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Холдор Вулкан

Член Союза писателей Узбекистана

 

Далаказан

(Повесть)




Любое коммерческое использование повести Холдора Вулкана "Далаказан" запрещено без предварительного письменного согласия автора.

(Холдор Вулкан)




Глава 1

Ограбление банка средь бела дня




В банк неожиданно ворвалась вооруженная до зубов банда грабителей в масках, с дикими криками, угрожая пристрелить, как куропатку каждого, кто осмелится оказать малейшее неповиновение или сопротивление. Они приказали всем сотрудникам банка лечь на пол и не двигаться.
- Тот, кто попытается поднимать голову, тут же получит пулю в лоб! - крикнул один из них.
Одного из сотрудников банка, лет сорока, высокого роста, худошавого телосложения, с носом, похожий на клюв орла по имени Далаказан, бандиты подняли, направив на него нервно дрожащими руками дуло автомата:
-Ставай, гад! Ты нам поможешь совершить ограбление века!Давай, падла, открой сейф и быстро положи деньги в эти мешки! Попытаешься подать сигналы ментам, нажимая на кнопку тревоги, то тебе хана, моментально превратишься в труп! Давай шевелись задницей! -крикнул бандит, изо всех сил ударив ногами по заднице Далаказана.
-Хорошо, хорошо! Я сделаю все, что вы прикажете!Только, прощу вас, не убивайте меня!У меня семья и несовершеннолетние дети! -умолял их Далаказан. Он покорно шел в сторону кассы, высоко подняв свои худые руки, как молодой солдат в горячей точке планеты, который только что попал в плен.Но он неожиданно повернувшись назад, молняносными движениями повалил бандита на пол и быстро отобрал у него автомат "Калашников". Потом нажал на курок автомата, чтобы обезвредить банду грабителей и спасти сотрудников, но выстрела не последовало.

 

 

Подробнее...

 

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

 

The landscape poems


Translated by the author

 

 

 





Religious Man
-----------------------



He believed in God, but God did not believe him.



----------------------
14/08/2019.
8:09 in the morning.
Canada, Ontario.




------------
Longing for spring
-----------------


Spring as love works wonders,
Waking nature from a sweet dream.
Soon, deafening cries heaven,
The birds return, when the grass is green .

Coming from the pathways is spring,
A slim, naive, youthful lady.
And on the poplar the bird will sing:
-Chicka - di-di-di-di-di-di-di!

Hearing this for a while in silence,
People will stop digging gardens.
Will enjoy the singing birds,
Leaning against the shovel shanks.


--------------------
16/10/2015.
4:53 of day.
Canada, Ontario.





------------------
The poor trees
---------------


Rivers and ponds covered with ice,
Outside the window, the blizzard howled.
Oh trees, I would let you into the house,
And you would warm yourself by the fire,

But you're motionless along the road,
In parks, gardens and beside the gates.
Like families in the bitter cold,
The same as people without fuel.

Scurrying, shivering on the frozen river,
And you have no shelter over your head.
But trees, do you really not have a furnace,
and even a little wood?..


----------------
04/03/2015.
2:08 of the day.
the city of Brampton, Canada.




------------------
Winter dandelions
---------------


The late dandelions appearing beautiful
They look like fluffy, snow-white balls.
Their hair turns grey, since they are fearful
Fearing that winter is just after fall.

Their winds blew like children in the fields,
It's fluff whirled and flew weightless.
The trees were playing an accordion well,
Like a musician in a cluster of snowflakes.

The blizzards have changed into dandelions,
And the fluff from them is blown away!
These snow-covered streets lights,
The flying dandelions it looks like!


------------
21/01/2016.
12:00 noon.
Canada. Ontario.




Echo
-------------



The water droplets fall at the midnight silence.
No, it's not the thawing snow outside the window crying
and not the footsteps of time, which
walks, hobbling on one leg on the dial of the wall clock.
It's the echo of your tears dripping by the window,
in the moonlight and desolate silence, there
across the oceans, in my distant homeland.


