Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

Holdor Vulkan was born in 1959 in Uzbekistan. Graduated from Tashkent State University. He has been writing poetry and prose since 1975. Lives in Canada. He has written 4 collections of poems, a number of novellas, short stories and novels in two languages.In Uzbek and in Russian.His works have been translated into English.Has no titles and awards.


Chapters of Holder Volcano's novel "Boomerang"

Translated by the author



Chapter 1
The watchman of the vineyard

Sayak is a man about 25 years old, medium height, oblique, skinny build, black-haired, curly, snub-nosed. He lives in the village of Kuiganyar with his young wife named Zebo.
He works as a watchman of a grape orchard and sits all day in a hut on high stilts, as if on a border watchtower, from where the neighborhood is visible at a glance.Sitting in a hut, Sayak drives the birds away with a repeller made from empty iron cans of canned fish and Coca Cola suspended on wires.He shouts at the top of his voice, clapping his hands loudly. When he pulls the wires, the deafening sounds of empty iron cans are heard, scaring away flocks of voracious birds.Sayak is madly fond of watching flocks of birds flying in a cloud over a grape orchard, over cotton fields, creating the noise of a bird blizzard with their wings, abruptly changing their directions, this way and that, like a parachute blown away by the wind.
At night, lighting a kerosene lamp, he cleans the barrels of his double-barreled shotgun with a cleaning rod and wipes it's wooden stock with a rag. Moths silently begin to curl around the burning kerosene stove. The sky above the hut overflows with stars.Then comes Sayaka's favorite moments.He enthusiastically watches the moon, which slowly and silently rises over the September cotton fields, over poplar and willow groves, illuminating the neighborhood like a powerful searchlight with its dazzling light.Such silence that you can hear the buzzing of a mosquito swarm, similar to the distant and anguished crying of hired mourners at the magnificent funeral of deceased officials.From afar comes the tired barking of a stray dog. The moonlight twilight will ring with restless crickets. Frogs will sing in the distant marshes and sublunary reeds of the kashkaldak River, making the sound of boiling soup in a cauldron. Under the moon, you can see with the naked eye deserted country roads and even paths, as in the daytime.On the bank of the river in deep ravines overgrown with junipers, foxes live, who love not only to eat chickens, they also love to eat juicy ripe grapes.Under the moon, foxes can be seen even from afar. The fox moves quickly, sniffing the ground, as if simultaneously identifying the smells of things. Sometimes he will stop for a moment, carefully sniffing the air.It is in such trembling moments that Sayak, throwing his gun on his shoulder, carefully takes aim, and shoots. "Dttish! Dttish!" The silence of the night echoes with a rolling echo the roar of a shot, like the sounds of spring thunder in mountain gorges.Frightened birds sleeping on the branches of nearby trees will fly away from fright.On moonless nights, Sayak takes aim at the animals between their eyes, which burn in the dark like a light and pulls the trigger.
The moon, slowly making its journey across the sky, wanders sleepily and for a long time over deserted fields.Sayak, taking off his outer clothes, covers himself with a cotton blanket called "kurpa" and goes to bed, thinking about his past, looking at the countless stars twinkling with diamonds in the boundless heavens and at the moon, which carelessly shines over distant cotton fields. He thinks about his distant and difficult childhood and his father, who abused alcohol, drank without drying out for weeks and months, going on a binge. When he came home drunk, he began to beat Sayak's mother, dragging her around the yard like a sleigh in winter on a snowdrift. Sayak's mom cried, screamed, calling for help from people. Sayak tried to protect her somehow, but he was unable to stop his strong, angry and drunken father. The neighbors were also silent, although they clearly heard the cries for help. Instead of helping, on the contrary, they secretly watched from behind a crack of clay douvals, rejoiced, as they laughed heartily.One day, his father took Sayaka's tricycle and headed outside to exchange it for vodka.Oh, how Sayak ran after his father then, begging him not to sell his beloved bike.But his drunk father hit him in the face with his elbow and broke his nose.Blood was oozing from Sayak's broken nose.A year later, Sayak's father died. That is, he was hit by a huge truck as he was crossing the road and he died at the scene.After his father's funeral, his mother fell ill.Despite the autumn cold, Sayak, in order to help his sick mother, decided to work, washing cars that descended from mountain passes and stopped by the road to have a snack and relax in a local teahouse. The cold winds of the snowy peaks blew from the mountain slopes. Sayak was standing on the side of the road, constantly twisting a wet rag like an airplane propeller