp on a makeshift field in the table under the acacia and wanted to repay it, when his knees buckled.
Wow!- he groaned, leaning on the table, and sat down exhausted. Seeing this, Khurshida was scared.
Oh, what’s wrong with You, Sultan! Do you get sick or hurt? I know! — she shouted and quickly got off of the trailer. Then he ran to rescue his beloved.
What happened, Sultan?! Are you sick?! Do not scare me, please. Or are you joking again? — she asked, approaching the tractor driver Sultan.
Nothing, don’t worry, it’ll pass. Head something spun by me, ‘ said the tractor driver Sultan, trying to calm the frightened girl.
Khurshida sat down next to the tractor driver Sultan and inadvertently palms of the hands touched his forehead the tractor driver Sultan to know if he had temperature. The tractor driver Sultan thought that his forehead touched the hand, Khurshida, an heavenly angel.
Excuse me, Khurshida for what you did because I was late home. Here comes a little to himself, and we’ll go. I will come to your home and explain everything to your parents. I think they will understand us correctly. If anything, I’m even prepared to die defending You and Your mother from Your father!.. Oh, something I want to lie down… Can I go lie down a bit?
Yes, of course. You, Sultan, don’t worry about me; I’ll explain everything to my parents. They believe me. Let me help you. You lie so… I mean put your head on my lap and don’t be shy — said Khurshida.
Thanks, Khurshida- thanked the tractor driver, Sultan adhered on the bed and put my head on my knees Khurshida.
Do you think about the temperature… God, I don’t even know how to help you. Unfortunately, there is no nearby phone so I could call an Ambulance — crying Khurshida. She sat up, fending off mosquitoes with a scarf from the tractor driver Sultan, and its dense and gentle curly hair shone over the face of the Sultan as black silk half-mast the flag of love, with her eyes rolling tears.
‘Don’t cry, Khurshida. Even when I’m gone, don’t cry. Because I’m not worthy of your diamond tears.
You’re not meant to grief and tears, and to smiles and happiness. Come on, smile. Oh, how I love your smile! It’s like the sun illuminates my life and my inner world, my soul with joy begins to sing like a lark over the morning field, said the tractor driver Sultan.
You know, Sultan -Khurshida smiled through her tears.
How you are beautiful, Khurshida! You have a lovely smile! That smile will heal even the most hopeless incurable disease! Here you smile, and I begin to feel healing. Yes, I feel better already, believe me, Khurshida. This is a new method of treatment in the medical world and it’s called smilingtherapy!
Help me please; I want to raise -said Sultan.
Yes?! Well, thank God, thank God! — Glad Khurshida, helping her beloved boyfriend up.
The tractor driver Sultan sat down. Khurshida involuntarily hugged the tractor driver Sultan and laid her head against his shoulder. On a makeshift field Desk all burned kerosene lamps, gazing at its red light face couple. Around the glow of the lantern happily flew a small light-brown beetle. Over the fields the moon is shining bright and dreamy stars glittered.
The tractor driver Sultan was driving his tractor on a country road, thinking about the beauty Khurshida, forgetting everything else except the steering wheel and the road.
What a beautiful girl! What color was her hair, what hair, Oh, my God! They look like curly algae in the clear water on the ocean, on some Pacific Atoll, and the figure of her? Eyes, lips, smooth chin, Swan-like neck and white soft hands! If Khurshida participated in the international beauty contest, I’m sure one hundred percent that she would take the first place, and possess the title of «the most beautiful girl on the planet.» I wonder if Khurshida has a boyfriend. I wonder why I did not immediately ask her. Oh, I wish this tractor would go faster. Why is time as slow as a tortoise in the Galapagos Islands? On other days, the sun quickly rises over the fields and wakes skylarks, who selflessly poured a trill on an empty stomach, and there look — it’s already heading into the sunset, where the plaintive buzzing mosquitoes. Oh, it’s beauty slowly and silently rises like the moon softly lighting the deserted fields of my soul, reducing me crazy! As now I can work and live without her? And how loudly she laughs!
With such thoughts the tractor driver Sultan arrived at the field where the cotton harvesters in the morning started picking cotton. He stopped his tractor in a convenient place at lunchtime cotton growers bring to the weight harvested cotton in huge bales. Sitting in the cockpit, he found Khurshida, jumped from the cab and approached her. They said Hello.
Well, mister slacker Monsieur Sultan de La Crua je’mapple a la maison general, la tge bien, merci beaucoup moi!, help me gather the cotton? Here, take my extra apron and put it on — she grinned Khurshida.
And, of course, will help, Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege said the tractor driver Sultan, wearing the apron, so from the front it formed a pouch like a kangaroo.
Well, how similar do I look to a kangaroo? -asked the tractor driver Sultan bouncing.
The kangaroo arms are very short and You have long arms -said Khurshida fun and laughing loudly.
Yes? You think? However, Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege, you can climb up to my bumper and I’ll ride across the savannah cotton fields, doing a two-meter jumping — said the tractor driver Sultan.
Khurshida again burst into laughter. So conversing, the lovers began to pick cotton. Sultan, who were you before, before you got here? — asked Khurshida.
-Oh, it’s a long story — started to remember about his past Sultan, not looking up from his work and continued. -I used to work in Charvak mountain nature reserve as a Ranger. I lived in a cottage on a high cliff, at an altitude of 1000 meter above sea level. In cloudy weather my hut disappeared among the clouds. Soon from lack of oxygen I was facing my ears, and my nose was bleeding. Then gradually I got used to it. Under a high cliff, where I led a solitary life, furiously seething Mountain River, and its waves roar assailed on granite rocks, honing and polishing them to a Shine mirror. The water in the river was so cold that my teeth instantly froze even in summer. Entering the water was more dangerous not so much because of the transience and deep-water nature of the river, but because of its icy water that freezes the feet, body and even the human brain. The amazing thing to me was that in a river with too cold water, fish lived. One evening, opening the window of my hut, I lowered a rope with a bucket into a deep well and got the water out of the river. Then I raised the bucket. Look in the bucket floats a small carp, slapping the tail on water, which splashed, glittering in the light of the shining moon! Well, wonders! — I think. For a person like me who lives in the desolate mountains, it was amazing. And on a nearby cliff lived an eagle. They were flying high, spreading its mighty wings and soared in the sky forming a large circle.
-Chyaaaaaaake!- the eagles shouted they have, proudly flying over a century of mining the rocks above the forests above the rushing river. Although they by nature were birds of prey, they lived in their nest in peace and friendship, treated each other with understanding and respect. The eagles feed their Chicks fresh meat, when people in our country ate only bread and tea, sometimes eating the grass as vegetarians. I was jealous of eagles and white and from the heart, because they lived freely, not like other eagles that live in cells.
One day I came home from work and looked in my cabin all upside down, as they say, upside down. The cause of the mess I immediately recognized. It turns out that my hut got protein. I barely drove it, hitting with a slotted spoon in the bowl and shouting. In clear weather, looking out the window of the hut you can enjoy the summer scenery. I was fascinated by the snow coated Mountain peaks, green pine forests with its original untouched form. The funny thing was that when I looked down, it seemed to me that the rock where my hut is, floating in the air constantly, like a ship at sea. My head was spinning at the sight of this spectacle. In bad weather I was forced to stay at home, tightly closed doors and Windows, as the cabin could invade the clouds. In the cloudless night sit at the window and watch the moon in the vast sky teeming with a myriad of stars shimmering over the forest. Sometimes in the blue dusk I fell asleep at the window leaning on the sill. Sometimes the noise starts pouring tropical rain, and the great wall of rain fades. Rolling thunder, stunning the neighborhood. And after the rain it was easy to breathe, filling your lungs with fresh and healthy air. After the rain, the world seems rejuvenated. In such moments, you want to live on this beautiful planet. You see, on the leaves of grass and on the wet branches of bushes slowly crawling snails, lazily stretching out their delicate little horns on the ends of which located their tiny eyes. I love snails. They move slowly, sticking his neck out of the fragile shell.
Deep in the mountains where I lived and worked as a Ranger, especially on the lawns, a lot of snails — I finished the story of the tractor driver Sultan.
-What wonderful dreams and what you have a past lyric, Sultan! — Admiringly, said Khurshida.
Yeah, I can’t complain. Now let me ask you one delicate question, Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege — said the tractor driver Sultan, without waiting for a reply, continued:
Of course, I am sorry for asking sometimes silly questions, like an inexperienced investigator in an investigative isolator. It’s the fact that I love you, and without you I can’t live not only in this world, but even in Heaven. Well, judge for yourself if I miss you after a few minutes after we parted, how can I live without you in heaven where people live forever? I love you so much that when I see You, I freeze for a moment like a wall, like the person in the picture. Answer me honestly and straight-You have a boyfriend or not? Soothe the soul of the poor mechanic, who adores you. Did you find it difficult to say two little words, Yes or no?
After hearing the tractor driver Sultan, Khurshida again blushed. She tried not to look into the eyes of the tractor driver Sultan, who waited for an answer from her on his hard inquisitive question. Finally, Khurshida said:
You know, you are asking me very tough questions. Well, the tractor driver Sultan, if you insist, then I will have to still answer this question. Just promise me that You won’t be offended -Khurshida said, his eyes downcast.
I promise. The word of man — said the tractor driver Sultan, prepared to listen.
I don’t know how to tell you…Well, if briefly, then… yeah, I mean… I have a boyfriend — admitted Khurshida. From these words the tractor driver Sultan shuddered, turned pale face from feelings of jealousy and powerlessness.
Yes? — He said with difficulty, as he had a dry throat. Although the tractor driver Sultan was quite strong and a strong guy, there he sat from impotence on a large bale of cotton.
Yes, said Khurshida.
Who is he? — asked the tractor driver Sultan.
I’m afraid to say. He’s so handsome, strong, clever,Khurshida started to list the positive side of her lover.
Well, You cut me without a knife. Well… well, okay. So I still have a boyfriend. Well, it’s a pity that so happened. Okay by then, I’ll leave so as not to disturb you. Au-revoir, Mrs Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege, Au-revoir- said the tractor driver Sultan, rising, going out. But then it kept — Khurshida said.
It’s you! That is, I have no boyfriend, except for You, Sultan! -Khurshida said, smiling and blushing.
-Yes?! -asked the tractor driver Sultan.
Yes — quietly, almost in a whisper — said Khurshida.
The tractor driver Sultan, full of joy, wanted to shout at the whole field that he’s the luckiest man in the world, but Khurshida shut his mouth with the palm of his gentle hands. The tractor driver Sultan hugged his beloved girl tightly and kissed her on the lips, eyes, neck…
Hurray! — he said, looking into the beautiful eyes. And she smiled through her tears.
Letter from the afterlife
The tractor driver Sultan knew from Khurshida and reading the books that there is light at the feeling, as love, for which lovers are ready to sacrifice their lives if necessary. Looking once in the cinema at the Indian film «Sangam», he silently cried, secretly wiping away tears in his holey handkerchief. But for his dog’s life he never had to deal head-on with love. He only now began to feel the power of these mad ruthless feelings, which causes only suffering and constitute torture. The tractor driver Sultan lost peace, lost his head and sometimes felt like a soldier who received a concussion in the war, during the shelling and air strikes, where the howling shells. Waking up, he’s usually quick to clean and on the go eating his Breakfast in a hurry in a cotton field, where Khurshida collects white gold, in a hurry to see his beloved girl as soon as possible. He can’t exist without her. Here they are together again and they think that they are picking not cotton, but the white clouds in the sky.
We collect white spring clouds in the autumn field! What a paradox! -exclaimed the tractor driver Sultan, placing the collected cotton apron Khurshida. She bent at the waist, with a slim waist, picking cotton and listening to the story of his beloved young man tractor driver Sultan.
Lady Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege, you know what I dream? Don’t know? Well, you better I’ll tell You. I dream to study at Tashkent State University and be in the same group as you. Oh, I would have sat beside you and looked to You before the end of lectures and during the breaks too. Also I would gladly accompany You to the hostel in the campus and would sit, waiting for you, not leaving even at night, looking at your bright window, the lights went out. I would sit until morning hoping to see at least a glimpse of your profile again at the window, and sign, exhausted prisionais back to the tree not to fall.Would not go from there until your classmate pours cold water from a bucket on my head through the open window. I gladly accompanied you on the path of campus, when the alleys of the maples and poplars quietly falling yellow and red leaves covering the sidewalk’s deserted net. We’d be walking through the falling leaves, along the line where the twists and turns with difficulty turning trams ringing their bell. We could prepare the lessons together, sitting in your room, with lighted faces by the light of a table lamp. At some point you would point up at the night window of the room and said happily: «Oh, look, Sultan, the snow is falling!» And we, going to the window, silently staring together into night snowfall, through which barely could see the road covered with snow, the dim silhouettes of houses and red Windows, street lamps, where through snowflakes pouring tired light.
It would be nice, but my father never allowed me to study somewhere away from home, Khurshida said, smiling sadly and silently continuing to pick cotton.
You better tell me about your past, about your happy youth. I find it very interesting — said Khurshida. The tractor sriver Sultan thought for a moment then began to speak:
Oh, Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege, I experienced grief in his youth, like when I was 12 years old, my father died. He was a pilot and an aircraft crash, when pollinated cotton fields with poisonous pesticides. The plane is a crop duster, which was ruled by my father, hit the line of high voltage power lines and exploded in the eyes of the growers who hand-harvested cotton in the field. My father, of course, ejected at the moment, but unfortunately stuck the catapult.But he still managed to jump from the cockpit and fell in hirman. At that moment my mother was at home. Hearing the roar, we thought that somewhere again Holy war. I even wanted urgently to go to the recruiting office to join the brigade of volunteers and go to the front to become a hero, fighting with the enemy who treacherously and without warning invaded our sacred land. My mother and I went outside and thought that an enemy aircraft «Wolf pack » exploded. People are interested in, and the children shout, the people rejoice and rejoice. The crashed pilot was not a fascist, and my poor father, the pilot of a crop duster. So I have lost my only beloved father forever. But I have always believed in the supernatural life of man. I tried to deal with their own spiritualism and to establish a relationship with the dead, especially with his father, but to no avail. Once I had a chat with one hunchbacked and lame gravedigger about whether it is possible to correspond with the dead.
And why not? Of course, you can. For this man to be the iron will, brave heart, desire and initiative, in the end. The rest is a trick — explained humpbacked and lame and also oblique gravedigger drunk, barely standing on his feet and leaning on a shovel that won’t fall down drunk, you dig them a grave. He commanded that I install over the grave of my father to the mailbox, put the letter in the cache and to wait patiently for a reply on that light. According to the gravedigger, this process requires certain rituals associated with time of day and the appropriate form of clothing. The adept who wrote a letter to the deceased needs to be wearing striped pajamas with torn sleeves, without buttons and go to the cemetery at night, barefoot, without a hat, preferably a full moon. I fulfilled all the requirements of the gravedigger of the warlock, installed the mailbox on the grave of my father; put the first letter in a white envelope. It turns out that when a person has a strong desire to correspond with his dead father, the fear recedes. This I experienced when I installed a mailbox on my father’s grave during the full moon to perform a ritual of utmost interest. Then, one night I left the house in striped pajamas, of course, with the torn off sleeves, without buttons or shoes, without headgear. It was late autumn. On high-voltage wires hummed the cold autumn wind. I’m going, so towards the cemetery, the resting place of my father and feel the second letter I have written, which was lying in the pocket of my striped pants. In the sky stars glittered, and over the horizon slowly rising full moon, illuminating the cotton fields with mulberry trees, ghostly blackened away. I quickly walked ecutives in my striped pajamas, with detached sleeves without buttons, barefoot, shivering from the cold wind. In the distance on the field, rhythmically making noise, a bulldozer plowed «Altai». Distant sounds of a motor in the blue darkness reminded me of spring frogs, which in the warm night chorus of croaking on the edge of rice fields. When I came to the cemetery, the moon was right above me, like a powerful spotlight. Look — over into the mailbox, which I installed on my father’s grave, sits a large grey owl with round green eyes and hoots. «hoo-hoo!» I shouted and my voice echoed tombstones, made of pure marble and granite.
The owl gently flew away, plaintive hooting and waving their mighty colorful wings. I opened the door of the mailbox and was stunned with surprise, because the mailbox wasn’t the letter that I wrote to my late father, gluing expensive brands on the white envelope, and another letter in a yellow envelope. I pulled this yellow envelope shaking from excitement. Look — on the envelope, the familiar handwriting and the words. «Address: White light. To: My son the tractor driver Sultan ibn Ultan in hand»
Reading the inscription, I was not myself, and I cried. All burst into tears..
It’s a miracle! Well, father! Decided to write me a response letter from the afterlife? Well, thank you, daddy… — I cried boiling tears in the tails of his striped pajamas.
I opened the envelope and took the letter from him. The contents of the letter I know by heart, and it is still kept in my memory as top-secret archive materials of an Enigma.
Here are the contents of the letter:
«Heartfelt greetings from the world of the dead!
Hello, son Sultanbai!