-----------------------
03/09/2018.
10:22 of the day.
Canada, Ontario.





-----------------------
Time clicks its tongue rhythmically
------------------


I'm not a king or a caretaker of dogs,
but a distant echo of the sad cries of cranes.
I'm the somber sky and the rainfall pecking
the bunches of the Rowan trees
outside your window, which you will look
through at the distant landscape during winter,
where snow covered forests, fields and
the empty winter snow-covered roads,
the rickety huts of the village.
I'm not a king or a caretaker of dogs,
I'm just a slave to my desires.
A slave of air, water and food.
At night I look at the moon, like a fish
looking through an ice hole, in a frozen river,
listening to the sounds of the wagons of the trains
knocking against the steel spines of the Railways.
A knock that sounds like a heartbeat,
knocking of a clock sounds like hiccups
after eating the time from our lives.
I'm not a king or a caretaker of dogs,
I'm just loneliness and peace.
I am the silence and the orphan hood of old graves.
I'm a lonely passer-by, drunk in the snow blizzard
who forgot the path home.
The twilight is lit by the moon like empty white paper,
like snow-covered winter roads,
similar to our September cotton fields.
I go and lengthen my silent shadow.
Balding trees in parks, as if in a dream,
and the leaves are gently flying to the pavement.
The fallen leaves are so soft,
I want to lie on them and sleep...
Let eternity pass on it's tiptoe,
you can sleep, locking the door.
And let time click it's tongue rhythmically,
swinging the pendulum of the grandfather clock.


-----------------
03/07/2019.
10:18 of the day.
Canada, Ontario.





------------
Bath
---------------


In your bath, snow-white lilies bloom
and real green reeds rustle, where frogs
sing in chorus, blowing bubbles behind their ears.
The water in it is so clear that you can even see
the sand and colourful pebbles and small fish,
which rush around in a shoal at the bottom,
not being afraid of anyone,and you,
without paying attention to them, bathe,
take a bath alone, O naked moon!

-----------------
24/02/2021.
3: 28 pm.
Canada, Ontario.




---------------
Running
--------------



I saw with my own eyes how poplars and willows
ran across the plains and slopes on one leg.
There were posts, road signs, houses, roads,
stone bridges, misty meadows, horses and cows,
field camps, mulberry trees, cotton fields.
They ran after the train on which I was travelling into the distance,
having to leave my homeland.

-------------------
15/02/2021.
1: 00 pm.
Canada, Ontario.



--------------------
Cuckoo's nest
------------------


The man waited long and patiently
looking at the grey cuckoo's nest,
with a long pole in his hands.
He waited for and waited and finally the cuckoo,
poking it's head out of the nest, it sang:
Koo-koo! Koo-koo! Koo-koo! Kook...
The man hit the cuckoo with the pole
and it fell down to the carpet.

---------------------
01/03/2018.
10:07 in the morning.
Canada, Ontario.



-----------------------
No one is visible on the Milky way
--------------------------


The stars are cramped in the vast sky.
They hit each other with their elbows.
For this reason, one of them,
like a startled bird flew away.
No one is visible on the Milky way,
where they don't even ride a moped.
Maybe they're afraid to puncture
their old vintage vehicle's wheels
over the rusty nails of stars.

-----------------------
24/03/2020.
10:57 of the day.
Canada, Ontario.




-----------
Fishermen
---------------


I was sitting on the shore alone, fishing
and suddenly I saw another fisherman,
also with a fishing rod in his hands, who
was looking at me from the depths.

----------------
23/01/2021.
10:00 PM.
Canada, Ontario.




------------
Beard
-----------


Oh, Niagara, with your grey beard!
I hear the clacking of the seagull's scissors
to trim your beard.
I wish you could hear, you're deaf,
from your own noise!..
Don't touch him, seagulls, don't touch him,
he's not homeless or a religious fan!
He is a simple poet, a free artist!
Let his beard grow, grow
all the way to the Atlantic Ocean!