to somehow attract the attention of rich drivers.Here, one driver stopped his car on the side of the road and Sayak offered him his cheap service.The driver agreed. Little Sayak scooped a bucket of icy water from the ditch and began to work hard.While he cleaned the dirty wheels and washed the windows of the car, his hands turned red in the cold and the joints of his stiff fingers began to ache, which he tried to warm with his breath.He worked tirelessly, thinking about his sick mother and was very happy when the driver gave him money. Sayak, in order to save money, returned home hungry, not allowing himself to eat anything for dinner. Having collected all the money he earned by honest work, he ran home to please his mother.But when he went into the yard, there he saw the neighboring women and one of them, hugging Sayak tightly, sobbed bitterly.
- Oh, poor Sayak, you're all alone now! Your mom is gone! - she said sobbing, stroking his head. Oh how Sayak cried then, oh how he cried, hugging the body of his late mother, shaking her. After the funeral, they wanted to send him to an orphanage where orphaned children were brought up, but Sayak's grandmother drove away the newcomers, waving her cane.
- Leave now, I won't give him to anyone so long as I'm alive! You can only take my grandson over my dead body! - she screamed, crying and making desperate resistance.
Years passed. Sayak has grown up. In those days, he reluctantly attended school, like a mongrel dog which the owner leads to hunt, dragging it behind him. The school for Sayak was like a penal colony, where he felt like a prisoner in a striped robe.
The teachers seemed to him to be evil guards, and the school principal reminded him of the prison governor. Sayak was sitting at a desk made of pine boards, located near the window, which was sometimes open, where he made paper airplanes from a notebook sheet and sent them flying. He was the first to run out of class during recess, especially when lessons were over, feeling like a prisoner released on parole. In summer, on vacation, Sayak grazed a cow from morning to evening in the floodplain of the Kashkaldak River.While his burenka was grazing with other cows in the meadow, he and his friends were swimming in the river, over which pugnacious seagulls flew in flocks, shouting together and noisily, like restless women at the bazaar. With the arrival of thoughtful September, his days again became empty, sad, like autumn itself, like the eyes of a donkey with a sad look.The teachers' questions seemed to him like interrogations under torture in a pre-trial detention center.One day Sayak went to school with a backpack on his shoulders, rustling the fallen leaves of autumn maples, simultaneously planning an escape from school. But what he saw at the beginning of the lesson dramatically changed his plans and he had to postpone his escape for another day.
- So, quiet, fellow students! We have a new student from the city! Meet her, her name is Zebo!Niyazov's her last name!The documents show that she studied perfectly at her school - said the teacher Uvadaguppiev.
The students were silent. Zebo, too. She looked out of the ground at her new classmates with big deer eyes, blushing with embarrassment and playing with the tips of her pigtails.This skinny, black-haired and black-eyed new student with long cow eyelashes turned out to be a very attractive girl. Her scarlet lips, reminiscent of ripe cherries, a thin and delicate neck smooth as ivory, thin and long fingers like musicians simply bewitched Sayaka.
- Well, Niyazova, sit down at the desk next to the student Satybaldiev. His name is Sayak.He's an underachieving student.So you will help him, - said the teacher Uvadaguppiev, pointing out to the new student the desk where Sayak was sitting, as if hypnotized.
Zebo sat down at her desk.The teacher Uvadaguppiev turned to Sayak.
- Why are you staring at me, schoolboy Satybaldiev?! Are you dissatisfied with something?! You, this, don't even think of offending her!Otherwise, I will personally write a complaint against you to the district policeman comrade Dyryldaev, and he will send you to a children's colony?! - he said.
- I understand, Comrade Uvadaguppiev, I understand... A little like the police, a children's colony... Yes, I'm not looking at you, but at her, that is, at the new student. And what should I do if I have such oblique eyes?! - Sayak said.
Hearing this, the students laughed in unison. Zebo blushed even more.
The teacher Uvadaguppiev laughed like Aladdin, looking at the ceiling. He laughed for a long time, bursting with laughter.Then, barely suppressing his laughter and wiping his tears with his checkered, leaky handkerchief, he said:
- Well, sit down, comrade schoolboy Satybaldiev.
Sayak sat down, thinking about how good it was that he was oblique.Now no one will suspect when he looks at this beautiful Zebo girl. The naive teacher Uvadaguppiev will also think that Sayak is looking at the blackboard...
With such thoughts, Sayak lay for a long time in a hut, looking like a watchtower of penal colonies, looking at the moon and did not even notice how he fell asleep.

