don't exile the dead! – Aman-Jalil replied mysteriously.
The broken doctor spilled everything to him right away: how he performed surgery on Leila, making her a virgin again. For some reason, the surgeon began to boast about the staggering fee, but Aman-Jalil cut him off and kicked him out of the office, yelling unexpectedly:
– Get out, you sanctimonious prick, or I'll turn you into a boy!
Ahmed's betrayal stung Aman-Jalil deeply. He had been ready to marry Ahmed's mistress, only to be deceived about his own daughter. The world of men worked in strange ways.
Returning from their honeymoon brought another disappointment: his wife was expecting a child.
– A pregnant virgin! – Aman-Jalil whispered to himself in disbelief. What could be more absurd…
Gulshan fell into depression. She took Aman-Jalil's marriage hard. Before their trip to the Azores, he had spent an entire day with her, tender and tireless. Something about Aman-Jalil's disappointed face held her back from asking how his wife compared.
With Aman-Jalil gone, everything began to fall apart. And then her stepfather started paying too much attention, trying to barge into her room when she was changing clothes. He stared through the window when she forgot to draw the curtain between the toilet and the bath. Her mother was jealous, lashing out over trifles. The atmosphere in the house became unbearable. Only the old master walked around, oblivious to everything except his son. Lately, he had been dreaming of the boy, reaching out to him with a smile…
Gulshan started drinking, crying like a child. She felt sorry for herself. She had fallen in love with the cognac brought to the local chief. And she liked it so much that one day, she got drunk, passed out, and fell asleep in a chair.
Her stepfather, finding her in such a convenient state, took advantage of the opportunity. He carried her to the bedroom, undressed her hurriedly, and took her with a joy comparable to a thirsty traveler finding an oasis in the desert. Though Gulshan was insensible, she still experienced a kind of ecstatic pleasure.
In the early morning, the exhausted chauffeur fell asleep. Gulshan woke to his loud snoring. She stared at her stepfather through blurry eyes, her head pounding, mouth dry, thoughts confused. Then her husband's father walked into the room.
– You should lock the door! – he grumbled, seeing her stepfather in her bed.
And he left the room, spitting on the ground. Gulshan felt destroyed, dead inside. She got out of bed, put on a robe, and went to the bathroom. She scrubbed herself fiercely, as if trying to scrub away every touch of her abusive stepfather. When she came out of the bathroom, Gulshan drank a strong, hot tea, trying to regain her composure. But in her head, the words kept pounding: "It's all over, it's all over, it's all over… If Aman-Jalil finds out, he'll kick me out to hell and back… Then it's the panel for me, but even that won't let me go, he'll send me to some remote place where seeing a decent human face is already a holiday. I need to find a way out immediately, I need to find it now…"
Gulshan grabbed a heavy, thick stick from the kitchen, used for stirring laundry in the vat, and went into the bedroom. Her stepfather lay on his back, snoring with his mouth wide open. Gulshan struck him several times in the face with the stick, knocking out a couple of teeth before he woke up, yelling:
– Have you gone mad, you fool? I'll disfigure you, you whore!
Gulshan fetched a small, almost toy-like pistol from the bedside table drawer, a nickel-plated Browning.
– I'll shoot you, you dog!
– Fool! – the frightened chauffeur recoiled from her. – What will Aman-Jalil say when they find me here naked? Think before you act.
And with that, clutching his clothes, Gulshan's stepfather slowly exited the bedroom. Despite her urge to pull the trigger into his bare back, she couldn't bring herself to do it. Killing someone for the first time is exceedingly difficult. At the threshold, her stepfather turned back.
– Keep silent, or I'll come up with something you'll never wash off in your life! – he threatened menacingly, spitting blood.
And he slipped out the door. It was then that Gulshan remembered her official husband had entered the bedroom earlier, saying something she couldn't recall, but regardless – he was a dangerous witness.
"Stepfather will stay silent," Gulshan thought. "But what's the point of protecting me? He'll betray me!"
And an idea dawned on her. A terrifying idea. Such ideas only arise from desperation or from twisted minds. Gulshan went to the study. She didn't quit her job not because she had nothing else to live on, but because she couldn't leave Aman-Jalil unattended. Besides, Aman-Jalil didn't insist on it; he needed a devoted person in such a responsible position as secretary…
From the closet, Gulshan took out last year's lists of executed prisoners, found the most suitable one, which included the surnames of her late husband's son's friends and acquaintances, meaning he could have heard of or known them. Diluting the ink with water to make the writing look faded and old, Gulshan added the surname, first name, and patronymic of her fake husband's son to the list. She carefully dried the entry on the hotplate. Now the forgery could only be detected with specialized equipment, more advanced than the human eye. And the old man's eyes were weak.
Having crafted such a deadly weapon, Gulshan returned home. She had grown so accustomed to considering this house her own that she forgot it belonged to someone else, or rather, it had belonged until recently, and essentially, she had stolen it.
The old man was praying when Gulshan entered his room.
– Can't you refrain from defiling my prayers for even a minute with your presence? – the old man snapped angrily at her. – I forbid you to enter my room.
– We need to talk.
The old man sneered at Gulshan.
– Afraid I'll tell Aman-Jalil how you're cheating on him? Maybe I will, maybe I won't! Depends on how you behave!
Gulshan smiled.
– Who will believe you, you old sot! You were also forbidden to enter my rooms.
– I was thinking of my son, my feet brought me here out of habit, after all, this used to be his room.
– Dreaming of a reunion?
– It's my only hope.
– You'll meet on the other side, you won't see each other here anymore.
– Liar, whore, – the old man turned pale. – Aman-Jalil promised me…
– Men promise all sorts of things, – Gulshan interrupted, laughing. – Look here! I found last year's lists, your son is in them. He's been dead for a long time.
And Gulshan tossed the lists onto the table in front of the old man. He put on his silver-framed glasses with trembling hands and slowly moved his lips as he read through the entire list again, marking familiar names:
– Eri! And you're here! Such a bright mind… Mamad! What did you do to deserve this? You wouldn't hurt a fly…
Reaching the end of the list, the old man whispered his son's surname, first name, and patronymic, then repeated them louder and suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs, a strength difficult to imagine coming from his frail, feeble body.
– No-o-o!.. No-o-o! He promised me! I gave him everything: my honor, my house, my wealth… I paid such a ransom… And he's been dead for a whole year…
The old man cried bitterly, like only little children cry, wiping his eyes with his fists.
– Savages!..