Well, how are you? How is your mother? Fellow villagers relatives all alive and healthy? If you ask me, I feel very well. We , well, those neighbors are dead, sometimes at midnight we rise from the graves, sit actives in their shrouds, and when I tell my dead friends all about my ridiculous death, the company together laughing, snapping jaws. I know that in my life I loved the festival of fear. And here we have every day a holiday, and we, the dead, scare each other slowly, with difficulty, move the gravestones, then suddenly, run from one stone tomb to another, when a shining full moon a silent flock of bats fly over a cemetery. What would you do son, if we have no case but to walk to play hide and seek, in early childhood. There are no health problems. We do not breathe, do not eat, do not go to the toilet, and do not shave. We don’t need any clothes, except for the shroud. There is no need for medical drugs.
Concepts such as house, car, luxury, business, money, banks, stock exchanges, that»s all in the past for us. None of us was working. In our cemetery there is always peace.But, around unemployment. The most important thing is we’re all equal. I have one friend who is in the white light, was the most influential rich man, and even ruled the country, took bribes in the large size, the oppressed people, engaged in money laundering, ferrying them to Western European banks through offshore zones, through the giant openings in leaky laws of our country. And now he had nothing but his yellowed skeleton and holey rotten shroud. He previously lived with his family in luxurious bright castles in the Swiss Alps and now he’s in the grave reigns dark, damp and cold. He has to be in company with disgusting worms, snakes, scorpions and nasty centipedes. Well, such a grave got to him.We’re not much upset, that in our cold graves no electricity or gas. Why do the dead of electricity and gas? Son, if you don’t chat away your nurse, I can open you a hidden secret. Son, you can congratulate me, because that is where I fell in love with a woman who was buried in a nearby tomb. A pretty young widow. She was even on top of yellowed skulls hanging a bunch of hair. Sometimes we sit for a long night on the mound of the graves, looking at the full moon and large stars on «the big dipper», singing a quiet song in unison. Solid romance! When my beloved beauty begins to run, joyfully and loudly laughing with the moon I run after her, fearing to fall into the open the old grave and not to step in the soft shroud of the deceased. Run once laughing and again, her one arm fell off. And I, a clumsy fool in a hurry stepped on the skeleton of her hand, like a bear crunch! And the gentle bone loose of my hand sweetheart broke down. Oh, how she is, that is your poor stepmother, was crying after that… Barely calmed her… She was crying sitting on a grave plate under the shining moon. No, we, thank God, do not feel pain. My beauty cried as the woman fell from a cupboard in her favorite porcelain vase and smashed it to smithereens. We called the surgeon of a trauma, which is buried too far from our graves. So he helped us. After examining the bone, it made the diagnosis «open fracture». Then he took a plate of the inside-out old blackened coffin and put it in a cast broken skeleton of the brittle hands of my wife. The surgeon said, well, they say, Madam, that didn’t run off on your skull or jaw and stepped on them, this is not careful Mr. Dead, that is your lover flat footed with my bony feet. We’re dead, the chorus laughed, snapping jaws. The surgeon was dead too. We thanked the surgeon for medical assistance, and went on down the trail overgrown with weeds, under the moon on the territory of our own independent cemetery. After two weeks, we got married and invited guests. The wedding came from influential guests even from distant cemeteries of our independent country. Deceased presidents, Ministers, bankers, prosecutors, jailers, judges, retired generals, folk singers, policemen, pickpockets, writers, composers, priests, prostitutes scam, customs officials, artists, drivers, miners, farmers, carpenters, plumbers, hunters, shepherds, journalists, drug addicts, taxi drivers, thugs, welders, boxers, category, rope-walkers, shoemakers, combiners, moneylenders, pimps, and many others. Your stepmother was sitting in brand new shrouds and a place of honor at the table, made of varnished planks of expensive coffins of the former officials. Guests congratulated us with the wedding and wished them success in the eternal life and gave us bouquets of carnations, tulips and roses with long stems that were taken from gravestones. My beloved was delighted and thanked the guests, happily smelling of fresh roses. Then the guests shouted «Gorko!»(Spicy!) And our shadows that resembled x-ray, merged. Your stepmother long kisses under a bright shining full moon, sitting on a landscaped former tomb of a wealthy dead man, whose grave is covered with weeds and thorn trees. About the honeymoon, about intimacy and passionate about the knocking of bones I won’t tell, because it would be not appropriate and not ethical on my part.
Here’s a fun carefree life, son. Sincerely, your late father Ultenby».
Well, how? -Asked the tractor driver Sultan, having finished his story of his late father and their happy afterlife with his stepmother.
What a horrible but funny and sad story, my God! What a beautiful love and a free life! -Khurshida said smiling.
Yes — said the tractor driver Sultan, continuing to pick cotton.
Tears of the nightingale
Autumn came. Of the poplars, maples and willows softly falling red crimson and yellow leaves. Sometimes the leaves whirled to the sad wind, like a Golden butterfly. No, it is rather a slow dance of crimson yellow leaves, which are swept away from the janitor in the wind. In autumn Tillacuduq fields farmers collected stems of cotton called «guzapaya», uprooting them using tractors, cultivators. From the collected stems of cotton they bind the sheaves and stack them in mop, which resemble
thousands of tanks on the misty field of battle, especially when thick fog enveloped the field, moving silent dull silhouettes of working people in the fog, like the souls of the dead soldiers. Already the leaves fell from the acacia-tree, which grew near a field camp. Exposing a nest of magpies, like the old blackened woven from twig baskets in the middle of thorny black branches of an acacia tree.
Makeshift field Desk workers covered with fallen yellow leaves of acacia, poplars and willows. For the field mill to the field, Khurshida with her mother Raheela stems of cotton gather the stalks and tie them into hay bales, pitch slides, to make it easier to load them in a trailer vehicle of a tractor. They work in warm clothes as it is cold. The tractor driver Sultan in those days was working on a transport tractor-trailer, taking out bundles of cotton at home, at the client’s request. He sat on the edge of the field and warmed himself at the fire, where the noise of burning firewood, lifting into the air and throwing orange smoke and red sparks, like stars. He warmed himself, thoughtfully pouring into a mug of hot tea from a thermos and sipping, waiting for customers to load stem stems of cotton on the trailer of his tractor. He was in cotton trousers and a sweatshirt. On his head was a lumberjack hat, and on his feet — tarpaulin boots.
His thoughts were interrupted by the man who came out of the fog with a pitchfork in his hands. After learning his name and thinking that this man is the father of Khurshida, the tractor driver Sultan got scared, thinking, surely he learned about my relationship with his daughter? Did she and her mom betray me and that angry man came to deal with me as man to man? But when the father of Khurshida Abduljabbar politely continued the conversation, he calmed down.
Jian (my nephew). You will carry our guzapaya (cotton stems) or You don’t have time for this? If not, tell me immediately and I’ll go find another tractor driver said Abduljabbar.
I have time. Just let me drop guzapaya (cotton stems) . The client will be free — said Sultan.
Thank you, my nephew, who refused. Well, I’m off then. Our cotton stems over there for the field camp — said Abduljabbar.
Well, uncle, as soon as I can, so just go to you -promised the tractor driver Sultan.
Uh, thank you, my nephew! (God will give you the benefit of my cousin!) — Happy Abduljabbar and he walked away, disappearing into the fog. The tractor driver Sultan also enjoyed thinking about meeting once again with his beloved. He was ready not that there free to take their cotton stems home, but even did not hesitate to become a dog Khurshida, bound in heavy iron chain rattling and to protect their yard in the night, in the cold and barking would be steam coming from the mouth, lying in the doghouse when swirly snowflakes in blizzards thicker and thicker covering trees, roads and fields.
With such thoughts he went to the side of his tractor to fit it to other stacks to create a comfortable condition for loading. The tractor driver Sultan took the loaded cotton stalks of the client at the appointed place and returned to the field, where he waited for the family of Khurshida. The lovers smiled at each other in secret from Abduljabbar.
Thank you, nephew that came without having to wait long. Well, it started then. You, daughter, take the fork and you will serve me heaps, but your mom will put them in the trailer so that the cargo did not fall on the road — said Abduljabbar, as if dispensing work.
Well, father, Khurshida said, taking the fork. Then Sultan stopped her.
No, — he said — This job is not for girls, wet bundles of cotton so heavy that they can easily break the wooden handle of the pitchfork. Give me a pitchfork, I’ll help.
Thank you, nephew. It turns out you are a noble tractor driver. So help you God, because you decided to help us! — blessed Sultan Abduljabbar.
For such conversations, they started boarding. Sultan with power lifted heavy bundles of cotton and stretched up, and his father Khurshida stacked them neatly in the trailer. When they finished, everyone was sweating from the strain. By this time, the trailer was a large heap, over which stood the parents Khurshida as on the hill. When finished, the Sultan has stuck the pitchfork in a haystack, bundles of cotton, and said:
— Uncle, aunt, sit back and hold on! The road is not smooth! Go! Khurshida»s father before you sit down, shouted:
And you, Khurshida, let’s get in the cab and go! — he said.
All right, dad! — said Khurshida and climbed into the cab of the tractor. The tractor driver Sultan started the motor and began to slowly and gently pick up speed. The parents of Khurshida went sitting on a huge stack of cotton, swaying, like an Arabian Bedouin on a camel high. The tractor driver Sultan drove slowly, like the tortoise that the goods had not fallen to the side. Moreover, the fog made it difficult to see the road and to navigate on the road. They drove for a long time. Finally, they arrived, and the parents carefully sat down with huge stacks. Khurshida is also out of the cockpit. Lifting the hydraulics of a trailer, Sultan dumped the stacked sheaves beside the gateway. The cargo fell with a crash to the ground, thus raising the front part of the tractor. When the discharge ended well, all breathed a sigh of relief.
Thank You, nephew- said Abduljabbar, took out the money from his pocket of his pants, and handed them to the tractor driver Sultan.
That’s the money we agreed on. You can find it, « he said. In order not to arouse suspicion, the tractor driver Sultan took the money and began to count it.
Now we have to drag into the yard all these sheaves and lay them down in a haystack. And for tomorrow weather forecasters promise a rain with sleet — said Abduljabbar.
Yes? What do we stand for then? Dragged! I have such a principle, once someone long enough, I will go to the end! — said the tractor driver Sultan, taking the bundle and heading in the yard.
-No, no, you, nephew, we’ll figure out something. Out in the field, you helped us enough. And then you get tired, fall asleep at the wheel, and in the mist will fall into a deep ravine with his tractor. Better you take a break — said Abduljabbar.
No, uncle, what are you saying? I’m not at all tired. I myself am a rural guy, that is not the first time I get into such situations, «said Sultan, continuing to carry sheaves into the yard.
Well, as you know, in General, I warned you, nephew. And I have to say that I cannot pay you for your help, you want to have on.
Yes, you do not worry about the additional charges, uncle Abduljabbar. I want to help for free. As they say, of the feelings of humanity — Explained Sultan.
-Well, then thank you again, for help free, dear nephew. The first time I saw such a good tractor driver as you. Apparently, the world is not impoverished, good people — he thanked the tractor driver Sultan — said Abduljabbar and told his wife and daughters to prepare dinner, and work themselves right.
Then Abduljabbar with the tractor driver Sultan worked in silence, dragging to the yard sheaves of cotton. Then they started to build a stack on a flat clay roof of the barn. By evening they had finished work and showered. The tractor driver Sultan was about to leave, but Abduljabbar stopped him.
No, no, Mr. Tractor driver how is it you don’t know, but we have since been made. Get together for dinner and then you can go on all four sides. Come, come inside, as they say Russian, you are welcome to our hut, insisted Abduljabbar. The tractor driver Sultan was left with no option but to obey the hospitable customer. Before going in the house, he managed to secretly exchange a glance and a smile with his lover girl Khurshida. He kicked off his boots at the entrance. Removing and hanging on hangers for outer clothing and headdresses, he again washed his hands and sat down on the mattress, folding his legs like Buddha, in the area of the low table with short legs, which is called Khontakta. According to the custom of the Uzbeks, Abduljabbar read a short prayer and made amine, having hands to the face. The tractor driver Sultan also joined in. On the Khontakta was a glass bowl of salad for pilaf. Here Abduljabbar stood up and said in a low voice:
By the way, there’s strong Russian vodka in the fridge. Let’s get sloshed on the best. And it is a sin not to drink for such a meeting with a great tractor driver and a good man like You, Sultanbai. Booze up softly to my wife, not noticing. No, I’m not afraid of her. Only, you know, I can’t stand the crying and the tears of women, and here such a meeting. The more you tractor driver, I’m a mechanic and livestock farms, that is, it appears we are colleagues — blinked brightly Abduljabbar, and added:
And you know how my father taught me in my youth? It is often said that son, eat shit, but immediately wipe your mouth with a lump that nobody noticed what shit you eat. My father was such a wise man, uuuuuuuu… — boasted he began to laugh in a fist, shaking his shoulders.
-Yes, no, uncle, I don’t drink alcohol! I’m driving and my clients! said the tractor driver Sultan, sitting near at khontakta in a Buddha pose.
Yes, I do. You are a guest here and do not have the right to vote. I’m the host. Well, at fifty… and I Drink that Nightingale a tear for the health of the Chairman of our kolkhoz, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelybakezavuch- said Abduljabbar and left. After a few minutes he came back with vodka and ringing in Tashkent cups in his hands. He was so happy smiling from ear to ear, his smiling mouth was reminiscent of sliced watermelon. Squatting, Abduljabbar opened a bottle of Russian vodka, teeth like a dog gnawing a bone.
Then he poured the fiery moisture into bowls, with the words «forgive us Allah,» and handed to Sultan a bowl.
Well, Sultanbay, drink the tears of the Nightingale, which untie our tongues — he said. The tractor driver Sultan would never have picked up a Cup of vodka, but took a bowl, as I didn’t want to hurt the father of his beloved girl.
Let’s drink first, as they say, for our meeting. But we’ll see what to drink next. Cheers! Come on, let’s go! said Abduljabbar, like the great Russian cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin before flying into space.
With these words he drained the bowl and started to eat, distorting accordion face and exhaling the air that fire will burn him inside. The tractor Sultan only took a sip of vodka and set the bowl on khontakta. He ate a salad, prepared a tomato, onion and hot pepper, while Khurshida was preparing to bring pilaf, vodka in the bottle. But Abduljabbar was already tipsy.
Come, take, eat pilaf, Sultanbai. Or you bring a spoon? I know, urban people are very cultural, and they eat risotto with a spoon. It is their right. But these foolish people do not know how many months they have been using the spoon. To even think about it, is unpleasant. And the hand is their own, private, live spoonful, which was given to us none other than God Almighty! For this simple reason we are with you the second dish is always needs only hands. And liquid food we have to eat with the bread, dipping pieces in the broth. So the Great Ibn Sina, the one with Avicenna, who was born in the village of Afshana near Bukhara. Here, he said to eat food with your hands is helpful, as our fingertips are highly sensitive nerves, and they help the flow of bile acids in the stomach which ensures good digestion — he said, eat hand pilaf.
Well, uh, when Avicenna said that, I too, perhaps, joined — said the tractor driver Sultan, and he also began to eat plov with his hands. After some time, the father of Khurshida spoke again.
You know a young colleague that I respect the Chairman of our kolkhoz, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelybakezavuch? I respect him because thanks to him I became a mechanic of livestock farms. Our esteemed President was the first to notice my performance, and, of course, my God gifted talent. He says he has Golden hands, and indeed it is. Every spring I go to the pasture and shear the sheep at such a pace that seeing as I do it, dumbfounded, even American cowboys from Texas! Yes, Yes! I can shear a hundred sheep, not even tying their legs. Now keep the silly sheep with a huge Gissar sheep between his legs and «Vgik! Vgik!», ready! You wouldn’t believe it. One day we arrived in a barn with an American journalist with a video camera. He even began to agitate me.
He said to me, Mr. Abduljabbar, what are you doing in this place? You have talent! You must live in America or in France!
You miserable American, what have I lost there at all?!
He says, as it is not lost, a farmer are you, a Communist?! Would you, says he, opened a Barber shop there in the crowded New York or in bustling Paris, near the Eiffel tower and shearer’s grit, day and night dogs of billionaires! I would live like human beings. Eating, grit, layered burgers, opening your mouth to overflowing, to bite off a slice of this exotic food. I said, no, miserable American, thank you very much, do not agitate me, still I will not go there, I said, can’t leave his Homeland, his native village Tillakuduq and these mountain ranges, I «m sorry. He says, okay, a farmer Communist, ay, says he, of handstand you and he drove away on a motorcycle «Irbit» the biker with the wheel, raising a cloud of dust. Well, you think You like, check normal, how can I go overseas, when the Chairman of our kolkhoz Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelybakezavuch, he trusted me with this responsible work, how to shear sheep. I’m the Chairman of our respect more than my father! His word is law to me! The Chairman of our collective farm Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelybakezavuch, my idol, who gave me more than I asked for. And God?! I begged him to give me a son, and he gave one daughter. You know, I at night, not showing anyone the tears, silently crying, crying, from what, I have no son, the heir, of a man like you. My soul cried when you helped me, honestly. I aged twenty years, turned black from a grief! Many times I asked God about it, but He is still silent. If you do not believe, I can try to repeat this event now, in your presence — said Abduljabbar. And, looking at the ceiling, began to pray:
Oh, my God, my God! Well, tell me, in the presence of the guest, the tractor operator Sultan that I have done you wrong, huh?! Has not diminished your wealth, if You gave me a son like this guy! This is because I do not read namaz, right?! Well, yeah, I drink. But what do I do if I am addicted to alcohol, tell yourself, God?! I’m used to it, and drinking has become my habit, you know? That is, I can’t exist in this world without vodka. In the morning I swear on everything Holy, promising his wife that he is tied to the cross in this set, and — for you, in the evening, without knowing it, come home already drunk, winding steps! As bewitched. It’s all of that; I have no son, the heir. I’m not just for fun and sorrow drink my God! Don’t get me wrong, and on the Day of Judgment you tell your angels that they didn’t leave me in the fire river, where bubbling lava! — He cried.