Chapter 2
Love at first, oblique glance

Sayak, lying in the hut, began to think about his past again, about how he started dating his wife Zebo in his distant youth. How he looked at Zebo during lessons and even during recess and could not tear his squinting eyes away from her then.He remembers well the day when the lessons ended and the students, hurriedly taking their backpacks, rushing to the exit, shouting joyfully, like seagulls on the shore of the sea. Sayak also ran out of school and quickly caught up with Zebo, began to keep up with her.His heart was beating fast with excitement, like a freedom-loving bird in a cage.Finally he pulled himself together and began to speak:
- Well, Zebo, did you like our school?
- Yes - answered Zebo, smiling beautifully and closing her eyes from the rays of the September sun.
- And our village? - Sayak asked, so that the conversation would not be interrupted, like a film of an old movie camera, which rustled off in summer cinemas at the most interesting place of an Indian movie about love, where a lover Sundar, playing the piano, sings a sad song about a faithful friend, looking at the ceiling, straining so that burning tears would not roll down his cheeks.
- Zebo, I don't know why, but when I saw you for the first time, I almost fainted.I've never met such a beautiful girl like you anywhere before. Believe me, you're very similar to Radha, who I saw in the Indian feature film Sangam. In the film, a young military pilot named Sundar fell madly in love with her. Oh how he sang while playing the piano a sad song about an unfaithful friend!

Dost dost na raha, piaar piaar na raha,
Zindagiiii hameeein tera, aitubaaar na raha! Aaaytubaaar na raha...
(AND a friend is no longer a friend, and a beloved is no longer a beloved,
Life I don't believe in you anymore, I don't believe in you anymore...)

- Yes, I've also seen that movie. You sing well! Bravo! You have a good voice, like Fyodor Chaliapin, - Zebo said.
- Well, this is too much! What kind of singer am I? Are you kidding me? - Sayak said, laughing.
- No, I'm quite serious. You have a gift from God, a talent from God! As for the village, everything is very beautiful here.Wide fields and meadows where butterflies roam carelessly and quietly. as if they were afraid to break the silence. I often freeze, standing on the path, in the middle of meadows, when a lonely hoopoe sings wistfully at noon, somewhere out there beyond the sultry fields, in the distance.I used to come here often to my grandmother and fell in love with the rural landscapes, - Zebo said.
- Landscapes? Oh, you talk like great artists and poets - Sayak was surprised.
Zebo silently smiled back.
Sayak continued: - Have you seen our kashkaldak River?
- Yes, I saw it. Only from afar. High cliffs where swifts nest in burrows, green rice fields on the shore, where gulls rush, shrieking.I just can't take my eyes off! - Zebo replied.
-You're right, Zebo. There is nothing to compare our green meadows, rice fields, old willows and poplars in the delta, rustling reeds in the wind knee-deep in water. Blooming djids, cattails growing like a wall on the shore and white water lilies in quiet, mirrored pools. And on the island we herd cattle, disappearing into the juniper thickets and the tall grass. In the evening, when we wearily return home, wading through shallow water, driving a caravan of well-fed cows with calves, frogs will sing in chorus in the distance and the moon will shine. Cows and calves are returning home, along a dusty village road, lowing long - Sayak boasted.
- Yes, I also love country evenings, in the silence of the moon. In our city, the noise, the sounds of car brakes and the heartbreaking howls of sirens. When we lived in the city, my grandmother sometimes came to visit us and she could not stay there for a long time.I tried to return home, that is, here, as soon as possible.
- And who is your grandmother? - Sayak asked.
- Grandma Suttie - Zebo replied.
- Oh, aunt Suttie? She's a very good old woman. The one who lives in a small house next to a water pump, right? Sayak said.
- Yes, that one - Zebo said, confirming the words of Sayak.
- Did you come with your parents or did you come alone? - Sayak continued, interested, like an investigator of the city prosecutor's office.
- Together with my parents. The fact is that my mother got sick and the doctors advised her to change the climate - Zebo said sadly.
- Don't worry too much, Zebo, everything will be fine.Your mother will recover soon, you'll see. We have clean air, no noise, and beautiful landscapes. In general, I am glad you came here... Forgive me, I seem to have poured salt on your wound without noticing it - Sayak said guiltily, trying to calm Zebo.
Zebo sighed sadly, shaking her head approvingly, as if accepting Sayak's apology for his inappropriate question and continued to tell her story, walking steadily along the road, rustling the fallen leaves.
Sayak did too. From the autumn maples and poplars growing along the road, yellow and purple leaves were falling quietly.Finally, when they reached the water pump, on which the storks built a huge nest of cotton stalks, they stopped.
Sayak didn't want to part with a beautiful girl. When Zebo started to move away from him, he hurriedly shouted after her:
- If you want, I'll show you the beautiful places of our river!
Zebo thought about it and blushed for some reason.Then she replied,
- Okay. But I have to ask my parents for permission.If they allow it... - she said.
- Okay, Zebo, okay. Agreed! After lunch, I'll be waiting for you here, - said Sayak, relieved.
- Okay - said Zebo and opening the creaking gate, headed into the yard. Sayak stood looking after her with his slanted eyes until she disappeared from sight.
He then joyfully made a gesture with his hand, as if pulling an invisible lever of an old river ferry that emits long sad horns in the fog. After that, he ran home in high spirits.
A lonely autumn wind was breezing on the street, the fallen leaves, circling forlornly.