-------------
14/01/2021.
11; 35 days.
Canada, Ontario.



-----------------
Sunset
------------


Evening silently breaks eggs,
On the edge of the hot sky.


---------------------
13/12/2020.
9:24 am.
Canada, Ontario.





--------------
Time
-----------


O time, that walks with a limp on one leg
in the dial of the old clock,
tell me, do you hate each other, like people do
on our planet and often tied between you
brawl, with knifes, and axes and even
bloody hundred years of war where soldiers kills
millions of peaceful, innocent people and even children,
turning beautiful cities into ruins?
What bloody war did you fight, if it's not a secret ,
in what field hospital of which you had one leg
amputated by military surgeons, by removing
a piece of shell from it to prevent gangrene?
O one-legged time, walking, limping on a prosthetic leg,
in the dial of the old clock!
I'm hearing the sound of your footsteps
in the midnight silence, or is it sounds of bitter tears
that drip rhythmically onto the floor
from your gray eyelashes?


------------------
17/09/2019.
4:44 of the night.
Canada, Ontario.





------------------
Sad holiday
------------------



I'll go out on a autumn field as if on a holiday,
like going to the train station, and standing
on a high slope,like if on a platform,
say goodbye to the migratory birds,
that fly south, flapping their wings.
I wave to them, my weathered skullcap
until they disappear over the horizon
and their sad voices in the distance
do not cease.
Until my soul is emptied, like an empty nest,
which blacken from the distant
in the grove, on the branches of birch trees.


--------------------
22/08/2019.
10:07 in the morning.
Canada, Ontario.




---------------------

The distant bird noises
--------------


At sunset in a poplar grove by the river,
where there are abandoned ruins of the pigsty,
high poplars deafening noisy birds.
The chirping of hundreds of sparrows, the distant noise
still ringing in my ears,
like the sound of waves in a seashell.


---------------------
22/08/2019.
11:38 of the day.
Canada, Ontario.





------------------
By the autumn fire
-----------------


You're busy alone in a quiet autumn garden,
sweeping the fallen leaves with a broom.
Thoughtfully and silently collect firewood,
thinking about our meetings and making a fire,
similar to fuming volcanoes, which smoke
the bitter cigar in the Kuril Islands.
Sitting by the fire, looking into the smoke,
so that people think you're not crying,
it's just your reddened eyes with
tears, because of the bitter smoke.


----------------------
02/08/2019.
12:26 of the day.
Canada, Ontario.



 

 

 

 

 

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

About the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling Leaves"



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 already read by you in this genre. Through 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 read. 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 reading. 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 bored, but later come to the conclusion that the evidence of the selected studies. The short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" read free online unusual, as the product is sometimes incredible, but at the same time, very interesting and exciting.



19.09.2016.



Thank you very much for the sincere review of my work.

Sincerely, Holder Volcano.



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. Read and enjoy.



Copying, distribution, and commercial use the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" without the written consent of the copyright holder is prohibited.



Sincerely, Holder Volcano.



Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

"Falling Leaves"


(The short novel)



(Translated by author)




Chapter 1

Spring fields



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 bunches winds spread across the field where farmers work. Khurshida worked, knocking hoe on the rocky field. It 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 is so 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 she 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 very strict towards his daughter Khurshida and his difficult character and behavior more like a stepfather than her own father. He often drinks alcohol and 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, but 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 will disgrace their family, he will 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 the class of her daughter not all girls were friendly with Khurshida. That is, some girls are jealous of Khurshida and look at her with despise, because she's pretty and many guys were in love 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. There, in the distance, a willow grove, a cotton field, she saw an alone tractor that silently glided over the field like a ship on the surface of a green sea of cotton. Khurshida thoughtfully watched agile low flying swallows. They flew over the fields, almost touching the ground, and its 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 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 not pay attention to me. Better get yourself something to eat. Its 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 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 who are watching a funny presentation of a wandering artist. Khurshida was also smiling through her tears, rejoicing that the Sultan let go of the pain.