Seeing and hearing this, the tractor driver Sultan was confused and not knowing what to do, he began to calm Abduljabbar:
Well, don’t, stop it, uncle Abduljabbar, don’t cry.
Abduljabbar stopped crying and looked up. Then, lazily licking his lips, reproachfully looked at the tractor driver Sultan.
And who are you to teach me, huh, punk! Tell me, who the hell are you?! What, strong? Cool huh?! Yes, I am now…this tool will rip your belly! — he said and suddenly grabbed an empty bottle, broke it in half, striking it on the edge of khontakta.
The tractor driver Sultan got scared and stood up.
-Yes, no, no, uncle Abduljabbar, I didn’t want to teach you and… I just wanted… to… he said, cautiously looking down at the broken half of the bottle, which turned into a sharp and dangerous cutting tool.
Come close to me, stinking tractor driver, if you are tired of living! Well, what are you waiting for, cool! Hit me! Strike! Well, good luck! Are you afraid? That is something! Now you’ll never leave here alive! Pray lastly, dead!I’ll wear your guts a turban on your head like a Grinch. — Threatened Abduljabbar, and, rushing to the tractor driver Sultan, he began waving a broken bottle left to right, but each time he missed. The tractor driver Sultan barely escaped the yard. Behind him ran out and Abduljabbar. The wife of Abduljabbar Raheela and her daughter were crying, shivering with fear.
-Wai, dead, help-those-Muslims! At least one of nibua-uude! Daughter, run to the neighbors, help us! I’ll distract your father. — shouted Raheel.
No, mother, to run together! I can’t leave you! — cried Khurshida, running around in the yard. Men fought to the death. Finally, the tractor driver Sultan using the method of aikido, he twisted
Abduljabbar’s hands and sat on it as the hunter-poacher over just to shoot wild boar.
Bring the rope quickly! — he shouted
The mother of Khurshida brought the rope, and with her help, the tractor driver Sultan tied the hands and feet of Abduljabbar. He scolded the tractor driver Sultan was worth, threatening to kill him as soon as he had the opportunity.
Khurshida felt ashamed in front of the tractor driver Sultan, because of yesterday’s events, when in a drunken brawl her father nearly stabbed him with the broken bottle. Oh, how he scolded how insulted, to remember even ashamed — she thought, blushing and crying. I suppose, Sultan was offended by my father and us, therefore -continued to think Khurshida. -Of course, offended. He just came to help us, and my father… What happens now? Is Sultan going to stop talking with me and go somewhere else? How can I live? Oh, Lord, make it so he left. Let us reconcile and be together again! He gave me this happiness and did not take it from me! — she thought, briskly walking in the direction of the field mill.
Meanwhile, the autumn sun was shining, dispelling the morning mists. Sad deserted fields and in the distance there were black mulberry trees, poplars and willows. On the empty fields there were no people, not a tractor of the tractor driver Sultan, except a bulldozer «Altai» at field camp, out of which protruded their feet. Apparently, the driver of the bulldozer was fixing the motor. Khurshida wanted to go to the bulldozer and to ask Sultan about the tractor, but then changed her mind for fear of rumors.
She stopped, having lost the last hope to meet her beloved man. It seemed that the world was as empty as the autumn field. Would be at least one stack of cotton on the field, one would hope for the appearance of the tractor driver Sultan in these places. All — he will not come here. He left, annoyed with my father! Oh, what a misfortune, eh? What a misfortune! It’s that damn vodka is to blame! — She began to cry quietly, wiping her tears with the edge of her handkerchief. Now it was useless to look for and wait for the tractor driver Sultan in these places.
With these thoughts Khurshida wanted to turn around and go back home. But then she heard the familiar voice of her lover guy and stood rooted to the spot. She turned around and saw the tractor driver Sultan, who cried out to her, waving his hand that held a wrench.
Lady Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege! Well, where are you going, leaving me in the deserted autumn field like Leila, which left Majnun on the boundless deserts of separation in the epics of the great Uzbek poet Alisher Navoi?! — he shouted.
Hearing these words, Khurshida just roared with joy. She smiled through the tears quivering in her eyes like the morning dew. Thank God that he’s not offended — she thought and ran towards the bulldozer «Altai», where stood her lover boy tractor driver Sultan. She stopped just a few steps from the tractor driver Sultan, and they shook hands, not daring to cuddle, although they really wanted to.
I am sorry, Lady Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege that didn’t shake your aristocratic white handle, as my hands are stained with fuel oil. Well, how’s it going, beautiful? Why are you crying?- said the tractor driver Sultan.
I’m happy you are not offended by my father, who had upset You in a drunken brawl, Sultan- she said, with downcast eyes..
I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lady Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege? What a riot, it’s a disappointment? Something I do not remember .First, I’m not mad. As for uncle Abduljabbar, I think he is a good man, and he was just joking. And I check, you know, with a sense of humor. So the question of any sorrow disappears — smiled the tractor driver Sultan.
Thank you, Sultan, that you are not offended by my father and us. You are truly a noble man. No, you are not a man but a heavenly angel without wings — said Khurshida.
-Well, this praise with a wide range in any gate not climbing. Even in the next life. You are exaggerating, Lady Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege. Well, what with me angel, God, even a demon will not pull — said the tractor driver Sultan, shy, and smiling.
Fool — said Khurshida with a guilty smile, looking at the tractor driver Sultan from the bottom up.
Here is the word exactly suited to my face. Yes, I the fool and, you know, I’m proud of it, honestly — said Sultan, wiping his cloth soiled hands.
Then he added:
You better help me. I just do not have enough assistant volunteers. I’ll climb under the bulldozer, but will you let me help, handing me wrenches that I ask for. And then for the arrival of the agronomist I have to do the norm. Put my tractor in Park, took my tractor and told me to work on this bulldozer. In short, I have to plow Good — agreed Khurshida. The tractor driver Sultan climbed under the tractor, and she began to help him, handing him wrenches. Lying under the bulldozer, the tractor driver Sultan huffed and puffed, twisting the nuts and without interrupting the conversation with his girlfriend. Khurshida felt like the happiest person in the world. She always wanted to be together with the Sultan and to help him. To live and work together. Plow on a deserted field, wrapped in a thick autumn fog, sitting next to him. To dine with him on a foggy field at a fire, illuminating their faces in a flame, like a red silk flag.
Here Khurshida thoughts broke the voice of the cranes that flew in the sky and she screamed? The tractor driver Sultan looked up sharply and banged his head on the crankcase of the motor.
Well, Mrs. Lady Duchess Khurshidabanu Madame de La Marquise La tombala neige a pa seue pasuble manege?! — he asked, coming out from under the bulldozer.
Cranes!- cried Khurshida, enthusiastically looking at the sky, where the blade flew a huge flock of cranes, covering half the sky.
Yes-aa-ah! — admiringly said the tractor driver Sultan, looking at the autumn sky, removing a moth-eaten hat and leaning against the bulldozer of yellow color. Cranes fly high, filling the sky with their sad cries. The lovers stared at the crane for a long time until they completely disappeared from sight, disappearing into the sky.
Here, the cranes also flew to distant lands. If the whole neighborhood had become an orphan and the soul too — sighed Khurshida.
Yes, it is a Pity that we are not born cranes. We would fly also to the South side by side, after them, like cranes freely shouting noisily, over the autumn fields, over the forests, over blue bays and oceans. In the spring we would return to the Far East or here in Uzbekistan. They would live together happily, among tall grasses in the meadows performing the mating dance, flapping their huge wings and jumping on long legs and waking the silence on the deserted lawns of spring with shouts of joy. Seeing us from the Windows of their huts, lonely poets would write haiku, draining to the bottom of a sea shell with rice vodka sake and sadly munching on a snack coarse grinding.
You look more like a poet than a tractor driver. I’m sure that if you wrote poetry, there would be no equal on the planet «Earth». Your poems translated to all languages of the world, and people would have bought your books like hotcakes. Moreover, you would have been awarded the international Nobel Prize. And you would be living in peace, somewhere out there, in the Swiss Alps or in Paris or in Canada. The crowd of beautiful girls ran up to you crying and asking for your autograph. Many of them have you finished the suicide by throwing herself from the Eiffel tower in Paris -said Khurshida.
Who am I, a poet? I’m more like a chimney sweep. And to write poetry does not have to be a poet.
Conversely, you do not have to write poetry to be or become a good poet, because life itself is the highest poetry. To drive a tractor and work alone in the fields covered by fog is thin, my poetry, my music, my delicate Symphony! Why do I have Paris, why the Swiss Alps, when there are fields where carefree walks drunken Uzbek the wind? Why do I need a crowd of beautiful Paris girls when I have you? And the tart smell of field weeds, the fragrance of the blooming roses and olive trees of the ravines and the delicate scent of acacia, to me a thousand times nicer than the smell of different perfumes and deodorants!
Believe me, I say seriously — said Sultan.
I believe You, Sultan with all my heart, and I am grateful to my fate, that I met someone like you. I wouldn’t want to leave you even for a minute, but you know that I have a strict father. I thank you for not being offended by my father and me and my mom. Okay, I went. And then my mother starts to worry about me. Because, when I came here, I didn’t warn her about it. I’m sorry that I just have to go home and I do not have the opportunity to help you continue to be with you even apologized Khurshida.
-All right, Khurshida. Thank you for coming. I am also very worried about You. Thank God that You are alive and healthy. Give my greetings to aunt Raheela, I respect her very much. Not only is she a good woman and a great mother, because she gave birth to such a beautiful girl with a gentle soul like you — said Sultan.
They barely parted, and Khurshida went home. The evening autumn fog had thickened to such an extent that it was difficult to see anything two steps away.Khurshida lay in the dark, listening to the distant roar of a lone tractor. This is it, my lover guy Sultan works there one, leading his bulldozer through the fog, plugging the deserted field. God help don’t let him sleep alone and fatigue, he lost control in thick fog, fell into a deep ravine with his bulldozer «Altai» she whispered.
Kissing in the fog
-Are you dumb, you understand, I owe him not that there is a daughter, and a life of its own! The great Chairman, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch saved me when I was in his pickup truck and accidentally knocked down an old woman on the road. Well, Yes, I was tipsy then, but this very old woman, is to blame. Instead of sitting at home, she wandered the streets in her old age. She died on the spot. Think? Tears hysteria, screaming, instead of thanking me for what I helped her to go to heaven, where she sought all my life. I was threatening to plant, hide in the prison for years, ungrateful creatures. But the world is still not failing the good people. One man approaches me, laughing, shaking his belly, unable to suppress his laughter. Hugged me fraternally and thanked me. -Thank you, brother. I’ll never forget, he says, forevermore. Finally, we are free from her, and she happens to be my mother-in-law. One summer, he says, I went on a picnic with our family. We sat, on the edge of our garden, where stood a Scarecrow, made of old clothes, all patched. Is the Scarecrow, thoughtfully looking into the distance with his eyes from under battered hats, made from buttons. His hands hang like a sausage in the Soviet era. Hair made from red straw. Flock of birds flew past our garden, for fear of thinking that living as a farmer. Here I sit, meaning, fire frying on the fire skewers of bread sausage. Mother-in-law, he says, too, is about our canvas tents with us and eats bread sausage, unceasingly moving his false teeth. I hyperventilate as well, I think, to live in this beautiful world! Relax at picnics with members of his family plus mother-in-law!.. Then, he says, in a voice wildly cried:
-Heyheyheeeeeeey! I love you, my native land! Love your spaces, to the mysterious whisper of rain and the cheerful noise of green trees in the open wind! I like to go without an umbrella under a drizzle, soaked to the threads of clothing by the country road, when lightning and thunder!.. Here, he says, as if ordering around the dark suddenly appeared from the sky of all clouds, and, he says, a storm began. I’m even gladder, looking at the sky, where, he says lightning and booming thunder. Here, as it started to rain and my family members ran, back home, as there was no place to hide. Our canvas tent was demolished by the wind, members, my family fleeing. Mother-in -law, too. He says, running limping on one leg, still chewing a slice of toasted bread, incessantly moving jaws, like a gopher in the steppe, which, he says, feeds on plant roots. As the rain intensified and turned into a downpour. Half an hour later, water in the river rose and the flood started. Here then, I also had to run home, that is to swim against the current. I barely came to our house, which, he says already squinted to the side, from the window in a panic, shouts to my wife and my beloved children. My mother -in -law, too. She curses me, saying, you cursed caused this natural disaster. I knew that in such serious situations I cannot do without the ark. Then, says he, took from the barn our large tin basin, that is, the trough in which we bathed with my wife after sex and sometimes bathe kids too. This trough we, says he, jokingly called «Titanic», and I told the members of his family, so they immediately boarded the schooner, as we need to depart from this ill-fated Harbor in the open ocean, where we can find some Pacific Atoll or a desert island for further accommodation. We sat in the ark, I too, and how otherwise? The ship’s long voyage without a captain, it’s still an ark without Noah. Well, we all took our seats. Here, my mother left behind since she was weighing almost half a ton. Well, where with the weight, judge, myself. The rain lashes with the wild noise of the Canadian falls of Niagara, and cries out: «cast off! To keep the rate between 60 degrees North and 19 degrees West longitude, they say, we sail! And mother-in-law arrived with a huge heavy square front of the Stalin era suitcase with a broken lock, without a handle arm, made of plywood, and shouts, scolding me, trying to catch hold of our ship! I said, where are you going, lady! Do you see that schooner on the long voyage there is no free space?! Everyone is busy! And I’m afraid that there is no space for your huge front of the Stalinist era suitcase, made of plywood without a handle that won’t close. If we take you on Board, then our ship may capsize and we will sink into the depths of this raging ocean! Come from the screw! Who says?! — I shouted, waving the shovel he held in his hands, using it as a paddle. But, my mother-in-law desperately grabbed overboard my bony hands of the dead and tried to sit on the carriage, my wife all to help her. And I had, a couple of times, hit her with a paddle in the dome, well, I mean, with a shovel. My deaf belly from hard blows, and lost consciousness as a poor unsuspecting Dolphin in the coastal waters, of which the poachers hit with a baseball bat and, my mother-in-law, too, as the naive Dolphin, drowned in the raging muddy water.
Finally, we managed to get rid of a heavy burden, and I began earnestly to row, to sail, as they say away from sin. But, there to the great happiness of my silence, the rain abruptly ceased, and the water level began to decline. In an hour our tin boat ran aground. My mother-in-law, all dirty with algae on her neck and ears is at the turn near the building of the post office, as an elephant thrown ashore by a wave, while, strong sea storm. My wife ran there, the children, too. Well, I think, damn, that’s not enough. Now we have to find the money for her funeral. But, there it was. You see, it breathes, his mouth wide open like a fish on the broken pieces in the aquarium, and even, he says, opened his slanted eyes. Well, thank God that you survived, dear mother I tell her happily. Then, she called in sick. Stopped eating and lost a lot of weight. Think, is it cancer? And then, in my head, was it a unique idea. I ran to the insurance company to fill in the necessary documents. Then I went to the Bank, well, to get a substantial loan in the name of my mother-in-law, in the hope that when she dies, the state itself will pay for it, given the death of the creditor, proceeding from considerations of humanity.. I got a loan, but the mother-in-law, instead of dying, recovered and started eating with great appetite, all of which can be eaten. It seemed that she was even much younger, gaining strength. And the interest with which I received the loan, he says, is inexorably rising. I did not know what to do. One day I caught her in a full moon in the garden, where she watched the shining Orb of the moon and read some magic spells. The time, I thought, and took a twenty-five millimeter tube, and approached her quietly tiptoe back, and hit her head hard. Came the sound knocking like «Klang!» and the pipe was bent in the letter «G», she didn’t even notice. Sitting and casting spells. After that, I had no choice but to strangle the mother-in-law with these… well, strings of Uzbek dutar. But this way too, did not help. Taut strings of the dutar, was broken, and she, alive, smiling his toothless mouth like a sea whale. Well, today she apparently was in the hands of an expert like you and gave tips, thank God Almighty. A man, who again and again thanked me, cries with joy. I say, not for that, man. Then I was taken to a detention center. But thanks to the great Chairman, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch that he bought prosecutors and the judge, giving them a bag of public money from the Treasury of our farm «Tillaquduq», in the form of bribes, case closed, which was opened on my feature. You saw it with your own eyes that I was acquitted and freed in the courtroom. Well, now think about it, how can I refuse such a great Chairman, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch when this historical figure asks to have our daughter marry the son of his cousin? On the contrary, it is a chance for us to get acquainted with influential and wealthy people of our district. Only a fool drives away with a stick the bird of happiness, which wants to build the nest on his bad head. The word of the Chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch to me the law! I respect him more than his father! In short, I promised him. And the President, in turn, gave the word to cover all costs of the wedding by the Treasury of our farm. So get ready for the wedding. Tomorrow the matchmaker should come. See, that was no amateur. You know me. Clank, with an axe on the head and half your body here and another part there — finished his story Abduljabbar.