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Chapter 3

Zebo was sitting over the deep cliff of the kashkaldak River, and Sayak was lying next to her, sideways on the tall grass, thoughtfully looking into the distance with his crossed eyes, holding a foxtail stalk in his teeth.
- Well, what does our river look like from a close distance? He asked Zebo.
- Beauty! Zebo said.
Then she added:
- It seems God himself sent me here. However, in the first days I cried about how I could now live on in this remote village, where I do not have friends, and now I'm glad.
With such conversations, they fell silent, looking at the flocks of sparrows that flew in a cloud over the yellowed autumn rice fields, often and sharply changing the flight directions of the whole flock, as a single organism, first to the left then to the right. Farmers worked in the rice fields, they mowed rice manually with a sickle, as in the old days. Screaming seagulls were rushing over the river surface and fighting right in the air among themselves, like fraternal peoples fighting each other for territory, killing tens of thousands of innocent people, especially helpless children, destroying infrastructure, blowing up schools, kindergartens, hospitals, universities, turning beautiful cities into ruins. Just at this time, a donkey began to scream in the distance. His raspy voice resembled the clang of an iron gate in the wind, the creak of a rusty swing and an old carousel in an empty autumn city park.
- Zebo, if my crosseyed look confuses you, tell me right away. It may seem to you that I am looking at you at the moment, but in fact, I'm looking at flocks of birds that fly in clouds over the rice fields, - said Sayak.
- No, don't say that, Sayak.Your look doesn't bother me at all, -  Zebo said, blushing slightly from her words.
- Really? - Sayak said, rejoicing.
- Really, really, - Zebo replied, smiling beautifully again.
- Thank God! Sayak said, sighing happily. Then he continued.
- To be honest, I'm afraid of my look, because of which I was almost killed once. I'm walking through the city park on foot, with a bag on my shoulders. I was walking, admiring the city landscapes, and then one tall and pot-bellied big guy comes up to me and says:
- Hey, village hillbilly , why are you staring at my wife?! What are you staring at?! I'll gouge out your eyes!
- When I heard this, I turned pale with fear and told him, - I'm not looking at your wife, I am just cross eyed, like a hare. I thought the big guy would understand me but he began to beat his hands and feet on the vital areas of my poor body.I screamed like a distant train in the winter twilight, which rushes over the Kuiganyarsky suspension bridge, stumbling over the spines of the steel road.I called people for help, but no one responded to my shrill screams. On the contrary, onlookers began to cheer the big guy.
- Beat that hillbilly with a bag over his shoulders, who looks at decent women like a prostitute! He says I'm crosseyed. He's lying! Don't believe him, naive citizens! He's faking it!It's not enough to beat such people! He needs to be killed with a shovel and bury him like a like a rabid dog! People like him are the reason monstrous natural disasters have recently begun to occur on our lonely, orphaned planet and terrible typhoons are rising in the oceans, volcanoes are erupting, nuclear power plant reactors are exploding, radiation is going off scale all over the planet, entire cities are being destroyed in terrible earthquakes, AIDS and other types of plague are spreading, unheard-of plane crashes occur in the sky with hundreds of passengers on board, nuclear submarines equipped with hypersonic intercontinental cruise missiles are dying missiles in the seas and oceans! - they shouted.
- Quiet, citizens, I am a secret informant of the police, an honored informer Ruppan ibn Suppan and I have a unique idea about this! - someone from the crowd said. Then he continued: - Let's hang him on the top of the tallest crane! Let hungry crows and vultures clean his bones! Let some people draw the appropriate conclusions from this, about what will befall the severe punishment of the one who stares at other women with his crossed eyes! - Ruppan ibn Suppan, a well-deserved snitch and secret informant of the police, said.
With these words, they began to hang me.When everything was ready, the man who put a bag on my head gave me the last word before the execution.
- Listen, you are condemned to death! We give you the last word and you can say whatever you want! After that, we'll send you to hell, okay?! - he said, looking at me with burning eyes from a bag with holes for eyes.
By this time, the number of the crowd around the construction site where the execution was carried out had sharply increased.
I started talking:
- Dear compatriots! What is this?! It's not my fault! I am being executed on trumped-up charges, like the inquisitors of the Middle Ages, who executed the innocent great scientist - astronomer Giordano Bruno, who, before being burned alive in a giant bonfire, said that the Earth rotates! Later it turned out that the Earth rotates not only around its axis, but also around the sun too! Believe me, I didn't look at the wife of this Mr. bully! God is my witness that my gaze was directed at urban landscapes and not at a woman! I'm cross eyed, you know?! At school, my teachers also look at me with disbelief.They think I'm an unrecognized artist and pretend to be Cross eyed! And these gentlemen hang me for staring! I'm afraid that the future generation will never forgive you!.. I ask only one thing before I die. Take care of the yellowed manuscripts of my poems that are in this bag! I said.Here the executioner interrupted me and began to hurry me:
- Well, that's enough, that's enough, a slanting suicide bomber, an unrecognized impostor poet! I am a well-deserved executioner, winner of the prestigious Robespierre Award and I have little time, but on the contrary, there are a lot of things to do, you know! I have to hang many more such bastards - dangerous criminals, freethinkers, enemies of our long-suffering people, like you, who don't look where everyone is looking! Come on, stop talking! You will pronounce the rest of your poetic speech in the next world! - he said, preparing to carry out the sentence, carefully putting a noose lathered with household soap on my neck. I began to say a prayer in a whisper, looking up to heaven, where a lonely, kind and silent God lives. Then a foreman in a construction helmet, looking up, shouted into a tin megaphone: - Vira! The crane operator began to carry out the order of the foreman, lifting the boom of a high crane and I woke up, covered in sweat, breathing heavily - said Sayak.
Listening to Sayak's story, Zebo laughed loudly: - Well, you had a dream! It's a good thing they didn't hang you on the top of a tall crane. And I wonder if you write poetry only in a dream, or in reality too? - she was interested.
- You see, it turns out that I myself, without noticing it, have revealed to you a secret that I have never told anyone about before. Not like my classmates and teachers, even my grandmother doesn't know about it. One day I sent one of my poems along with my photo by mail to the editorial office of the newspaper "Adabiet va Sanat" and a week later I received an answer.I'll open the blue envelope, and there's a letter written on a typewriter.I still remember the text of that hate-soaked letter. There were such words:
- Hello, Comrade Sayakbai Satybaldulin! We opened the envelope that you sent and immediately drew attention to your photo, which resembles a sketch of a particularly dangerous criminal on the international wanted list, and we decided not to read your poems, as it seemed to us a pointless occupation.The fact is that your appearance does not match with poetry. I wonder, with such cross eyes, did you decide to become a poet?! Look at your nose, which looks like a rino horn . You should  first look in the mirror, and the face of our beautiful poets who struggle twice a day, sometimes three times a day, carefully shaving their beard, massaging their faces for hours, putting on nourishing creams to look good infront of their bosses. That's what a real poet's face should look like! There is not a single poet among them with slanted eyes and a nose like yours, like an elephant's trunk, like a gas mask hose. My God, what a horror! I bet you get scared every time you look at a mirror. Even a stooped penguin, a vulture or a scavenger vulture looks more beautiful than you! The poet is the face of society, do you understand?! So, my advice to you is to find yourself another job, maybe you should play in a horror movie like in one of Alfred Hitchcocks movies. I think you could make a good living off of this. or maybe they should use your picture to scare kindergardeners that arent going to sleep and say "oh no the monster is coming!"
Sincerely, Mr. Konstantin Matyak, Chief Chairman of the Literature Department of the newspaper "Adabiet va Sanat".
After that, I decided never to send my poems to newspapers and magazines. Since then, I have been shy and write poems secretly, so, for the soul. I hide yellowed notebooks from people, where my poems are written, - admitted Sayak.
- Poor man! But don't worry about this, what's his name, Konstantin. He's wrong.Your appearance is normal. To be honest, your eyes make your appearance even more attractive. Believe me, honestly! Now, the time will come and you will become one of the great poets of the world! It's obvious. Since you have the pure soul of a real poet and I firmly believe that the poems of a guy like you should not be bad. I want to be your first reader, and I wonder if you will show me the manuscripts of your poems? - Zebo said.
- Yes, only if you promise not to show them to anyone, - said Sayak, smiling broadly, like a new moon over an evening meadow.