 

 

 

 

 

Подробнее...

 

132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Chapter 7 of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves"

(Translated by author)

7 chapter

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 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 does not 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 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 is graduated from proof those College and received a law tractor. And he found a job here. In short, that 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 not to happen something irreparable, 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 about 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 by. 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 change 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 do 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, but 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, you will 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 to go to the native village, and there to teach lessons to students at a local school. And now I have other plans. You see, that I check 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 that is in the tractor Park, where I live temporarily. I don't want to carry all the time, both in the area where the curfew, 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 always reigned 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 resort, 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, want. 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 bedspread fluttered in the wind like a tattered flag on Mars. We finally arrived in a 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, says he, 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 a patient 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, scum fighting dogs, rabid bulldogs and pit-bull in human form! Kill, gnaw, throat each other, and tear, meat ripped up!

I said shame on you, comrade undersized bald still narrow-eyed referee with a goat's beard?! Then slash 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! Bhuddists! 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 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 reached the stool, which was missing one leg. Sitting on a stool, my nose broken, eyes lined on his forehead a lump a size of a lemon, mouth dripping bloody saliva as the count Dracula. Breathe. Suffocating. Give, grew, water. The coach opened the thermos and pours me a cut in a Cup of boiling water. I said, well, you are a greedy miser, where, grew the sugar? 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 lossed 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 a short, curves and skinny legs in a dirty canvas shoes without soles walked across the stage, raising high the banner with the words "Round 2". I said, comrade coach Trendeldinov, but may not be necessary, they say, stop this bloodshed? Coach, says he, no, not Sultan. People, bought expensive tickets with great hope to see a bloody hand to hand combat modern Gladiator with a fatal outcome. We, 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 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 measure its width and length by using a hand caliper, and the doctors were so scared, pale face as 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've 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.

eb23ebae4e2f0a5747a3836a73a792433eb756231883193 (700x510, 39Kb)

 

 

Холдор Вулкан

Член Союза писателей Узбекистана

 

Второй отзыв неизвестного читателя о повести Холдора Вулкана "Листопад" в электронной библиотеке "Ридли".


Дорогие читатели, есть книги интересные, а есть - очень интересные. К какому разряду отнести "Листопад" Холдор Вулкан решать Вам! Невольно проживаешь книгу – то исчезаешь полностью в ней, то возобновляешься, находя параллели и собственное основание, и неожиданно для себя растешь душой. С первых строк обращают на себя внимание зрительные образы, они во многом отчетливы, красочны и графичны. Финал немножко затянут, но это вполне компенсируется абсолютно непредсказуемым окончанием. Благодаря динамичному и увлекательному сюжету, книга держит читателя в напряжении от начала до конца. Гармоничное взаимодоплонение конфликтных эпизодов с внешней окружающей реальностью, лишний раз подтверждают талант и мастерство литературного гения. Благодаря уму, харизме, остроумию и благородности, моментально ощущаешь симпатию к главному герою и его спутнице. Мягкая ирония наряду с комическими ситуациями настолько гармонично вплетены в сюжет, что становятся неразрывной его частью. Данная история - это своеобразная загадка, поставленная читателю, и обычной логикой ее не разгадать, до самой последней страницы. Создатель не спешит преждевременно раскрыть идею произведения, но через действия при помощи намеков в диалогах постепенно подводит к ней читателя. Темы любви и ненависти, добра и зла, дружбы и вражды, в какое бы время они не затрагивались, всегда остаются актуальными и насущными.


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Спасибо Вам огромное за искренный отзыв на мое произведение.С уважением, Холдор Вулкан.(Х.В.)



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 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 confirm 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.


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Thank you very much for the sincere review of my work.
Sincerely, Holder Volcano.