Hearing these words, Raheela started crying, hugging Khurshida and stroking her hair.
Why are you crying Ah, you stupid, why are you crying instead of being happy?! — Said Abduljabbar.
What should I do? You want me to laugh?! Why are you not consulting me, giving them the promise? I cry not for myself but for our daughter! We have to ask Khurshida whether she wants to marry the nephew of the Chairman. We have to know first how to, examine the character and behavior of the future son-in-law to know what he was doing, and then make the decision — cried Raheela.
Shut up! Who are you all to discuss the behavior of the nephew of our dear great Chairman, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelybakezavuch, my idol?! They are decent people! I told you, explained in human language, that I am obliged to the Chairman of the life! And you, fool, again! You see, I didn’t consult her! Why do I need to consult you, say, yourself? You’re a brainless mule.! It is the East, not Europe or the West, where parents go to leash their wives and children! If you don’t like my actions, then good riddance! Go out there and find yourself some obedient donkey! And here I am the master! About whom our son-in-law knows! The great Chairman, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch told me that next week our new relatives intend to send matchmakers to ask for the hand of your daughter. Said matchmakers will bring a picture of our future son-in-law, okay, numbskull?! Period! said Abduljabbar, and went out. Raheela and Khurshida wept, hugging each other. Raheela then suddenly stopped crying and took over the shoulders of the daughter, looking into her burning crazy eyes.
I have an idea. Here’s what we do. You, daughter, go and consult with the tractor driver Sultan, and go away together somewhere. I don’t want you to be unhappy. Let me kill this tyrant, an alcoholic. I have lived her in this hell and enough. I don’t want you to become like me. One victim is enough! Where you’re from, live happily and freely! — blessed Raheela.
No, mommy, I can’t leave you in this hell! I don’t want my father to beat you because of me! Can’t sacrifice you, honey! Such happiness I don’t need! I’ll take the rope with soap and water and hang it! — cried Khurshida.
No! Don’t even think about it. Suicide is a sin! Did you ever think about what would happen to the Sultan after he hears about you?! And I? How will I live after this?! You want me out of your mind?! Oh, God, help me and show us the way of truth! — cried Raheela.
You’re right, mom — said Khurshida. Better I will go now to the Sultan and tell him everything. I have it smart and we will figure something out. Only you do not cry, okay, promise? — Raheela nodded in agreement, wiping her tears with a handkerchief. Dressed warmly, Khurshida flew into the yard and went out into the street, running toward the fields. Khurshida was glad the weather was foggy, and she was able to escape without being shown to the villagers, who like to spread rumors. She fled, stumbling through the fog and cried on the run. Hearing the roar of the bulldozer, Khurshida ran even faster to quickly share with the Sultan the terrible news of her engagement. The sound of the engine gave her a reference point, and finally, Khurshida saw a dim silhouette of a tractor that plowed the land, lighting up the misty field with the headlights on. To run on a plowed field was difficult. Therefore, Khurshida fled, stumbling at almost every step, sometimes on all fours. Approaching the bulldozer, she cried:
Sultan, stop-easy! Slyshite, wait-her?! But the tractor driver Sultan because of the noise of the motor had not heard her screams and drove forward. He saw Khurshida only when turned to learn how there is a furrow. Seeing her, he was delighted. Having stopped the bulldozer, he killed the engine and jumped out of the cabin, smiling happily.
What winds brought You here, to the field of separation and loneliness, Oh, Mrs. Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege! he said, stepping to the side Khurshida by leaps and bounds. Coming closer to the girl, he stopped smiling
Oh, Madam Duchess Khurshidabanu de La Marquise La tombala neige a pace sua e fusible manege, why do we cry? Who hurt You? You name only the name, and I’ll cut off his ears -he said.Khurshida is unable to withstand tears and with tears in her eyes, rushed into the arms of the Sultan.
Well, do not cry, Khurshida, explain what happened? Did uncle Abduljabbar?… And what about aunt Raheela? — asked the tractor driver Sultan, embracing her and stroking her shoulders.
No, Sultan, the situation is even worse! — said Khurshida.
What are You? The third World or something, started? .
Oh no! Marry me! Father, it appears, promised to give me to marry the nephew of the Chairman of our kolkhoz, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelybakezavuch. A nephew of the President, I even in a dream not seen! -cried even harder Khurshida.
Hearing this the tractor driver Sultan paused for a moment.
Well, things… — hardly he said, then grabbed the chest:
-Oh, my head is spinning again. Let’s sit down — he said.
They sat down. Khurshida cried with my head on the shoulders of the tractor driver Sultan. And Sultan did not know what to say, and silently stared into the fog, eyes downcast. Then, taking off his cap, wiped the tears from eyes that appeared in front of him. And to suppress the bitterness in his heart, took a deep breath and, swallowing his tears, asked:
Well, what do we do now?
I do not know Sultan, I don’t know. My mother said that we should get away somewhere. She said let your father beat me. Run, daughter with your favorite guy, live freely and happily. But I don’t want my father to beat her because of me. How can I be happy through the unhappiness of his mother, whom I love more than life? — continued to cry Khurshida.
No, it’s not an option. Don’t cry, Khurshida. Tears of sorrow will not help. I’ll think about it. Ahead we still have days and weeks, maybe months. Well, that’s enough, stop crying. Let us, I’ll wipe Your tears
said Sultan, and began to wipe her tears with his fingers. Khurshida grabbed the rough hand of Sultan and started kissing her.
Sultan, my dear, beloved, think. You’re in my brain. I believe that you will definitely find a way out of this situation, she said. And embracing the neck of the Sultan began to kiss his face on the lips.
Well, my wonderful, well — said Sultan, too, and passionately began to kiss Khurshida on the lips.
They had a long kiss in the mist.
The long autumn night, the fog and the dead silence. The ghostly silhouettes of houses and trees dissolve in the mist, and the neighborhood slowly begins to float, as if in milk. Khurshida»s ear caught the distant roar of a lone tractor, deaf and distant dog barking. A long time she lay in her room, thinking about the tractor driver Sultan, and she wanted to get up and go to the field, to his beloved man, the tractor driver Sultan, who works in solitude on his tractor. She decided to read a book before bed and took a collection of short stories of the writer Abu Devar Darmeyan. His story «The Birdhouse» begins with these words.
The General round-up of the new government saved me my birdhouse. That is, seeing that I live in the birdhouse, people thought I was insane, and the authorities released me from military service in the army, which was then late in the fall. The day was frosty. The bare branches of trees were buzzing in the cold winds.
By evening, the smell of snow, and at midnight the large flakes began to fall snow. Snowflakes swirled lazily as down shot of white swans in a snowstorm. Then the snow gradually intensified and turned into a soft and silent snowfall. Deserted midnight streets, trees, rooftops, parks and boulevards, groves filled in the white silence, like a dream. The snow was falling, whispering mysterious prayer snowflakes swarms swirled around the street lights, who bowed, like a table lamp over white paper snow. Although he dominated the blue gloom, but there was light from snow as in the white nights of the Northern countries. This night reminded me of the Laundry of the hospital the beginning of the twentieth century, where nurses on the tense rope hung wash pillowcases, sheets and white coats. I was lying on a makeshift bed in my bedroom the birdhouse, looking through the window at the falling snow. I felt alone, the only living person in the world as people slept soundly this white silence, you could hear the whisper of falling snowflakes. Through snowflakes in a Blizzard, I saw the glowing Windows of the birdhouse, which housed the library, where worked a girl named Bahorshamol Oyshu»lanafis Guzalgultozan.I opened the hatch and walked out of the birdhouse. Down I went, stumbling in the snow, to the side of the birdhouse, where was located the library. I was walking up the stairs as it creaked; I knocked on the door, which was opened by a beautiful librarian named Bahorshamol Oyshu»lanafis Guzalgultozan.
-Hello, Bahorshamol Oyshu»lanafis Guzalgultozan! — I said, wiping and brushing boots at the door.
Oh, it’s your neighbor? Well, come in — said Mrs. Bahorshamol Oyshu»lanafis Guzalgultozan, smiling cheerfully.
Going to the birdhouse library, I immediately felt the smell of books and walked closer to the shelves. Bahorshamol Oyshu»lanafis Guzalgultozan sat down in her chair and began to write something on the card. Her thick black gentle hair fell from her delicate shoulders, touching the table.
Well, what books do we intend to read, dear neighbor? — she asked, not looking up from her work. In her gentle arm the handle was swaying like a drunk. Her long white smooth slim and delicate fingers, smooth neck and chins with infant skin, unpainted lips that resembled rose petals, cornflower eyes, white teeth, and charming smile drove me crazy.
-Dear neighbor Bahorshamol Oyshu»lanafis Guzalgultozan, do you have the novel written by Cardinal Sharle Carboran «Silence in the mist»? — I asked.
Yes, of course! Here it is on my Desk! Not only is Karon our library, but my favorite cookbook! I always carry with me clutching, I read again and again and did not read a lot. Read even when eating, leafing through its pages, and they rustle like fallen autumn leaves. If I do not read it at night before bed, I can’t fall asleep. Every time I read this novel, I cry, shedding tears from the eyes into the pillow. And in some places laugh loud and long, putting a pillow to your mouth to neighbors in other birdhouses woke up at midnight when quietly roaming the sky, lonely moon and fire of a distant star, to read these books for a night of fun. What novel, my God! What a great writer this with a well known name, Sharle Carboran! Characters I love: a poor shepherd, the protagonist of the novel, Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi and his beloved beauty Sabo Zulfiparishan! How they love each other, as they meet under the bright moon on the edge of the field and as they kiss, lying on the haystack, like a soft, squeaky, sleeping bed! Although the writer does not describe the romantic scenery, but I read it excitedly work, you begin to clearly perceive the monotonous chirping of crickets, a chorus of croaking frogs in a pond, distant and deaf dogs barking and, of course, to feel the heavenly aroma of sweet clover under the moonlight where lovers kiss haystack Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi and incomparable Sabo Zulfiparishan. With all this, I gaze into the star-strewn infinite, the Milky Way, which shimmers in the sleepy sky, like a baby in the cradle. The matter does not end there. I start to dream about the characters in the novel «Silence in the fog» , my favorite writer Monsieur the Cardinal Sharle of Carboran. I see that as a reality, a solitary shepherd Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi, who is tending a herd of wild antelopes and tapirs in the desert, where the swaying sea of silky grasses. He sits on one of the tapirs and galloping across the steppe, driving a long whip of a huge flock that’s running, circling, and looks like a giant whirlpool. The lonely shepherd Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi continues to ride on the tapir, stubbornly and constantly thinking about his beloved Sabo Zulfiparishan and her words. Father of Sabo Zulfiparishan said, stroking her hair and being afraid to drop the trembling tears in her eyes:
Daughter, I can’t marry you to Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi. Because he is a shepherd and herding in the steppes of the vast herds of wild antelopes and Tapir free. I know a simple man who makes a Scarecrow for the vegetable gardens of old, ragged clothes. I know I sometimes bitterly cry alone, at the edge of autumn rice fields at the feet of the scarecrows, which he made out of rags and straw. Crying, saying to them:
Oh, my Scarecrow, you never asked me! I know in the world you are a lot! But unlike the humans made by the God Almighty, you will never cheat each other, never fight each other and not kill anyone, even a fly, not destroy the city for the sake of gain, and make a beautiful flag from false slogans! We, the people whom God has created, ask the Creator every day for money, gold, diamonds and power! Here I look at you and think about something else. On a political Scarecrow in the world, which is languishing in deep mines on the territory of all nuclear powers? Using nuclear power scared people. And your shepherd Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi has no idea about the Scarecrow. Chasing a crazy flock of antelopes, and tapirs in the boundless steppes with a long whistling whip.
Hearing these words, the poor clogs Sabo Zulfiparishan, cried and flew into the street. She ran, tightly clutching the novel-bestseller «Silence in the mist» , great writer of our time of Cardinal Sharle Carboran and cried. She hurried towards the steppe, where he herded a herd of wild sagas and tapir his beloved Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi, sitting on the tapir, driving long whip humming and rotating, like a giant whirlpool, a herd of tapir steppe and saga. When they reached the steppe, saw from afar the shepherd Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi and rushed to her tapir. And they hugged each other.
Come, my wonderful one! How I’ve missed you! — said the shepherd, Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi, kissing Sabo Zulfiparishan lips, eyes, chin and neck.
I missed you too, my dear shepherd Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi! I can’t live without you! I asked permission from my father, but my father refused. I cannot, says he, my child, you marry the shepherd Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi, who has no idea about the Scarecrow. He, says he, only knows how to drive a herd of antelopes and tapirs in the boundless steppes with a long and whistling of the whip. Tell me, my dear, Sahib Mustafa Suleiman Karbalayi, why the fate of the people in my life are not like the fate of the characters of the novel «»Silence in the mist»» our beloved writer Cardinal Sharle Carborane, because the novel is written? Why did you become a shepherd as a character of this novel, which I always carry with me and read to the holes? What do we do now? — cried Sabo Zulfiparishan.
I’m not a shepherd by profession — said Mustafa Suleiman Sahib Karbalayi.
-Who are you then? — said Sabo Zulfiparishan, surprised.
I will not say, because you don’t believe me — said Mustafa Suleiman Sahib Karbalayi.
No, you tell me — insisted Sabo Zulfiparishan.
Well,- said Mustafa Suleiman Sahib Karbalayi and continued — just promise me you won’t faint.
Agreed — said Sabo Zulfiparishan.
Then listen. I am the same writer who wrote the novel «Silence in the mist» under the pen name of Cardinal Sharle Corburan! That is, I’m your favorite writer, who wrote the book you always carry with you and read to holes. Give me that book, I’ll write you an autograph for memory — said the shepherd of the steppe antelopes and tapirs Mustafa Sahib Suleiman Karbalayi. From this news, poor Sabo Zulfiparishan dizzy, and she fainted. Here’s an interesting book, a novel by my favorite author Cardinal Sharle Carboran — said the librarian Bahorshamol Oyshu»lanafis Guzalgultozan.
Yeah-aah, really, a novel, exciting and breathtaking ‘ I said, glancing furtively at the elastic half-naked breast of librarian Bahorshamol Oyshu»lanafis Guzalgultozan. These are the things I love. I put this point to new writing meetings.
Sincerely, Kosakalparazit Patrontash Partizanuvuch.
The most interesting part of the story of Cardinal Sharle Carborane,Khurshida fell asleep. It woke Raheela and began to speak.
Oh, I have, among other things, a unique idea — Raheela smiled.
What is the idea? — Asked Khurshida.
Rahila, in a low voice, whispered in the ears of Khurshida.
What if I, too, run away with you huh? The three of us would live happily and freely, where we can’t find your father, she said.
Yeah, not a bad idea. Brilliantly! Why we previously didn’t think about that, Yeah, run away, the three of us said Khurshida rejoicing. After that, they spent the night preparing to escape, by collecting the right things in the hay bales. In the morning, Abduljabbar, working with Raheela Khurshida, closed the building of the castle and cautiously went outside. The street was still hazy, and this weather condition just contributed to them. They quickly walked through the fog towards the field, hiding from the strangers’ eyes.
Learning about our plan, Sultan will be happy — said Khurshida, walking briskly.
Yes, I think so too, said Raheela and continued:
I’m not running away from your father, no, I have long ceased to fear him. I think only of you, daughter. I’m ready to die, seeing that the day you’ll find happiness. Why would I want to become close with the rich officials, if you don’t like the guy getting married? It is not in money and not in luxury — she said.
Now Raheela with Khurshida barely walked in a furrow among the layers. They walked for a long time, then stopped and listened carefully to the silence. If any of the silent fog they could see the tractor driver Sultan, even if he was fixing it somewhere. And then they went blind.
Oh, my God, there’s no Sultan, or today for his day off, and suddenly he… God Forbid he got sick — said Khurshida.
Can he repair his tractor? Sitting or sleeping in the cab of the tractor, hard man all night to work but still in a dense fog, alone. Even the robot, and then breaks down at such hellish work. You call him sweetheart. If he hears your voice, it will respond — advised Raheela.
What is possible and to call, as these fields right now nobody but us no -said Khurshida and started screaming, calling her beloved kid.
-Sultaaaaaaaan! Ahh, Sultaaaaaaan! Where Are You?! Respond, my mother came! We have a very good idea! — she screamed, but the tractor driver Sultan did not respond.
Finally, they understood that the tractor driver Sultan was not in the field there. Khurshida, after losing all hope, threw herself into the arms of his mother and again wept bitterly. Raheela too.