Chapter 4
First kisses

Previously, Saturday and Sunday were freedom holidays for Sayak, like the Independence Day of the country. Now it has become the opposite. Now he is looking forward to the arrival of Monday and aspires to school as the best student in the world.The school began to seem to him not a concentration camp, as before, but an expensive and comfortable resort with a five-star hotel, a quiet paradise, an azure coast, where palm groves rustle in the sea wind and coral thickets with shoals of colorful fry are visible under the clear water. The teachers began to remind him of silent, harmless good monks, who live in a monastery above the mountain gorges and pray to God, content with a piece of dried bread and water. Especially the teacher Uvadaguppiev. He began to praise Sayak that he started studying well, looking at the board all the time, thanks to Zebo, who is sitting next to him. In fact, Sayak was not looking at the board, but at Zebo. He once wrote a strange letter on a piece of paper and carefully handed it to her. The text of the letter was as follows:
- Red Guard, Zebo Niyazuva! I order in the name of the revolution! Quickly jumping out of the open window, sit on a rhinoceros and gallop to the bank of the kashkaldak River, across the steppe, where a silvery grass sways in the free wind. Ride, waving a sharp saber , along the way beheaded the White Guards of Kolchak and Denikin's cavalry army. Our man, Commissar Uvadaguppiev, is waiting for you there on the shore. He will ferry you across the river to the other side and from there you will go by train to distant Turkestan to fight against the gang of Basmachi Kurbashi Kurshermet, Ibrahimbek Lakai and the bloodthirsty Junaid Khan!
period, chairman of the revkom, lieutenant general commander Sayak Satybaldizade.
After reading this, Zebo began to laugh uncontrollably, shaking her whole body and covering her mouth with her hand so as not to burst out with laughter.
After class, Zebo asked Sayak not to write her such funny letters in class anymore, which make her laugh, and the worst thing is that these letters can fall into the hands of classmates or teachers.
- I read your poems, which struck me. Real works of art! The time will come and your collections of poems will be published with millions of copies and distributed around the world. Believe me, Sayak, you have a great future! - she said, coming home after school.
Sayak thanked her for the good words spoken to him about his poems.
- When you become a great poet and come from Paris to Uzbekistan to visit your homeland, I will approach you with your book in my hands and ask you to give me an autograph. You will sign the book and give it back, with a smile on your lips, without recognizing me, - Zebo said, smiling thoughtfully and walking steadily along the autumn road.
Then Sayak stopped abruptly and said: - No, I will never go to Paris, even if I become a great poet! I'd rather burn all my poems and chop off my hand with an axe than move away from you! - he said.
- Come on, I was joking! Zebo said, laughing merrily. Then she continued: - You'd better tell me how you managed to learn to write such amazing poems? What books do you read? To be honest, I also want to try writing poetry or prose at worst, - Zebo said.
- It's very simple.To do this, we have a school library and there are many interesting books there.If you want, we'll go to the library right now and I'll show you the best books in the world, - said Sayak.
- Why not, it's not a bad idea. I agree - smiled Zebo. After that, the two of them walked towards the library.There they were met by a skinny librarian named Gulsumoy Abduzhalilova, about thirty-five years old, with a long neck, with big cow eyes, with swollen lips like a duck's beak. In addition, she also limped slightly on one leg.