 

 

(не читают абсолютно талантливых мастеров, не меньше чем Габриэля Маркеса, например Холдор Вулкан "Жаворонки поют над полем" - абсолютный талант, нет ему равных.)

Борис Сокольников

Писатель.

Источник: -Литературный портал «Изба-Читальня»

 

 

(There are many talented writers whom are no less than, Gabriel Marquez and many don't read their novels, for example Holder Volcano "Larks sing above the field" is an absolute talent, he has no equal.)

 

Boris Sokolnikov

Writer.

Source: -the Literary portal "Izba Chitalnya»

 

 


 

Холдор Вулкан

Член Союза писателей Узбекистана

 

 

 

Дедушка Холдора Вулкана

 

1 глава повести "Далекие огни"






Бабушка Холдора Вулкана

Детство



Я задумчиво смотрел на падающий снег. Он падал, кружась, то торопливо, то тихо. Крупные белые снежинки, кружились в воздухе, словно пушинки пристреленных лебедей, собравшихся улететь на юг.

Снег падал так красиво и так густо, что я едва различал деревянный забор, стройные березы, кафе под названием "У Ахмеда" и частную лавку, которая в народе называлась "Камок", где торговала продуктами добрая дунганка по имени Халима.


Я здесь жил, днем убирал снег, рубил топором дрова и иногда топил баню. Я любил колоть дрова. Это было одно из моих любимых занятий. Когда я орудовал топором, я чувствовал себя лесорубом, который валит вековые сосны и кедры в глубине далекой тайги, где от стука дятлов дрожит воздух, где с грохотом падают срубленные деревья, пронизывая воздух запахом свежей и сочной сосновой коры. Я колол дрова и забывал на какое-то время о моем изгнании из родных мест, где я родился и вырос.

Я колол дрова, а из окна глядел на меня мой маленький сын Саид, улыбаясь и махая мне ручкой.


Проклятое изгнание не пощадило даже моих сыновей, лишив их друзей, которые остались на родине. У Саида здесь не было друзей. Он играл один, и, глядя на него, я чувствовал, как на глаза мои наворачиваются слезы. Жалко мне было сына.


Я думал о своей прошедшей жизни, которая было похожа на трагикомедию. Если хорошенько подумать, то мне представляется, что я был врожденным оппозиционером. Помню, я часто играл в футбол со своими друзьями во дворе старого, заброшенного свинарника, который располагался на берегу реки Карадарьи, где в маленьком хуторе жили каракалпаки. Хутор находился недалеко от глубоких оврагов и ущелий. Какие высокие тополя росли тогда в этом хуторе! Как шумели воробьи, оглушая своим щебетаньем всю окрестность, когда садилось солнце, скрываясь за горами Тянь-Шаня, господи!


Я вспоминаю, как-то раз мы, ребята с нашей округи, долго играли футбол, не заметив, как стало вечереть, и возвращались по пыльной дорогой домой, голодные, усталые и довольные. Приближаясь к дому, я вспомнил о заданиях, которые дал мне отец, и в сердце моем тоже начали опускаться сумерки. Отец у меня был строгим, и я чувствовал всегда его пытливый взгляд и боялся его. Я хотел зайти в дом тихо и незаметно, продвигаясь на цыпочках, как аист в рисовом поле, который шагает осторожно, чтобы не вспугнуть лягушек, надеясь полакомиться ими. Но тут вдруг появился отец и - хоп! - я попался. Начался "суд" надо мной, в котором отец единолично был одновременно и прокурором, и судьей. Он вынес мне суровый приговор и определил наказание.

Лишённый адвокатов, я оказался на улице.

В такие моменты я знал, что мне делать. Не раздумывая долго, я пошёл к дедушке с бабушкой, которые любили и жалели меня. Я попросил у них политическое убежище, и они, не требуя особых документов, дали мне убежище. Помывшись, я сел на курпачу обильного дастархана*. Накормив меня, бабушка постелила мне мягкую постель с пуховой подушкой и, поцеловав меня в лоб, пожелала мне спокойной ночи.