The bride of the tractor driver Sultan Huhur Rayhan
Khurshida went to the collective farm tractor Park to find out where the tractor driver Sultan disappeared these days. During a recent conversation, he said that he lives in the tractor Park. Going to tractor Park, Khurshida asked the Manager and heard the terrible news that she feared most. It turns out, the tractor driver Sultan went, whether in Tashkent, whether in his native village «Tuyamuyun».
Hearing this, Khurshida felt very dizzy and unable to fall, she leaned against the wall. The Manager went on to explain:
-The guy was nice, funny and smart, the whole team respected him. I asked the reason for his departure, but he didn’t want to tell us about it. He packed his bags, said goodbye to us, and he left. Only… excuse me, girl, is your name Khurshida? — asked the Manager.
Yeah, what? — Khurshida shuddered, thinking of where the Manager knows her name.
The fact that the tractor driver Sultan before leaving, said to me confidentially, whispering in my ear that he trusts me like I trust myself. Then he asked me to give you this envelope. Don’t be afraid, I won’t tell anyone. Of course, I don’t want to interfere in your internal Affairs, but personally I feel sorry for the tractor driver Sultan. Such a cheerful guy, the comedian, and suddenly, the smile on his face faded, as if the burned-out bulb, eh… Here you go, in one piece and believe me, I have not opened this envelope. Maybe he left you his coordinates — the Manager said, passing the envelope. Smiling through tears, Khurshida thanked the Manager and took the envelope with shaking hands. After that, she left the control room. Khurshida was walking on the sidewalk and cried, clutching the envelope to her chest. Not to get caught in the open, she went over the edge of the field, where the trail meandered like a snake to the field camp. When Khurshida came to the camp, there was not a soul. She sat down at a homemade field table, located under acacia, which blooms in the spring. At that moment, the tractor driver Sultan’s letter seemed to her to be a time bomb. On the other hand, it encouraged her. She carefully opened the envelope and took out the letter. Khurshida recognized the familiar handwriting of the tractor driver Sultan and began to read.
First of all, I would like to ask you and your mother, Aunt Rachel, for the fact that, without consulting with you, I made an independent decision, and I’m leaving. I’ve been thinking, but couldn’t find the way out of the situation but to leave, so as not to disturb you and your family. Khurshida, You clever girl, think for yourself, well, let’s say, we’ll go someplace else. Do you think this will solve all the problems? No, of course, If not your father, people Chairman Comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch will find us, at least from the ground. This is by far. That is, they have long hands.
I’m not afraid for myself, I’m afraid only for you and your mother. This is destiny and we are not in force to change. Here, my presence will only harm you and your family. I don’t want to because I cursed your father and you burn in hell in the afterlife. The curse of the father is the end for man! Living with your father’s curse doesn’t make sense. And I want you to be alive and your mother, Aunt Rachel. Yes, I love you and you know it. But it doesn’t give me the right to sacrifice You and your mom. On the contrary, I should sacrifice myself for you, for aunt Rachel’s life and for our love. I understand you and your position; I understand that you also are in unbearable pain, mental pain, unbearable spiritual torture that I feel. But this suffering is nothing in comparison to the torment and torture of hell. May the worms of separation eat me alive; I’m ready for it in order to protect you from destruction. Who knows, maybe God himself decided to test our patience. And we have no other way but to make peace with the destiny that is ordained by the Supreme God himself. I’m most afraid to go crazy with longing and boredom without you. My soul cries like a violin, like the wind in the desert, like the hoopoe in the fields.
I will never forget you, Khurshida, and I’ll love you forever! You will remain in my memory as a white acacia, which will bloom selflessly in the spring near the field camp! Khurshida, I ask you at last — if you really love me, then accept the fate and marry the guy for whom your father wants to give you. Because uncle Abduljabbar promised, gave word of man, this chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch. This is very important in terms of the honor and dignity of men. You have to put up with fate, at least so as not to jeopardize the life of your mother, who gave birth and raised you. If your love for me is sincere, you will find strength in yourself and try to overcome the bitterness of separation. You’ll see, it will be years — and gradually let go of you, that spiritual hunger, that terrible need, the name of which is separation. And our love will remain in our hearts as the first snow, like an unspoiled island Paradise where no foot of man, where on the sandy shore there will be no trace, but our with you. Shore waves will kiss in the moonlight of those loving acceptance that we wrote when something you stick in the sand. This will be our quiet mooring under the moon, where we will sail mentally, and sitting under the white acacia, we will silently look at the moon shining over the sea of memories, listening to the rustle of the tide of waves. Our love will remain in our memory banks of the blooming white acacia. This is my first and last letter. Want — tear it to pieces and throw it to the wind like the petals of the flowers of the acacia, want — burn like a tourniquet autumn leaves of the poplars and maples that grow at field mill, where we first met, want to save on memory, and don’t look for me. All the forces try to forget me.
Be happy and live long.
With best wishes,
The tractor driver Sultan Ultanovich.
After reading the letter, Khurshida roared, shaking her whole body, owed:
God, what is this? He gave me happiness and he took it from me! How am I going to live now, Lord?! How do I get out of this pit now?! He left, leaving me…No, and don’t hope, unfaithful Alphonse, I’ll never forgive you! If you’d waited a little while, me and my mom, the three of us would have gone! — She cried. Then suddenly she abruptly stopped crying, staring at the hazy blank look. Her eyes were empty, like a pair of birds flying south. For her, life has lost its color, taste and any sense. Time stopped, too. Now she didn’t care. As if the soul left her body, flew somewhere in the unknown distance and flew on and on, forever, like a night bird disturbed. Khurshida stood up from her place and went back roads through the fog, with the crumpled letter in hand and did not notice how came home. Seeing her pale face and empty eyes meaningless, Raheela was scared.
What’s wrong, daughter? Don’t tell me that the tractor driver Sultan died — she said. Khurshida hugged mom and said.
No, mom, it happened more terrible than his death… He left- Khurshida started to cry.
What are you talking about? Who told you that he left? No, it can’t be. These evil people staged a draw, telling you false news-told Raheela. Khurshida showed her the crumpled letter to the tractor driver Sultan.
This letter says it all — tears, she again, sitting down exhausted on a chair.
Smoothing the crumpled letter, Raheela started to read wider and wider to gawk at each read line.
After reading the letter, she also instinctively squeezed the letter into a ball.
As I was happy but, oh, how I was hoping, thinking that you will be happy. But the opposite happened. We were too late. It’s all my fault. The idea of leaving came to my mind too late. I should have thought about it earlier, earlier. Oh, my God, we’re so unlucky! — said Raheela in a whisper, with tears in her eyes.
Daughter, you really do not cry, better go to your room and lie down, rest a bit, gather my thoughts. Don’t cry. Many do not cry, do not beat yourself up, you still can’t reverse the water in the river that flowed. Lost time cannot be regained… With these words Raheela helped Khurshida to undress. Khurshida walked, not looking at her feet, like a sleepwalker who sleeps on the go. She went into his room and threw himself on the bed and covering her head with a pillow, began to sob bitterly. Raheela stroking her feathered hair, too, was crying. Khurshida was lying there till the evening, and didn’t want her to eat her dinner, despite the request and entreaty of her mother. She locked herself in the room, asking her mother not to disturb her. At night, Khurshida again dreamed of the tractor driver Sultan. He was wearing a black Tux. Neatly combed, shaved, fresh as a Daisy, with a cigar in his mouth, he sat behind a field desk under a white acacia at the field mill. Beside him sat the bride in a white wedding dress, skinny, with an overly long neck, big like a tarsier, with eyes, with a swollen forehead, reminiscent of a planetarium, with long and bony hands and big, thin ears, like the ears of a bat. She had a big mouth, but her lips were thin. At other tables sat the drunken guests, many of whom danced the Chairman of the collective farm comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch on the dance floor, raising his eyebrows, moving necks and wiggling their butts in time to the music. Over the bride and groom moved bunches of white acacia flowers, gently swaying in the spring wind. The waiters poured the guests Moldovan wine «Isabella» in crystal glasses. Flying champagne corks, all the noise, loud female laughter, male laughter, one word — fun. Only, Khurshida stood in the corner quietly crying. After passing through the crowd, she came to the main table, where the bride and groom sat, that is, the tractor driver Sultan with his companion.
Nu, Hello, Sultan! Getting married right, and I? We all loved each other. Making plans for the future and you seem to have sworn to marry me at all costs. And you turned out to be a real con man. Take and defy me! It turns out that every day you change girls like socks! Are you not ashamed?! — she said.
The tractor driver Sultan looked at Khurshida with surprise and, lighting a Cuban cigar, said:
I don’t understand, Madam, who are You, something I don’t remember. I don’t have another girlfriend, and I didn’t. I just love her, the advanced tractor driver, and the beauty of Hurhur Rayhan! Whoever you are, I must warn you not of the responsibility for libel, but that my fiancée has been engaged in melee fighting for years in the basement of the Department of Internal Affairs, and that she has a black belt in karate. She is a master of sports in Jiu-jitsu. To be honest, I’m scared of her. I would advise you to drink less alcohol. Such brawls will not lead to anything good! — He said.
What a vile man, Sultan! Here’s to you! — said Khurshida and, grabbing the edge of the tablecloth, sharply pulled on itself. As a result, all that was on the table fell to the ground. The crystal glasses shattered. Porcelain vase also broke into exactly two parts. A beautiful bouquet of purple roses with long stems scattered in different directions. An angry bride-to-be Sultan Mrs. Hurhur Rayhan one leap was on the table.
Honey, Hurhur Rayhan! Come to your senses, dear! Don’t give in to provocation! This village girl is not worthy of your anger! It is not necessary to get dirty with the blood of this illiterate redneck. Oh, my lovely rose! Stop, for the sake of our love! — shouted the tractor driver Sultan.
But Hurhur Rayhan did not obey the tractor driver Sultan and with the battle cry attacked Khurshida, starting a fight between two angry women.
Well, now you’re dead, Hurhur Rayhan! I’ll knock you out! — Khurshida said, catching hold of her hair, tugging her curly hair, but when hair Hurhur Rayhan pulled away, and bared her bald head, which looked like a hen’s egg, Khurshida scared. In a cold sweat of fear, she woke up.
Blunt blows with a wrench
The house Raheela comes funny thick rich matchmakers with gold crowns in his mouth, barely passing through the narrow, slanted, unpainted gate of planed boards.
Welcome dear guests, come, and come, welcome-said Raheela, greeting them and inviting them to the house. One of the matchmakers, a woman with a thick ass, began to mock.
Oh, why are you taking us to the coop, a future relative, better sit here, under the open sky she said.
Another woman picked up her words and also began to irony.
Yes that you, survival, it’s not a coop, and probably the stables and our new rich relatives, which held Arabian horses «Karabair», each of which is worth more than millions of dollars — she scoffed.
No, dear guests, what a hen house, some stables, this is our home where we actually live with the whole family. What kind of racers are you talking about? We don’t have a horse; we don’t even have a donkey. We live very modestly, and I will not hide it from you, dear guests. If you’re uncomfortable, then… — said Raheela.
Oh, no, no, next of kin, we were kidding. We shall go, of course, in your hut — told another matchmaker.
They went into the house and sat down on the mattress, and, reciting a prayer on a custom, made an amen, carrying out palms on a face. They talked, looking at the low ceiling, fearing that he could crash on their heads. Thick matchmaker with a thick ass, with gold crowns in her teeth and a double chin began to speak:
I love these huts. We had a distant relative who lived on the edge of the Mirzachol desert with their small family. We sat in a hut like this one time, on a clay floor, and the wife of our relative put food in a tin can and called someone by name, looking into the crack of the clay wall. I thought she was calling her cat. Turns out she was calling for a hedgehog dinner, you know? The hedgehog ate and walked a little, running fast with small legs and rustling their needles. He ran around us, and he walked away. After dinner, we laid a pastel on the flat roof of a clay hut. Lie on a cotton corpach, looking at the starry desert sky and bright shining moon. In the distance, behind sand dunes where sexual trees grow, hungry jackals have poured out. Under the mattress was feeling hot and stifling. Incessantly bitten by either fleas, or lice, I don’t know. We’ve combed all our bodies. Outside is not allowed to sleep humming a black swarm of bloodthirsty mosquitoes. There were so many of them that we did not have time to drive them away, only slapping ourselves like crazy. Horror! The worst happened after that. As it happened, I don’t know, but my mattress got a big nasty bat with a nasty leather wings without feathers. I wildly screamed in horror, crying in fear, I almost fell flat clay roof hut our distant relative from the desert «Mirzachul» she said, laughing, shaking her belly and double chin. Other matchmakers laughed too, flashing gold crowns in their teeth. Then they, making a serious face, switched to a business conversation, asking hands Khurshida for the nephew of the Chairman Comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch. At the same time, they praised the guy, saying that he does not drink, does not smoke, does not gamble, and so on.
Here is a picture of our nephew Padhella, said to be a fat matchmaker, passing the photo to Raheela.
Raheela took a picture and promised to think about this proposal and break bread, spread the pieces on tablecloth, which was laid out with a lot of sweets and fruit. Conversation between them continued for tea drinking.
After she left the matchmakers, Raheela looked longingly at the picture of the future son-in-law. The guy was kind of cute, and she thought he was intelligent, cultured and decent. Raheela rushed to show the picture Khurshida. But even out of the corner of her eye, she didn’t want to look at the photo of the guy.
The little girl, look, the guy, in my opinion, nothing. That is normal, nice. You hear, Khurshida, a unique idea has come to my mind, and this time I hope we’re not late. You, my daughter, marry this guy, and so we avenge the Sultan for what he deserted you and left, even not saying good-bye. Let the tractor driver Sultan, the con man will burn in flames of jealousy! We’ll show him how to throw a girl who loved him and believed with all my heart! You don’t cry anymore, baby. This scoundrel is not worthy of your tears! You’re crying day and night, and he’s out somewhere in Tashkent with another girl who goes to school with him, in the same course and in the same group. Who knows, maybe he even got married, and soon they will have a child. That scoundrel must be laughing in his wife’s arms, and you’re slowly going crazy. You must run out of tears. Further pupils your eye will dry up, and you can go blind. Look how thin you are! Don’t be naive, daughter. You have to fight and punish the villain of the tractor driver Sultan with their success, even if it is not for love! Do you ever look at a picture of your fiancé’s future? He’s handsome. Here you will live with it for two months, and you will forget that villain forever.
Yeah? You think so, mother? But I’m afraid I can’t get used to the other guy, and I don’t think I can forget that bastard, the goddamn Sultan tractor driver. I love him, okay? Mother, forgive me. I tortured you with my tears. But if you insist, I’ll do anything to make you happy. I don’t care now. Apparently, fate I have such a, and I must live with it.
That is another matter. You’re clever. You’re right, each person has their own separate destiny written on his forehead by God, and no one can erase or change that of the invisible destiny. I thought the tractor driver Sultan was your happiness. But God knows, I was wrong — said Raheela.
After this conversation, Khurshida had changed dramatically and she started to smile, eat more, even to laugh. Once she again saw the tractor driver Sultan. He and his beloved wife Hurhur Rayhan lived on the outskirts of the field, in the old dented rusty body of an abandoned bulldozer «Altai» yellow, overgrown with thick and tall weeds. On the roof of the rusty body of the bulldozer sat the tractor, the tractor driver Sultan, twisting the screws from the parabolic antenna, which he installed on the roof of an abandoned rusty body. At the bottom of his pregnant wife Hurhur Rayhan hung washed linen on a stretched rope with wooden clothespins. White sheets on the clothesline swelled like the taut white sails of the old schooner on the free spring winds. Inside the abandoned body of a bulldozer «Altai» sat a fat mother-in-law of the tractor driver Sultan, eating, and moving jaws. Then there was a pale skinny boy of seven or eight, with a puppy in his hands.
Dad, look, I brought the puppy! Stray dog helped the cemetery! — He shouted, looking at the tractor driver Sultan, who was involved in the installation of a parabolic antenna.
Well done, son! Is that puppy a cable or a bitch?! — He asked, for a moment, interrupting the work.
Bitch! — Sultan’s son said.
-Nothing they say abroad, many people keep the house mostly bitches! You lock her in the coop so it doesn’t run! — said Sultan.
All right, dad! — Sultan’s son said.
Dad, what do we call it?! — Sultan’s son asked, having locked a puppy in a hen house. Sultan on moment wondered, scratching the back of the head with a wrench, then said:
Come on, son, we’ll call her Itbachcha (son of a bitch). Does that sound?! Itbachcha! This nickname corresponds to this bitch in all respects! — smiling Sultan.
Okay, dad, I’ll call it that.
Sultan continued to work. Khurshida broke down and cried:
Hey Sultan, are you so happy and stupid?! Is this life?! Even homeless, drunks and run-off addicts, and they will not agree to live in the dented rusty body of an abandoned bulldozer «Altai» yellow light! And you’re so happy! You can also mount a stupid parabolic antenna on the roof of an abandoned bulldozer! You know, I didn’t come here just to notify you that I’m marrying a handsome guy named Pathirage! He was the nephew of the great Chairman Comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch! Burn now in the infernal fire of jealousy and turn into a handful of ashes, freak! Hahahahahahaha! — she laughed triumphantly.