- Oh, come in Sayak! You are our most active visitor - said librarian Gulsumoy Abduzhalilova, and when she smiled, the gold crowns on her teeth shined brightly.
- Thank you, Miss, - said Sayak.
The librarian Gulsumoy Abduzhalilova thought that Sayak was looking at the bookshelves, not even suspecting that at the moment he was looking at her.
- Please come in and choose books. What books would you like to read? She asked politely.
- Books of foreign poets - said Sayak.
- Good - said the librarian Gulsumoy Abduzhalilova and sat down at the table, began to read some books.
After that, book lovers began to look for the books they needed.Divine silence reigned in the library.They walked between the high shelves, quietly examining the books.
- What a silence - Zebo admired.
- Yes, it's always quiet here, like in misty meadows where horses graze peacefully. Doctors say that noise and stress shorten the lives of people whose nerves are shaken. They recommend patients to go fishing. If I were a doctor, I would recommend that patients often visit libraries to be treated with silence therapy for free, getting drunk without vodka and wine, breathing the fragrant smell of books, similar to the smell of dust during a thunderstorm, when the first, large, cutting raindrops fall.The library is a terrestrial paradise for me, - said Sayak. Then, picking up one of the books, he continued.
- Here, please, this is a book of poems by Japanese poets. There are haikku and tanks of many authors, such as Matsuo Basho, Yosa Buson, Kobayashi Issa, Wakayama Bokushi, Ishikawa Tokuboku, Kovahigashi Hekigado, Masaoka Shiki, Takahama Kyoshi and many others. In the haiku and tanks of ancient Japanese poets, you will see your own soul, similar to the moon, which oscillates in a bucket of clear water. With these words, they began to read the haiku and tanks of Japanese poets, standing side by side. They were standing so close to each other that their breaths merged.Then Sayak accidentally touched Zebo's hand and hastily asked for forgiveness. Zebo blushed. Her eyes were looking at the book, but she did not think anything. She was confused by Sayaka's gaze directed at her, forgetting that he was Cross eyed and looking at a book of Japanese poets. When his gaze turned towards the book, he began to speak in a lowered voice: - You are an incomparably beautiful girl, Zebo! Maybe you won't believe my words, but I think only about you day and night. I can't sleep at night. I stand in the dark for a long time, like a ninja, looking at the glowing windows of your house, hoping to see you out of the corner of my eye.When I see your silhouette in the window, I freeze, leaning against the clay wall of the house, like a ghost... I love you, Zebo, do you hear, I love you... - he said, pressing the girl tightly against the shelf. Then he passionately began to kiss her on the lips, in the eyes, in the ivory-smooth neck, inhaling and getting drunk from the subtle fragrance of her thick and delicate hair.. Zebo struggled out of his embrace and hurriedly straightening her hair, whispered: - Fool! What are you doing, are you crazy? There is also a librarian, Mrs. Gulsumoy Abduzhalilova...
Sayak again asked for forgiveness: - Sorry, Zebo, for God's sake, sorry... Yes, you're right, I think I've lost my mind... Excuse me... - he said.
- Crazy! - Zebo said in a low voice. Sayak smiled, guiltily looking at Zebo with slanted eyes.
Then they came out of the cramped corridor between the shelves and approached the librarian named Gulsumoy Abduzhalilova, who was sitting reading some interesting book excitedly.