Низкий дом, где жили дедушка с бабушкой, имел глиняный пол, на котором была расстелена мягкая солома, покрытая ковром. Человек, который наступал на этот ковер, чувствовал себя человеком, стоящим над огромной резиновой грелкой с теплой водой.

Смотрю - дедушка мой сидит и при свете керосиновой лампы читает какую-то книгу с пожелтевшими страницами, надев очки с овальной оправой, какие люди носили во времена Антона Павловича Чехова. Бабушка латала белый яктак*, похожий на японское мужское кимоно моего деда. В лачуге царила такая арктическая тишина, что я слышал громкое, ритмичное тиканье старинных часов, похожих на голос ящерицы Геккона, которая жила в щелях не отштукатуренных стен и в сумраках охотилась за мотыльками. Дед мой в то время пас колхозных лошадей. Хотя он был пастухом лошадей, он был большим ученым, то есть муллой, который знал наизусть "Куръони Карим" и умел правильно трактовать ояты из этой священной Книги мусульман. Как он гонял лошадей на водопой! Какие были красивые лошади! Красные, белые, черные, серые, пятнистые! Как они пили воду отражаясь в воде арыка, шевеля своими смешными губами и храпя, у края арыка, где мы купались, где на ветру шумели высокие зеленые ивы и стройные тополя! Как эти лошади скакали дробя своими копытами по наших улиц, теребя на вольном ветру свои гривы словно разноцветные флаги государств мира у задании ООН!


Дед мой был стариком высокого роста, худого телосложения и с короткой бородой. А бабушка моя - напротив, была низкорослая и полная. Дедушка с бабушкой напоминали мне Дон Кихота с Санчо Пансой. Но, несмотря на различие, жили они дружно. Когда бабушка смеялась, во рту у неё виднелся один единственный сохранившийся зуб, как у зевающего бегемота. Лежа в постели, я глядел в окно низкой лачуги.


За окном сияла огромная луна, тихо поднимаясь из-за деревьев. Неподалёку стояло огромное дерево бака терек*- белый тополь, который принадлежал соседке дедушки с бабушкой по имени Куки-хола, то есть тетя Куки. Это была чересчур худая женщина, кривая на одну руку, которая высохла, к тому же она была почти без нижней челюсти и слепая на один глаз. Слепой глаз её был похож на белый камень, торчащий из щели в заборе. С непривычки, человек, увидев её в первый раз, упал бы в обморок от сильного испуга. Но эта одинокая старуха была доброй, любила детей, и мы, дети, тоже любили её и не боялись её внешнего вида. Было ли имя Куки её псевдонимом или настоящим именем, я до сих пор не знаю. Знал только, что она всю жизнь ждала своего любимого мужа, который ушёл на фронт и не вернулся домой после второй мировой войны. Она всё время ждала его, так и не выйдя замуж. Тетя Куки хотя была внешне некрасивая, но она была самой красивой женщиной внутри, то есть в душе. Я часто вспоминаю тётю и её дом с низким окном, где вечерами за окном грустно тлела керосиновая лампа, освещая её грустное лицо, покрытое тенью одиночества.

Я лежал на постели и думал о ней, но тут неожиданно дед, сняв с глаз очки с круглой оправой, сказал бабушке:
- Ну, старуха, кончай штопать! Ты ляжешь спать, в конце концов, или нет, латтапарст! Если честно, я до этого никогда не слышал такое смешное слово как латтапараст и не знал, что оно означает Женщина, которая любит тряпки. Я чуть не захохотал. Еле удержался. Я давил свой смех так, что от напряжения весь покраснел до самой шеи, набрав полный рот воздуха. Сижу и думаю, не дай бог, я захохочу, ведь они тоже могут выгнать меня из своей лачуги. Куда я пойду, на ночь глядя. Но я не смог удержать себя и взорвался. Захохотал. Смотрю, дедушка с бабушкой тоже смеются. При свете керосиновой лампы я снова увидел единственный сохранившийся у бабушки зуб, и ещё сильнее начал смеяться. Сам шайтан алайхуллаъна попутал меня. Смеюсь - и не могу остановиться.