Look, Hurhur Rayhan, there’s some old laughs! Hey, who are you?! What do you want, witch! Be gone, evil spirits! Just think, she’s getting married to Padilla! Duck out for anyone us, what a fool you’re the village?! Get the fuck out of here before it’s too late! I’m not going to break your skull with this wrench, you fucking bitch! — Sultan. Khurshida threatened, standing on the roof of the crumpled rusted body of the abandoned bulldozer «Altai»yellow. An angry pregnant wife of a tractor driver Sultan Hurhur Rayhan came to Khurshida. A desperate fight ensued between Hurhur Reyhan and Khurshida.
Khurshida, like last time, grabbed him by the hair Hurhur Rayhan to rip off her wig and laugh, looking at her bald head, resembling a peeled egg. But there it was. As she pulled her hair, pull her wig could not.
Well, yank, yank, stupid! You can’t do anything anyway! I glued the wig to the head like glue so that nobody will be able to tear it away!
Khurshida would easily overcome Hurhur Reyhan, if she had not had the military assistance of the tractor driver Sultan, who jumped off the roof of the crushed rusted body of an abandoned bulldozer «Altai» yellow. He ran with a weapon in hand, that is with a wrench and struck those blows to the head of Khurshida. The blows were so strong that she woke up from a nap.
Although Khurshida agreed that she would marry a nephew of the great chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch to save my mom’s life, but she couldn’t get rid of the unbearable longing for the tractor driver Sultan. On the contrary, her mental anguish, torture and pain grew, like a snowball, hour after hour and day by day. She smiled at her mom, but her soul was crying, demanding a meeting with the tractor driver Sultan. Khurshida was crying, not showing her tears to anyone, not even mom not to upset her. Foggy days and nights she cried into the pillow, and she always wanted to be alone, because alone she could mentally to meet her lover, the guy with the tractor, the tractor driver Sultan to live with her. Today, waking up, she saw snow falling outside the window and sighed involuntarily thinking that winter had come. It has been snowing all night and he fell carelessly, a blurry window with its delicate curtain. She fell quiet, as if fearing to frighten away the white silence, slowly thicker and thicker covering the streets, trees, roofs of houses white fluffy flakes. The snow was falling so thickly that it was difficult to see the road, houses and trees through the curtain of falling snowflakes. Khurshida was looking through the window at the snow, and could not look away from this gentle, fabulous winter beauty.
After Breakfast, Khurshida, dressed warmly, went to the side of the field mill, heavy with snow, through a Blizzard that circled diagonally flying snowflakes, not allowing her to open her eyes. She walked, protecting her eyes with the sleeve of her worn drape coat from flying snowflakes. Eyelashes and part of her hair sticking out from under the white shawl, snow-covered, like hair and eyelashes on a gray- haired old woman. Khurshida since childhood was surprised and captured by a mysterious silence that comes during a snowfall. Birds, streets, fields — all nature subsides, as if afraid to disturb the rustle and whisper of falling snow, like a prayer in the divine winter silence, especially at night. Snow jams make the car turn off the engine. Snow night lights not only light, but also deep ravines of the human soul to the bottom. In falling snow there are calm, melancholy street lamps that are lonely, thinking about something important, with downcast eyes, oblivious to the swarm of white and wild bees albinos that continually bite them, swirling in a Blizzard.
Hardly moving through the thick snow, Khurshida finally got to the field camp and saw the frozen snow-covered poplar and willow, which joined the branches to the ground from the weight of snow. A locust tree stood, too, in white, as if covered in flowers, and a nest of magpies, too, was covered with a thick layer of snow, like an old forgotten cart in the winter night. The snow was gone; the snowflakes were flying obliquely in white silence, white dash, covering up the traces of Khurshida. The snow fills the grievances, hardships, and separation as follows during a Blizzard, leaving in the soul the longing for past love and the sweet moments that it is impossible to return. Perhaps that is why sometimes I want to cry silently, staring at the falling snow, remembering happy and joyful days in my life. When you especially put out the light in the room, staring through the window at the white twilight, where it falls with the rustle of the snow, when people are sleeping, closing their doors on the latch, when snow-covered roads freeze in the white silence, your soul gets peace and comfort. The snow turns the night into a white
fairy-tale dream in reality.
Khurshida was covered with snow like a white pilgrim who came to visit the Shrine. She stood, ignoring the cold, swirling snowflakes in a Blizzard, looking at the dazzling snow which covered winter fields. For Khurshida these places, this field camp, this snow — covered white acacia turned into a hanging symbol of her love and looking at them in her soul revived marvelous memories. Here she met the tractor driver Sultan for the first time when the neighborhood was full of people and their joyful noise, their cheerful ringing laughter, and now the field camp and snow-covered fields have plunged into white silence, where in the noisy sparrows stunning his chirping the whole neighborhood, and heard a ringing and laughter laborers, now silence reigns, and there is a quiet sideways snow. Here, Khurshida bent the samovar; poured boiling water scalded his foot. It is here that she saw the iron will, self-restraint and patience of the tractor driver Sultan, without my noticing, I fell in love with him. What happy days are gone in the past, in the dead of oblivion? What an irreplaceable loss, how changeable this world is, o Lord my God! — Khurshida cried, shaking her shoulders. At the moment she didn’t want to go home. On the contrary, I wanted to sit at a table covered with snow, under a white acacia and, freezing, turn into ice as a mammoth in permafrost. Let it be covered with snow, falling for weeks day and night, and it will never respond to the call of people who will look for it all night in a snowstorm, stumbling on a knee in the snow with lanterns in their hands, not hearing even their own cry in a Blizzard. It will take eternity, silence. But her pity for her mother stopped her. If it wasn’t for her, Khurshida long time would not exist in this world, even the laws of religion would not be able to stop her from suicide. Because of pity to his mother she agreed without love to marry the nephew of the Chairman. Mom must be worried about her by now. If Khurshida’s sister or brother, she would not hesitate, would be hanged right on this acacia. But she’s the only one with her parents.
Khurshida sat a long time over the snow-covered table, under a tree, wrapped in a white fluffy blanket of snow. She came here to say goodbye to the white acacia, to the field camp and to the native snow-covered fields, where she fell in love and spent the lightest, unforgettable days in her life, which went into oblivion. The neighbor is also grieving, like saying goodbye to her and crying the Blizzard.
Goodbye — said Khurshida in a whisper, and in her chest there were furious tears, and then they leaked out the cracks of her eyes.
She stood up and, stumbling in the snow, went back home. Snow in the evening had increased and was falling all night long. Khurshida till the morning could not sleep, constantly thinking of the tractor driver Sultan. Despite the fact that she turned out the light in the room was bright from the slanting snow, which, without stopping, went outside the window.
Before going to the registry office, Khurshida cried at the door, hugging her mother.
Do not cry, dear, everything will be fine. God forbid that you become happy with Pathella’s, Amin! — Raheela tearfully blessed her daughter.
Khurshida went by car to the registry office, accompanied by her best friends. Friends congratulated her, envying her white. They happily and loudly laughed, whispering in her ear about something intimate. But Khurshida mentally lived in her own world, plunging thoughts in the fog of memories, thinking only of Sultan. Although she smiled at her friends, inside was crying. Judge for yourself, why should she have a beautiful and rich groom. If she does not feel for him not that there is a feeling of love or sympathy, but even the slightest interest? Who knows, maybe in the future it will release nostalgic memories on bright days which it lived with the tractor driver Sultan, will release unbearable melancholy on it. Maybe with time she’ll get used to Pathella. But at the moment, Khurshida felt not human, but rather some empty dishes. She looked at the merriment of her friends, empty eyes, and in her heart, like the empty autumn fields, wandering black cold wind of separation, as a belated farmer in the fog, who returned to his shack with a bag on her shoulders, where the last of the beets, uprooted them. On the way the girls joined the boys headed by fiancé Pathella. He gave her a lush bouquet of flowers and smiled a satisfied smile, talking about something, but Khurshida to listen even if it is not wanted. She was thinking about one person, and I think our dear readers know who they’re talking about. Pathella sat next to Khurshida and they went further in the direction of the Registrar office. Then registration, the exchange of wedding rings, a Sharia Nikah (engagement) congratulations and all that. Despite the severe winter, according to the order of the chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch sped up the wedding. The wedding was attended by the Chairman of the collective farm, and many guests from different places in Telekomunikasi district.
After making a report to the great chairman of the collective farm, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch, gave the word Khurshida’s father to Abduljabbar. He was, as always, tipsy and made a toast:
Hello dear guests! Welcome to my daughter’s wedding Khurshida and my son-in-Pathella’s wedding! I am extremely glad that my daughter married a nephew of our dear great chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch! Thank You, our dear wise great permanent chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch that you have in this world!
You’ve helped me all your life and made me a man! You gave me the extraordinary responsible position of the mechanic of a livestock farm of our collective farm. Thanks to you, we have jointly raised the economy of our collective farm, and increased the number of livestock. Many people tell me, they say, you work for many years in this livestock farm in the same position. You’re not bored with all this? Well, did you understand me at last, dear guests that I love this job and can’t exist without it. Sometimes I go to the city and in an hour I begin to yearn for a livestock farm of our collective farm. Nostalgia is starting to take over and eat me from the inside out. I, unlike you, I miss the smell of hay and manure, you know? I will come to the farm, inhale the air, where the tart smells of manure and hay, and swirl my head from the buzz. You’re laughing in vain, gentlemen. I’m quite serious. I also love the smell of newly mown with a combined corn, I love the expanse of corn fields. Oh, out in the wide field, and the soul sings like a Nightingale under the moon! I go through pastures in boots and in a sweatshirt, shearing sheep in the spring. You can’t even imagine how much I love watching herds of cows grazing in a thick autumn fog.
Their dim silhouettes in a quiet gray fog captivates me, bewitch me, and milkmaid? They are also in the pre-dawn twilight coming on creaky carts to the farm in silence, milking cows. Oh, my love, the ringing of the rattling empty buckets at dawn, in foggy silence. And there behind the barns and corrals of the mountain is the stack of pressed hay. Like gold bars on the shelves of Swiss banks! Like the pyramid of Pharaoh Tutankhamun in the Egyptian deserts! If I die, then bury me not in the churchyard, and on-site animal farm our farm Tillaquduq and lay over my grave high stacks of pressed hay in the form of the pyramids of the ancient pharaohs of Egypt!..
Sorry, once I start to think about the kindness of our distinguished chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch, tears will flow by themselves from my eyes.
Because our esteemed chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch first noticed and recognized my God-given talent! That sin to conceal, Yes, I confess that I am a really gifted person in the field of shearing of sheep. But they say that somewhere out there, beyond the ocean… Well, in America, that is, in the heart of world imperialism, the bourgeois annually organize sheep-shearing competitions among Texas cowboys and these cowboys in hats and in rough jeans cut for an hour fifteen and sometimes twenty sheep. And I can cut more than a hundred sheep in an hour! There is a difference? Yes, still not tying sheep to its feet! As they say, one-time-and on a striped mattress! To dispel your doubts like the morning fog at sunrise, I can demonstrate a complex trick right here, in front of your eyes — said Abduljabbar.
Hearing his words, the guests applauded in support, endorsing his initiative. Abduljabbar connected the ends of the wire synchronous electric machine with the input of the amplifier musicians and shouted:
-Come on, the goat in the Studio! The two quickly brought the goat, grabbing her by the horns and Abduljabbar, replacing the big tip of the clipper with the small one, got to work, demonstrating his high art in the field of shearing sheep and goats. Guests led by the chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch watched the action of Abduljabbar with great interest and curiosity. In a few minutes Abduljabbar performed the trick, and surprise guests gasped, then applauded him, shouting «Bravo!», because Abduljabbar wrote using the typewriter on the side of the goat the inscription «Chairman Comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch». Seeing this, the chairman Comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch and his bodyguards with black glasses, all got up from their seats and stood and applauded the great herdsman to Abduljabbar, admiring his art. Then hired a singer with a delicate velvety voice began to sing a song similar to the crying women and drunken guests began to dance to these songs, snake-like movements of the hands, moving her ass, raising his eyebrows look like black leeches. The wedding took place peacefully, and when the guests left, Khurshida with Pathella left alone in the room for the newlyweds to start their honeymoon. The embarrassment and shame and the indifference Khurshida even looked out of the corner of the eyes in the face of Pathella. When he got close to her in the intimate sense of the word, she screamed in pain. She closed her eyes and imagined that she was not moving closer to Pathella, and her lover, a guy, tractor driver Sultan. After sexual rapprochement she lay, turning away from the groom Pathella, not wanting to see his face. Pathella hugged and kissed on the lips, but Khurshida was lying, still tightly closed their eyes and thinking about love. Then they are washed, completing the Shower. But when Khurshida woke up at dawn to the custom to sweep the yard, she was terribly frightened by seeing a man lying next to him. There lay not the groom of Pathella with whom Khurshida was in the registry office, and who was sitting with her at the wedding table, and quite a strange man with a large head, with a nose like a potato, and with too narrow eyes. He smiled at her greeting, and began to hug her.
Well, Hello, honey, how was your vacation? — said he and tried again to address these the most… well… you probably know what this is about, don’t you? Then, Khurshida stood up abruptly from the scene, covering her pillow with the elastic chest and pulled back. She cried out in a loud voice, trembling with fear. And the man began to calm her down.
What are you yelling? Are you sane? The neighbors will hear! We have bad neighbors and they are not only jealous of us, but hate us! What are you afraid of, Khurshida? It’s me, your husband Pathella! Don’t shout for God’s sake, I’ll explain everything! In short, instead of me, the role of the groom was played by my friend, whom I hired for a certain amount of money. He studied at the theatrical Institute, actor’s faculty. You know, one scholarship is not enough for students. They also want to eat well, dress nice, buy some ice cream for the girls to dance at discos, where the sparkle of the colored rays, then fading, then again. Jump to the beat of the music. Maybe my words Might not sound serious to you, but it’s true. My friend played the role brilliantly! It’s good that you were lying with your eyes closed yesterday and didn’t want to see me. And then this scandal would have erupted last night when the envious neighbors in the yard were full. Thank God He saved us from shame!
Khurshida, well, give you an understanding, finally, without this intrigue you just refused to marry me, you know? Because you’re a very beautiful girl. Rather, they were girls until last night. Well, I just had to do it because I had no other choice. Well, what was I supposed to do if I’m crazy about you? I love you, Khurshida! I, without hesitation, are ready to sacrifice my life for you! I know you don’t like me. But I was ready for anything, up to such meanness as a fraud. I was hoping that we eventually all will be settled and formed between us, well, if not love, then at least some kind of warm relationship through the bonds of marriage — explained Pathella.
Hearing this, Khurshida wept, covering his face with a pillow.
What vile people! What horror! What a misfortune! God, why are you punishing me for something?! What have I done to you?! — She cried, then abruptly got up from their seats and started to get dressed. Pathella, scared and going to Khurshida, tried to grab her hands.
Where, honey?! — He asked.
Don’t touch me with your disgusting filthy hands, you bastard! Depart! I’m going to my parents! — said Khurshida, continuing to cry.
Khurshida, don’t do this, come to your senses! If you don’t think about me, at least think about your parents; think about your poor family’s reputation! Pity your mother, after all! What will people think, who walk not with the help of their feet, but with the help of language?! They can spread rumors that you are not a virgin! What will happen then? Your parents and your family will be disgraced! What will my friends say?! They’ll laugh at me! Think before you make any decision! Well, to hell with it, let my friends laugh at me! I am ready for any humiliation, in order to be with you together! Believe me, I love you, Khurshida, love, and not want, so you were disgraced! That’s where the dog is buried. I am ready to kneel before you and, without hesitation, to tell you that it is an honour for me to be your obedient slave! If you leave now, I’m done. I’ll take the rope, lather it gently and fsht! — hang, said Pathella. After these words, Pathella Khurshida had nothing left to do but accept the fate, whatever it was violent.
A month later, it became clear that Pathella was a sick man. When he started having an attack, his stomach stopped working, and the undigested food left in full swing. He was tormented by terrible headaches. At such moments, Khurshida lost in panic, not knowing what to do and assisted him as best they could, giving him the pills with water. Pathella often was in the hospital and was treated. But since his illness was chronic, he could not fully recover. However, in the district social security he was given a pension of a disabled person, but this meager pension is not enough even for medications. For this simple reason, Khurshida had to get a job to survive. She did just that. Found a job in the city and settled into the dining room where she had to clean the vegetables, boil water, clean the boilers, to watch out for cottonseed oil in the cauldron, where the fried ingredients to the broth and, accordingly, to clean the premises and territory of this enterprise catering. The work was heavy. But Khurshida did not complain. It was much better than sitting at home. She was the first to arrive by bus at dawn, when the streets were dominated by the sleepy silence, and sad red street lights. Sweeping the area of the canteen, she was thinking about how Sultan recalled with a sigh those unforgettable bright days that are gone forever into the past, into eternity. She worked all day tirelessly and in the evening, wearily returned home, sometimes falling asleep in the bus standing. Arriving from work, she cooked dinner and after dinner washed dishes, made the bed for her mother-in-law. Only after that did she go to bed. One day she woke up from her husband’s sobs and as scared. Quickly jumping off the place, she asked her husband, what about him?
-What is happening Pathella!? Again your stomach is bothering you? Is it a headache? Let me take your temperature. I now will light up and will bring you some pills — she said.
No, Khurshida, do not, honey, do not worry. My stomach is not in pain — said Pathella.
Then why are you crying? — surprised Khurshida.
You know, I had my first wife Oktamhon Sharovarova.I saw her in my dream — answered Pathella, continuing to cry. Hearing this, Khurshida froze like a wax figure in Madame Tussauds Museum in distant and foggy London. Coming a little to herself, she looked at her husband in disbelief and asked:
Were you married before?
Yes, Khurshida. I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t tell you that before. You know, love, I was afraid you’d leave me when you found out I was married. Correct to say that an owl in a sack cannot hide, even if the bag is leather. You see, the mystery came out of my mouth. And why hide the truth from you, when you are the most close and staunch man for me? You work day and night to keep our family afloat. Sometimes I feel ashamed that I can’t help you. I was supposed to be working, and you’re supposed to be at home, like a Princess. You don’t think my conscience hurts me? No, I sometimes cry at night, clenching my teeth to creak so that you don’t wake up. I pay that I sit at home instead of providing you and our family with all necessary things, working as the guest worker in the neighboring countries, as well as many of our compatriots. Earn money and build a gorgeous house, buy a car, buy you gold chains, rings with diamond jewelry, expensive dresses… I am eternally indebted to you, Khurshida. You’re my angel in human form… — softly cried Pathella, shaking her shoulders.
At this time in front of Khurshida also began to Shine, the bitter tears, in the light of the moon shining over the translucent curtains of the Windows. She rushed into the pastel and by firmly pressing a pillow to his eyes, began to sob bitterly. Pathella wanted to reassure her, but she removed his hands that touched her. Those hands she felt suffocating serpents of the tropical forests of South America.
Khurshida did not tell her mother that her husband Pathella was married to her. She just didn’t want to stab at the heart of her mother. Sorry mom already afflicted with suffering. On the contrary, as if nothing had happened, she continued to work in the same dining room where she worked and at least for some time, forgetting about the negatives, plunging into an endless ocean of memories connected with the tractor driver Sultan. Recently she went to her parents and went to the field to the camp, where, as before, the blossoms of white acacia, which has become a symbol of love Khurshida and the tractor driver Sultan. It turns out that she, as before, vigorously flourished, and the nest of the magpie disappeared, being covered with bunches of white acacia flowers, where Khurshida and Sultan were sitting, enjoying the beauty of the Paradise tree. From the branches of acacia quietly and sadly, like tears, fell on a wandering spring wind white petals, blooming bunches. Khurshida wanted not only just to visit but to live alone and the rest of her life, wandering around the paths through the fields, thinking about those days, about the hilarious conversations, the smiles, ringing laughter, the gentle touch of hands and a passionate searing kiss.
Then something wonderful happened. Khurshida was working in the kitchen, frying meat in a huge cauldron, where the noisy warm cotton oil, making sparkling sounds. Suddenly one of the officers in the dining room, the maid who cleaned the tables, told Khurshida that someone asks.
I do not know a man named Sultan. He’s wearing a plaid cap, sitting at a table by the fountain, and he asked me to call you! — She said.
Hearing these words, Khurshida almost fell down. She stood there like a dope with a skimmer in her hand and couldn’t move as if her legs were nailed to the floor. In a minute she came to herself, and did not know what to do.
My God, really?.. Is it true, Gulshanoy?! But today is not the first of April by chance? No…Oh, uh, hot oil, leaving it unattended is dangerous. It can burn and flame to envelop the whole kitchen.
Expensive ingredients will burn… And what if I turn off the stove for a while… No, you cannot… The chief’s gonna get me out of work. Oops, water in the pot boiled!.. she thought, and she quickly lifted the lid of the pan.Then accidentally dropped it on the floor. The lid thundered and a few drops of boiling water fell on her thigh. She jumped from the burn, making a face.
Vss-ah! Vss-ahhhh! — Khurshida hissed, clutching her thigh, involuntarily remembering that distant incident with the tractor driver Sultan, when she scalded his leg, spilling boiling water from a samovar field.
Here Satan, and, as luck would have it… No,I’ll turn the stove off. Whether, that will… What happiness! He arrived at the end and found me all -???! Thank you, Lord God, thank you! I’m out of here… I’ll go out now… we will meet again… Oh, how I worry, my hands are shaking… Hey, where am I in that dirty robe? What will Sultan think when he sees me like this? I need to change — thought, Khurshida and turning off the stove, ran to the side of the cupboard with clothes. But Khurshida tripped in a pot and fell on the floor. It was the cave of aluminum pots, which she had recently washed, as they say, to the holes. There were pans and buckets, like basins in the Eastern bathhouse with good acoustics. She quickly extricated herself from the dishes and ran back towards the locker where she’d changed clothes after work, for a small screen. Khurshida took off the robe and quickly dressed as the experienced soldiers re-enlisted during the alarm and was going to run on the street, but stopped again, seeing that she put on a dress inside out.
Oh, well, what is it, huh?! — Nervous Khurshida, dressed, rushed to the exit. But in the dishwasher, her dress caught on to some tin, and it was torn wide screen! She wouldn’t stop if the size of the hole wasn’t that big.
Oh, not this, God!.. Well, why am I so unlucky?! Now I ripped my favorite one dress, and there waiting for me is my beloved Sultan! What am I supposed to do? Let me put on my robe. Let it dirty, but it will cover the torn part of the dress, she thought, and ran again to the side of the locker. There she wore a dirty robe over her dress, removed the white cap from her head and corrected her hair. Then I remembered the lipstick.
Somewhere in her robe pocket needs to be lipstick… Ah, here is, it seems, has been found… she thought, fumbling in the pockets of the robe, shaking like a drunk with her hands.
Looking at the piece of mirror that was attached to the wooden door of the cabinet, Khurshida started painting her lips. But the excitement she had put on lipstick was wrong and wanting to correct this, she smeared lips. Khurshida quickly wiped the smeared lipstick, with the hem of her robe. After that, Khurshida decided to go outside, no matter what. But when she was running, suddenly she tripped and fell on the tiled floor of the dishwasher and hurt her feet. Severe pain forced her to sit. She cried, grabbing her sprained leg. At this time, we ran Gulshanoy , the same employee dining room that was cleaning tables. She began to reproach Khurshida supposedly why she hesitates when there waits for the person?
Why are you sitting, Khurshida?! They’re waiting for you, you’re man! Who is he? He’s probably a money-lender, and he came to ask for a favor from you to repay your interest-bearing debt. It’s not good to keep a person waiting that long. Come on, rise up! Why are you sitting here?! — She said.
No, I can’t Gulshanoy, I twisted my leg inadvertently — said Khurshida.
Yeah?! Oh, My God! Sorry, Khurshida, I don’t know! Oh, does it hurt? — The cleaning lady said.
Yeah, — nodded Khurshida, continuing to cry and looking at Gulshanoy through tears.
No, I have to go! Let us, help me, please, stand up, Gulshanoy. I leave, and you turn on the stove and watch the stove for me-she said, trying to rise. Cleaning lady tables, Gulshanoy helped her up, and she got up. Khurshida went, hobbling on one leg and resting her hands on the wall. But when she got out, there was nobody at the table by the fountain. Seeing this, Khurshida’s heart trembled. When she went to the Desk, there lay a large bouquet of red roses and a note. Khurshida quickly took the note and recognized the handwriting of her beloved Sultan.
No, don’t go, don’t go! — she roared, not hesitating at visitors who were sitting at tables and eating Uzbek the delicious spaghetti, called «Lagman». Khurshida looked around, continuing to cry from sorrow with a distorted face, like a drunk alcoholic. Then, sitting at the table, began to read the note of the Sultan through the tears trembling in her eyes. The content of the note was as follows.
I apologize for what I stupid coming put you in an uncomfortable position in front of your management and to the labor collective. The thing is, I, through my old acquaintances, found out about you and your workplace, and I just wanted to see you. To see and to speak as before at least an hour, even for a minute. I am a fool; ever allow such unforgivable mistakes in relation to you and each time hurting you. Here I am again disturbing your quiet moonlit pier, bursting in here like a terrible Typhoon. At first I thought you were mad at me so much that you didn’t even want to come out here and see me. Then I came to the conclusion that you simply did not come to a meeting with me, only to preserve the reputation of your beloved husband, their parents and fear of gossip and rumors. And I think you did the right thing. But believe me, Khurshida, I am glad with all my heart that you are alive and well and have finally found your happiness. I won’t bother you anymore. Say hello to aunt Raheela and forgive me again for disturbing you. I now live in a very different far-off state, which is called memory. Live there, as before, sitting at our familiar family field table under blooming white acacia, running with you in the direction of the field camp, when there’s a storm coming, under the crashing of spring thunder, illuminating my face in the lightning and soaking wet, laughing. In the autumn all thoughts drive your bulldozer «Altai» in yellow on a night the fields covered with fog, thinking only about you. You pop up in my memories like that beautiful blooming white acacia in the distant spring. Sincerely yours, still loving tractor driver Sultan.
After reading the letter, Khurshida for a moment froze. Then clung her head to the table and screamed:
Nooo! nooo! — She cried a wild voice, hitting her fist on the table. She was crying, no hesitating, even visitors who froze in surprise with forks in hand. Then, Khurshida stood up abruptly and dash ran outside, hoping to have time to see the tractor driver Sultan who sits in a taxi and immediately to stop it. But the tractor driver Sultan was not there.
Writer Qalandar Hazrat ibn Abdel Fattah
After Khurshida angered the visitors by being hysterical, the owner fired her dining room. She had to find a new job. After a long search, she still found a job in the city Park of culture and recreation. She started working there as a janitor and cleaned the Park with a broom with a long wooden handle.
Khurshida performed the tasks given to her by the foreman. Work in this Park liked it even those, which in it, too, grew white acacia. Where she sometimes sat on the bench under the white acacia, eating his meager dinner, she felt as a mother field camp, where there was exactly the same locust, which became a symbol of her love. On the lake, people riding families on boats, some crowds walked through the Park where it was shady, clean and cool from bubbling fountains. Many preferred to ride on the merry-go-round, others rested on other attractions, ate ice cream and drank soft drinks. Especially attracted the attention of Khurshida, well-dressed couples in love, who walked in the Park, walking under the handle, laughing loudly. Khurshida looked after them with envy, thoughtfully leaning on the handle of the rake or shovel with work gloves on her hands. On Many days, Khurshida did not rest as other workers, and went into a wide field and in the thickets among the juniper bushes collected dung for the winter, despite the fact that she was already two months pregnant. To collect dung for her was like a good walk in the fresh air, a kind of rest and freedom, where she could think about tractor driver Sultan as much as necessary and no, it does not interfere. Every Sunday she went to the side of a wide field, with a bag in her hands, like people who go to the forest to pick mushrooms. She rejoiced every time she found dung, as an avid mushroom picker who is happy to find a mushroom. As this ancient free of dried fuel was easy, Khurshida did not make special work to lift a sack of dung. Pressed dung reminded cakes could be found mainly in those places where cows grazed all summer. Khurshida today decided to collect dung at the edges of cotton fields in the juniper bushes, thickets and on the banks of the river at the ravine. Collecting dung, she looked around; making sure no one was around, she sang a sad song about love and separation. She sang enthusiastically and beautifully, like a professional singer. She came to herself and blushed only when I saw on the shore in the middle of tall grasses, the man who was sitting with a fishing rod in his hands. He looked at Hurshida with interest, and she became uncomfortable.
Sorry, I didn’t know you were fishing here. I feel sorry. I probably scared the fish -sheepishly said Khurshida.
No, on the contrary, you helped me, calling all the fish here, and their magical songs! I was interrupted by the beautiful songs you sang. I interrupted them, coughing like a sheep with leaky lungs. I have a bittersweet so bitter that when I do a puff, the smoke stinks in my lungs like an arrow, because I smoke a flywheel, twisting a piece of paper. And you sing, just like the legendary French singer Mireille Mathieu. At first it seemed to me that these songs are heard from the transistor radio, and sung by a professional singer. Can this be so and there is? Are you a professional singer? — Fisherman said.
Yes Ah, that you, what I have talent! I’m not a singer, but a simple caretaker. I work in the city’s culture. Sweeping the territory — explained Khurshida.
No, You have to work not as a janitor in parks, but in Philharmonic halls and go on tour giving concerts all over the country! You have a loud and clear voice like a tuning fork, like a silver bell that rings zing! Dzin! Dzin! But do not forget, God forbid, you leave the art and will not sing for the General public, the story Will not forgive you. And the future generations will curse you with glee. I appreciate talent, because I’m a writer. Write a book. Recently wrote a very interesting novel. «The driver» it’s called. In this novel, my literary hero Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch forty years sitting in a deep and dark dungeon of the Emir Abu Negman Merzaqul Khidar Ibn Darvesh Kokaltash Abdulmakorem Hadjy Balutkhan for kidnapping time. Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovucha childhood dream that he had a lot of time, but his dream was never realized. In a land where he was born Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch, it was difficult to exist if the person didn’t have enough time. That is, then time was more expensive than gold. From the lack of time, people even died, you know? Parents Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch also died from lack of time. Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch have grown and matured and one day, he robbed the Central Bank. There is, unfortunately, Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch the alarm went off and the guards arrested him red-handed. And condemned, put him in a deep and dark dungeon, where people can see only birds flying and the sky above the dungeon. Forty years young Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch was released grizzled, older man and began to work as a shepherd, Drover large herds of donkeys in the steppes. Day and night he drove a herd of wild donkeys on the boundless steppe with a long whip in his hands, and clouds of dust that rose from the hooves of wild steppe donkeys settled on his sweaty face, hands and feet. A herd of donkeys was so huge that Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch lost their account when they wanted to count their heads for reporting to the user. Every day without days off and without leaving from morning to night, running around the steppe barefoot in the same short striped pants, eating on the run. And the donkey, the long and ugly was shouting, stretching his neck, then fighting among themselves, biting and laga each other, then ran, shaking the steppe hooves.
Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch loved the giant herd of wild donkeys, and day and night he worked to drive them into safe shelters, where they could not break a pack of hungry wolves. But gradually the herd is out of control and no longer obeys the driver of Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch . Despite this, shepherd Kosakalparazet Patrontash Partizanovuch not sleeping a wink at night lit bonfires, and hungry wolves dared not attack the donkeys, for fear of the blazing fire. But the donkeys were not able to appreciate the back-breaking labor of his shepherd, on the contrary, once they trampled him into the mud and killed. Here is such a sad affair that happened to me at a glance — the fisherman finished his story. Then add:
My name is qalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah — What’s your name? — He asked.
My name is… And why should you? Actually, I can tell you my name. I’m Khurshida. But your story about the novel you wrote just struck me. What an interesting and sad novel. And where, in any bookstore you can buy this book, sir Kalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah -? — asked Khurshida.