Тогда дедушка снова сделал серьезный вид и, глядя на свои ногти, как бы подавляя смех, сказал:
- Астагфируллах, Астагфируллах!*


И мы перестали смеяться. Потом, потушив керосиновую лампу, легли спать. Утром после завтрака дед мой взял меня за руки и депортировал меня обратно, то есть отвёл домой.

 

 

 

Холдор Вулкан

 

 

132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Chapter 22 of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves"


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 estate of his grandson, the little Turabitdun. And 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 Abduljabbar. I will change my name to Douglas Steveenson. There I with their American counterparts in the 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 cowboy’s 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 in the side 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, have hit back, giving me in the 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 be nervously snore, threw its head back, staring eyes of fear and 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 vortex will jump in the direction of the sand dunes, where there are cacti and hysterically singing quicksand. Bullets with whistle 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 fallen leaves.
Khurshida worked sweeping the area and as always thinking 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 women caught her eye. It 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 the interview Khurshida.
- Yes there is no, I have it all in order - answered Khurshida, and gently asked her if she knows 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 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 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 all helped, than 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 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 said 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 the face of. Then, clasping her head with both hands, she wept aloud.
In autumn Park there was a quiet leaf fall.


End.



07/09/2014.
8: 27 PM.
The city of Brampton.
Canada.


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132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Chapter 21 of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves"


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 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, 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 say, what to do? Khurshida called her husband into the kitchen and said in a whisper:
- Pathella, father 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 so not can. How can I fool my father-in-law? He is for me 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 fridge door and headed to 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 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 vodka. After that, they drank for the health of the birthday boy, choking with bowls, and tasted salty cucumber.
Pathella wanted was 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 Hello to my father!
Also say Hello to my poor mother, who, stumbling, runs out to meet you, to hear good news about me.

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 shaft! 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 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 on 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 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 as 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 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, hit 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.

 

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132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Chapter 20 of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves"


Writer Qalandar Hazrat ibn Abdel Fattah




After Khurshida angered the visitors by its 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 feels 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. Entry days, Khurshida did not rest as other workers, and went into 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 is 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 sings a professional singer. Can this 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 Park of 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 fought 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 obey 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 happened to me at a glance - 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 the sweet sleep, 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 sitting 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 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 elated mood you walk further, as speak, with leaps and bounds. It is good that there is a field, to 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 hammocks 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 come back from the field against the backdrop of a blazing sunset! I'm going tired, but in a good mood at the acquaintance to a pain 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 his story writer qalandar Hazrat Ibn Abdel Fattah.
- Ooooh, I never thought that someday 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, threw it on the shore, where standing Khurshida. She even got scared and jumped back, having made laugh 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 it's mouth, convulsive twitching, writhing and bulging not contiguous, round, red eyes without eye lashes, staining it's silvery scales, sand.

 

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132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Chapter 19 of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves"


Comet




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, 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 Sultan recalled with a sigh those unforgettable bright days that are gone forever into the past, into eternity. She worked all day tirelessly and 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 and she went to bed. One day she woke up from her husband's sobs and was 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 truth from you, when you the most a 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 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 was 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 the dining room, which 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 and, what happiness! He arrived on the end of the! 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 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 ripped my favorite one dress, and there waiting for me 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, seems, has 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 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 hurt her feet. Severe pain forced her to sit. She cried grabbing her sprained leg. At this time, we ran Gulshanoy , that same employee dining room that were cleaning tables. She began to reproach Khurshida supposedly why she hesitates when there waits for it the person?
- Why are you sitting, Khurshida?! There 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, to 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 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 drunken 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.
Hello, Khurshida!
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.

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