Unfortunately, You will not find my novel in the bookstores of the country yet. But there is hope that it will be published by one large publishing house with which I signed the contract. Yes, writers are people too, and they also have families and children. I mean, they need money, too. But I generally do not write for publication. I have nothing to compare the pleasure that I get when I write my works. I love fishing, loneliness and silence. I go to bed late, but Wake up at dawn, when others are sleeping, and in silence listen to the sonorous morning trills of newly awakened birds. Streets are deserted. If you don’t count the bird’s chirping, we can assume that silence reigns around. The air is cool and clean. In such hours it seems that consciousness deepens and the mind becomes transparent like a mirror. Then you go out into the yard and sit on the steps of the wooden stairs of your hut, you listen to the cool silence, watching the slowly and gradually pale horizon, which is full of stripes, like a torn silk women’s nightgown pale yellow. From the distant clover fields, there were voices of wild birds. Here begins the roll call of roosters. From a distance I can barely hear the drums and hysterical crying surnai (Eastern wood-wind musical instrument), inviting people for a free wedding Breakfast which would attract anyone, without invitation. Sounds of canary and the drum roll. These distant sounds do not disturb the silence, on the contrary, decorate it with their presence. Especially when you’re with a hoe on my shoulder going for a morning trail, overgrown from two sides by high grass, begins to sparkle with diamond dew, and the sun, bursting, singing skylarks over a field. You will stop with a smile on your lips to listen to the joyful songs of these birds that sing. You listen to their songs, and you don’t want to leave. Then with an elated mood you walk further, as you speak, with leaps and bounds. It is good that there is a field for my happiness. If I was offered a job in some crowded city and assigned a salary of five thousand dollars a month, I still could not live and work there for a long time. I would have died right at the working machine from the longing for the broad fields and the native village, gradually slimming, losing the gift of speech like a wild man. Borderless, I’m like a Dolphin with no sea. Dumb love flight of the white butterflies that flutter above the paths, silently chasing each other. The flight of white butterflies is a living image of silence, which artists are unable to portray in their paintings. I’ve been on the field a long time knocking on hoe, and I don’t sit down to rest, no. In order to shake off the boot, which hit the lump. I take my boots off my feet and begin to shake it, holding it like a pipe of a heater, which is cleaned of soot in the winter. Meanwhile, I hear a distant and sad voice of a lone hoopoe and freezes with the boot in his hands: «Upupup! Upupup! Upupup! Pisssss!».»Upupup! Upupup! Upupup! Pisssss!». I listen to the weeping of the hoopoe, grey. Then I put on my boots and then I keep working. I used to think why I always wanted to cry when I heard the voice of the hoopoe in the fields. Then I realized that this voice, it turns out, is associated with my childhood, and it reminds me of those distant years when I went to the field with my late mother. I vaguely remember the field camp with thatched roof, tall poplars and a huge willow tree, in the shade where we children played, next bubbled through pure water in the irrigation ditch; on the branches of the tall poplars hundreds of passerine nests, red straw which patted the winds. Sparrows rustled in unison, stunning the neighborhood. How noisy these poplar and willow on the free winds! The nannies tied hammocks to trunks of poplars and, having laid in these hammock kids, rocked them, loudly singing the lullaby, for the field camp. Women worked in the fields, glittering in the distance with the edges of their hoe. I still miss those fields and mulberry trees with trunks like elephant legs. I miss those tall poplars, the willows, the noise and the chirp of the Sparrow flocks, and I even miss the smell of pesticide-treated cotton seeds that lay in the pit. Oddly enough, the smell of pesticides — it is also the smell of my childhood. Every time I think about it, tears come to my eyes. Don’t know why, but it is. That field camp and the trees, those people disappeared a long time ago. But they live in the fields of my memories, and no one can kill and destroy. With such thoughts I get back to work. I work, I work, and suddenly I stop again, straightening my back, and listen to the voice of cuckoo, which comes from the coast, where the olives grow, which blossomed. The pleasant smells of blooming olives are spread around the field drunk winds. Oh, you should have seen the moment when I came back from the field against the backdrop of a blazing sunset! I’m going tired, but in a good mood as I am acquainted with a trail, overgrown from two sides by high grass, fending off pesky mosquitoes. As I cross the field, the night falls softly, and begins to twinkle. I walk along the trail, walking with a hoe on my shoulder, but not without stopping, of course. I stop only to watch the moon slowly rising from the horizon, quietly illuminating the cotton fields. Looking at the rising moon, I listen to the singing of the cricket, which is chorus and rhythmically chirping, but they do not see. And the moon shines selflessly. There, above the village in the sky, twinkling innumerable stars. I’m looking at the big dipper constellation, which looks like a crystal. And there’s a little bear. I stand and I cannot look away from celestial bodies. I am a farmer. I work in another field, in the field of literature. I sow the seeds of kindness in people’s hearts. I know that these seeds will grow and give their fruits, which will bring pleasure and joy to all people of the planet. Finally, I would say that for me creativity is life. And life is creation, there is also creativity, the creativity of Almighty God summed up by his story writer qalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah.
Ooooh, I never thought that someday I would meet a living writer like you, right here, on the banks of the river. To be honest, I am fascinated by your stories — said Khurshida. Here on the surface of the coastal waters began to twitch the float rod writer Kalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah-and excited him, disappeared under the water. Writer qalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah -quickly began to roll up the line into the reel and soon over the water seemed to hump the fish, which trembled nervously, wanting to get rid of the hook. But it did not. Kalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdelfattah pulled the fish out of the water and freed it from the hook, and threw it on the shore, where Khurshida was standing Khurshida. She even got scared and jumped back, having laughed with the writer Qalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah. They laughed and rejoiced, with admiration looking at the fish, which from lack of air were widely opened and shut its mouth, convulsive twitching, writhing and bulging not contiguous, round, red eyes without eyelashes, staining it’s silvery scales, sand.
The fight in the birthday of Turabitdun
Khurshida’s son turned one year old. She wanted to name her baby the tractor driver Sultan, but her husband Pathella and mother-in-law, Khurshida suggested to name the baby Turabitdun in honor of her grandfather, who showed the presentation at weddings, running freely on the high rope with a pole in his hands and directly into the rope cut the sheep. Recently the whole family celebrated the birthday of Turabitdun for a rich banquet. The birthday was attended by the parents of Khurshida who sat in the place of honor at the table. Abduljabbar was always tipsy and sat holding his grandson in his hands, kissed him on the cheeks, and rejoiced.
I can see clearly that my grandson Turabitdun will be a great person! he said proudly.
Oh, yeah, you»re right — confirmed the words of his test Pathella, lighting candles, inserted into the beautiful cake.
Come on son; show me what you can do. Let’s get you out here, the booze you probably hid in the Saratov fridge. What speech generally can go about a party with no alcohol?! Let us drink to the health of my grandson Turabitdun and for the health of my idol the Great Chairman, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch! — said Abduljabbar, raising his grandson high and looking him in the eye. Hearing this, Pathella looked at Khurshida and said, what to do? Khurshida called her husband into the kitchen and said in a whisper:
Pathella’s father was already sitting drunk. If you pour more on him, that’s all. He’s going to start getting bigger. Tell him you’re not a drinker, and we don’t have vodka in the fridge.
You, that honey, I can not. How can I fool my father-in-law? He is like a father. What’s he going to think of me after that?! I don’t want our father to think of me as a greedy person. What if he gets out of his seat and leaves?! Or, say, go to a nearby pub, drink vodka out of a bottle, empty it all standing, and come back to us? Isn’t it better to have a drink with him one hundred and to remove the vodka from the table to hide it. Another option we have, love — said Pathella also in a whisper.
Well, as you know. Be extremely careful. And then the father of such a nature that it will not find — said Khurshida.
Don’t worry darling, everything will be okay — said Pathella, kissing his wife. Then he took out vodka from the fridge door and headed to the table, for which sat his mother -in -law and with his father-in-law.
Seeing a bottle of vodka in the hands of Pathella, Abduljabbar predatory happy,
That’s ours! — He said, rubbing his hands together like a fly that rubs paws.
Yes, father -said Pathella, also smiling.
Uncorking the bottle, he carefully began to pour into bowls. Watching his movements, Abduljabbar could not resist.
Well, You, my son-in-law, what are you as the pharmacist who weighs snake venom? Hands You are shaking like a cheque, who suffers from Parkinson’s disease. Pour the bowls full! Today we have a round date, a family holiday! We celebrate the birthday of my first grandson! Let’s drink and be merry, while our ships will not sink in a sea of vodka! — He said.
Well, father — obeyed Pathella and filled with subtle and sonorous Tashkent cups of vodka. After that, they drank for the health of the birthday boy, choked with bowls, and tasted salty cucumber.
Pathella wanted to quietly remove the vodka from the table and hide, but he did not.
Where do you take the vodka, my dear son-in-law?! It is not good to complete the penalty, not sacrifice, comrade executioner — said Abduljabbar, deliciously munching a slice of salted cucumber and wiping his lips with a towel. Then he offered to drink the health of his idol, the Great Chairman of the collective farm comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch. When they emptied a bottle of vodka, Abduljabbar became embittered. Barely looking at his grandson Turabitdun, he began to speak.
Turabitdun, you are my first grandchild, and when you grow up, you will become a mechanic of the animal on our farm «Tillaquduq» and be involved in shearing sheep on flocks as I do! — he said.
No, father, you’re wrong. Our Turabitdun when you grow up, you will become a singer. I will create all conditions for him, buy him a piano only Turabitdun became a great singer. I’m ready to die, after
Turabitdun coming on stage of the Palace «Khalklar dostligi» in the center of Tashkent and sing a song of a poor soldier, who lost both eyes in the war and lying in the hospital, sang the sad song of his wounded countryman who was discharged from the hospital. The blind soldier sang about so:
Oh, brother, if you get to the homeland alive and well, the first thing to say is `- Hello to my father!
Also say Hello to my poor mother, who, stumbling, runs out to meet you, to hear good news about
Pathella sang a sad song about a blinded warrior, knocking to the beat on the table. Abduljabbar got angry.
No! I don’t want him to become a singer! Turabitdun will be the only mechanic of the animal on our farm «Tillaquduq» and will shear the sheep in the pasture with the help of machines with elastic shafts! I’m ready to die, not sparing anything directly in the collective farm club, when my grandson Turabitdun will receive an honorary diploma from the hands of my idol, the great Chairman of the XXI century comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch, demonstrating their art in the shearing of sheep and goats! -Abduljabbar shouted.
No! Turabitdun is my son, and he will become the person that I dream of! He will be a humorist, will make people laugh at weddings, and will make a lot of money. He will build a cottage at the foot of the «Khumsan» mountains: there will be picnics, fishing, hunting saiga and tapirs in the steppes and all that! If he disobeys me and becomes a mechanic in a livestock farm, I’ll take a hunting rifle and shoot myself! — replied the father-in-law Pathella.
You, son-in-law, don’t play with fire! And then I have a very bad temper! Don’t cross me! If I said that Turabitdun you’ll be a mechanic of the farm animals, then so be it. Oh, you decided to shoot! Yes, bullets pity you! No offense, but people like you need to kill with a shovel to save a bullet! Long ago I would have strangled you with my own hands, but you remain alive only because of my respect to your uncle, the great chairman, comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch! So, think before you say anything, make a statement or, say, petition — Abduljabbar said.
No! My decision is firm and not negotiable. My son will only do Show business! — shouted Pathella.
Oh, is that so?! Well, now you blame yourself, you’re in the rectum! — said an angry and drunk Abduljabbar. With these words he lashed out on his son-in-law and began to strangle him with all his might. But Pathella managed to free his neck from the sharp pincers of a crab at the hands of Abduljabbar. He not only defended himself, but went on the offensive, throwing punches and kicks to the vital organs of his father. Women and small birthday Turabitdun began to cry and scream. Khurshida also cried and begged them to stop the fight. She tried to separate the fighting men, but they fought like fighting dogs.
Who’s the rectum, huh? Who is the horse?! And let me repeat, a goat smelly again, something I can’t hear! You allow yourself; the cattle are dirty, which goes to the farm, sinking knee-deep in the dermis! I’m respected, accepted, treated, and you, instead of saying thanks, wipe your ass with the tablecloth, insult, shake your right! Who are you to dictate to me?! Or have you forgotten who I am?! I’m the nephew of the Chairman of the Collective farm»Tillquduq» Mr. Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch! Enough of my bit, and you immediately be fired and go to jail for years!
said Abduljabbar, continuing stubbornly and desperately fighting.
Are you a man or a snitch, not shorn sheep «Gissar» you with a huge rump! Well, go tell your uncle and have him kick me out of the job if he really needs to lose a talented professional like me! — said Abduljabbar, and with a distorted face with anger and contempt, hit Pathella with a fist Pathella. From a strong blow of Pathella flew and fell on the table. The table broke into two parts. And the cake flew into the air and turned over on the fly, hitting right in the face of Abduljabbar. While Abduljabbar was wiping the cake cream from his face to open his eyes, Pathella managed to get up, grab a piece of the board of the collapsed table and hit hard on the head of his father-in-law. Abduljabbar crashed to the floor, unconscious.
Quiet leaf fall
The great chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch released the Abduljabbar from the post of mechanic of cattle farm for a drunken brawl at the birthday of his grandson, the little Turabitdun. Abduljabbar, took home his daughter together with his grandson Turabitdun and strictly forbade Khurshida to meet Pathella.
Well, nothing. Here I will gather my things and leave in Texas dreaming of Abduljabbar. I will change my name to Douglas Stevenson. There I, with their American counterparts in rough jeans, pulled on the head a cowboy hat, I will work on a cattle farm. Going to ride a wild horse «Mustang» on the boundless steppes of the Prairie, rotating head over to lasso like a helicopter propeller «Apache.» With the lasso will catch the horses and bulls in the cactus thickets. I will participate in the competition among the Texas cowboys sheep shearing, and become winners. Then, having received a cash prize of five thousand dollars, I will go to a nearby pub, where whiskey flows by the river, and drink all this money to the last cent. Treat my colleagues and friends, and we will be going to have fun, sipping Scotch on the rocks and listening to fun cowboy songs. On the Buster, naturally a fight breaks out in which to stand on the side they are not supposed to. According to the old tradition, I will also hit my head in the stomach and break the nose of one cowboy — Abduljabbar continued to fantasize. He did not remain in debt, and hit back, giving me a face with his dirty fist. The other cowboys around us are going to have a massive fight, too… Tables will be overturned, bottles and glasses shattered. Someone will hit me with a bottle on the head, and it will break into pieces, but I will not fall, will not lose consciousness. On the contrary, will grab that cowboy out of them over the head like a propeller of a helicopter «Apache» and throw him out the window. Cowboy takes off into the street, screaming wildly. After that, the most important thing will begin — a firefight with revolvers. Dt-tish! Dt-tish! When local Sheriff Michael Jordan comes running with his rifle in his hand, I jump out and run, tumbling, so as not to clap a stray bullet.
And there will wait for me, my anxious horse. It will nervously snore, throw its head back, staring eyes of fear tight and pulling on the bridle tied to the wall. I will quickly cut the bridle with a dagger and a cat jump will sit on a wild horse «Mustang». After the vortex will jump in the direction of the sand dunes, where there are cacti and hysterically singing quicksand. Bullets with whistles will fly past my ears and over my head, and I will disappear from species for dunes — completed his fantasizing Abduljabbar.
Then he asked forgiveness of his wife and daughter because he gave his daughter to marry the nephew of the great chairman comrade Kokyutalov abu Salasarimsak ibn Guslvozhib Tezaktelbakezavuch. Listening to him, Raheela and Khurshida cried.
So, Khurshida came to live with her parents and commute to her old job, leaving little Turabitdun at home with her mom.
Autumn reigned in the city recreation Park.With maples and poplars softly falling red and yellow leaves.They lay on the lanes is so beautiful that the attack on them was pathetic.In some places fires were burning, similar to fuming volcanoes where a tourniquet had fallen leaves.
Khurshida worked sweeping the area and as always thought of the tractor driver Sultan. On wobbly benches sat a happy young couple, enjoying a quiet maple leaf. On the empty benches lay the fallen leaves of the thinning trees.
Khurshida stopped, seeing the group of women farmers, which the crowd walked through the Park like the tourists are foreigners. Since Khurshida was also from the village, the woman caught her eye. I wanted to communicate with them. Ask who they are, where they came from and so on. It’s interesting.
When she cautiously approached and greeted them, asking where they came from, one of the women said that Khurshida almost fainted. Turns out they came from the «Charvak» mountains, from the village of «Tuyamuyun», that is, from the mountain village of his beloved Sultan.
Daughter, what’s wrong with you, why are you pale? Are you sick? — surprised by the interview Khurshida.
Yes there is no, I have it all in order — answered Khurshida, and gently asked her if she knew of one man, named Sultan, tall, with curly hair, snub-nosed, with a mustache above fleshy lips and a green scar on the left eyebrow.
We know him. He’s our fellow villager. Sultan went to Tashkent to enter Tashkent state University. But we heard him the first attempt failed to go to this university, and he worked in the valley, the farm «Tillaquduq» simple tractor to preparing for exams in solitude and again try to enroll in Tashkent state University. Then we heard that he entered Tashkent state University and graduated with honors. After graduating from the University, he came back to our «Tuyamuyun». But for some reason didn’t want to teach in high school and became a businessman. He opened a trading manufacturing company and built a rest house at the foot of the «Charvak» mountains on the basis of this company. Rich guy, lived in his two — storey cottage-told another woman.
-Yeah? He lives with his family, so he’s married? — asked Khurshida. From the excitement of her dry throat.
No, Sultan is not married — said the first companion Khurshida.
Why didn’t he get married? — Khurshida asked and then blushed at her own stupid question.
He loved a beautiful girl named Khurshida, when he worked as a tractor driver on the farm «Tillaquduq». How much his mother begged him to get married, but Sultan never started a family, led a lonely life. The poor man died. And what he is, excuse me, have you? Friend, I guess. It is clear that we studied together, so in this, in Tashkent state University. Uh-oh, ruthless life! — said the second companion. From this terrible news from Khurshida pale lips.
That?! What are you saying, aunt?! — Shouted Khurshida, staring their eyes out in horror.
Why? I told the truth. He died in the spring of loneliness, sadly looking through the window of his two-story cottage on the blooming white acacia, which he planted. I know better than anyone, since he lived next door to us. Man was modest, polite and always helped, then could. When he died, all the people of our village, from small to large, cried as if the people’s rain had died. Five thousand people came to his funeral, you know? And the coffin of Sultan people suffered at the cemetery on their shoulders, passing from shoulder to shoulder without any traffic. Everyone says he died of an incurable disease called love. By the way, the holiday House he had built, he named his lover. Yes, at the entrance of the rest house he installed a huge neon sign, where the volume of neon letters written the name of his beloved girl «Khurshida». The name of the night is. Every night when we see this glowing sign, we sadly sigh, remembering the poor Sultan’s first companion Khurshida. After that, ginseng went to the side, where a huge carousel rotated with a creek.
Khurshida from impotence sat down on a wooden bench, as a suicide, sentenced to death in court. She sat as if the mad, pale face was the face of. Then, clasping her head with both hands, she wept aloud.
In Autumn Park there was a quiet leaf fall.
8: 27 PM.
The city of Brampton. Canada.