you won't find compromising material in their relationship. As the saying goes, 'a friend of a deceased husband and nothing more'… Aman-Jalil was starting to despair. He remembered Ahmed's words well: 'you're stuck with compromising material for life'… And the tone in which these words were spoken left no doubt that this would indeed be the case."
The widow's daughter, Gulshan, entered the room, and Aman-Jalil was taken aback, struck by a decision that came to him instantly, at first glance at her… The girl's beauty could captivate any man: a young doe couldn't match her elegance and grace, a panther her flexibility and resilience. Eyes like Gulshan's had been praised by poets and lovers for thousands of years… Aman-Jalil was conquered by her appearance, but he had no intention of canceling his plans. He liked what he had planned very much, and it would be doubly foolish to cancel it. Pity briefly touched his heart and flew away, frightened by the cold.
Softly and somewhat timidly, Aman-Jalil asked Sardar Ali to acquaint him with the necessary documents for which he had come on inspection from such a distance.
– "You understand, respected one, that besides your vilayat, I have two more, and I would like to return to the city as soon as possible… Duty to fulfill."
– "Of course, my dear, such zeal in work is rare these days. You deserve recognition…"
Surprised by such zeal, Sardar Kareem invited Aman-Jalil to follow him. As he left, Aman-Jalil turned at the door and cast such a submissive look at Gulshan, this delicate gazelle, that even a large, fat green fly didn't make him want to snatch a rubber band from his pocket and deal with it…
There were few papers, and those that interested Aman-Jalil were nonexistent, but he timed it so that he could finish with them only late in the evening. And then he immediately expressed a desire to leave for another vilayat.
– "Such perfect order, I swear by my father. I could have stayed away. But you understand, sardar, orders are not discussed. They are only executed. Quickly executed… Forgive me for bothering you, respected one…"
But Sardar Kareem, as willingly as we fall into a trap set for us, insisted that Aman-Jalil and his companion spend the night:
—"I won't let you go. It's dangerous at night in the mountains, I warned you, they shoot… You are our honored guest, can we allow anything to happen to you… And they haven't told you the news yet…
—What news?.. Just rumors: 'The Beard' has split from his old wife, the battle companion who went through all the underground in the Serra mountains with him…
—It can't be… 'The Beard'… Married a young one?
—He didn't marry. He lives with two young cousins. Loose women with such improper surnames that even to repeat them would dirty the tongue… Nadir – your friend?..
—The only one! – Sardar Kareem's smile broadened.
—Nika is highly esteemed by Iosif Besarionis… It's amazing that Sardar Kareem is so modest. Think about it, huh, why not move to the Emir's palace? The capital is not a district center…
—Which palace? – Sardar Kareem laughed happily. – My scoundrels would overrun any palace…
—They have marble toilets with golden toilets…
—What is that?
– What's this, I don't even know, heard it around town: seems like it's a toilet, but one you'd want to live in…
– Wow, what a life is coming. In two years it'll reach us too, we'll live like people…
Sardar Kareem had no desire to rush to the capital, even though his friend Nadir held an honorary position in the palace and invited him over. Nadir owed him his life; during a battle, Ali shielded Nadir from a point-blank shot, and now the bullet-scarred bone ached in damp weather. Kareem felt he belonged where he was, the most content man alive, yet the war with Ahmed drained him of strength and health: Ali couldn't stand by as Ahmed plundered the entire region and replaced old seasoned fighters, whom Sardar Kareem had fought alongside in the mountains, with his sycophants and freeloaders… Ali's naive soul saw goodness and loyalty in everyone, ideals they had fought for over the years in the harsh conditions of the Serra mountains, where their leader, the brave hero Kareem, had supported everyone with his courage in the darkest hour, when Renka's forces tried to storm the main rebel base. Kareem painted pictures of a bright future: justice and love would reign in the land, once they expelled the exploiters (a word Ali had been practicing for a week, still pronouncing it syllable by syllable), turning all wastelands into gardens, draining swamps, demolishing prisons to build palaces in their place "…with golden toilets. The boy told the truth. Ahmed sent it mockingly, checking to humiliate his enemy, undoubtedly."
After Kareem's death from a brain fever, power unexpectedly passed to Iosif Besarionis. "The struggle continues!" he declared firmly. He needed the struggle, he hadn't yet held the entire country in his chubby little hands… The diminutive men filled ministries, flooded party and administrative apparatuses; the shorter the stature, the greater the ambition. They began inventing enemies, a bottomless barrel: no matter how much you pour in, it never fills; one enemy begets another, and merely proclaiming "enemy!" demands proof, such frightful times.
Recently, they announced illiteracy had been eradicated in the country; everyone could read and write, and there was paper enough. And they were already starting to write.
Just yesterday, Sardar Ali read such a composition on a free topic: "Arvad—enemy, chased my hens from his garden with a stick, one of them has been limping for two days now, all because Arvad served in Renka's forces; everyone says he killed the main rebel Karmas, sentence him to the northern island of Bibir for the rest of his life, maybe they'll cure him of cruelty"…
This letter had been sent to Sardar Ali from the city, urgently advising him to take measures and arrest the murderer… Ali had known Arvad his whole life; he had never served in Renka's forces or killed anyone, never leaving his village even once, so he couldn't have killed the main rebel Karmas, who had lived in another country eighty years ago… Ali also knew who had written this letter, Arvad's neighbor: before he learned to read and write, vanity had slumbered in him, literacy had opened up the world to him, but in a distorted light, as if through some monstrous prism, feeling his own importance, he now inflated any quarrel into the dimensions of a global conflagration, whereas before he had been just an ordinary person, not very good, not very bad, just different…
Over tea at Widow Aman-Jalil's, he willingly shared various amusing stories, all sorts of small-town gossip that forever fluttered around the city, then offered to make tea from his ancient Indian country, the way only he could brew it. "I'm sure none of you have ever tasted such tea," Aman-Jalil smirked to himself. The widow led him to the kitchen.
– I won't offend you if I stay alone to "do magic"…
For the first time since her husband's death, the widow smiled; she had never seen a man in the kitchen before, and she left, deciding she was embarrassing the boy. Aman-Jalil took out a flat box from a hidden pocket, opened it, poured powder into the teapot, generously added the rare tea, and brewed this diabolical mixture…
…Husayn, Aman-Jalil's neighbor in the house, though three years older, looked younger, being skinny and small, no one would guess he was nineteen. And Aman-Jalil, who had worked for Ismail Pasha as a runner for two years already, was easily taken for an adult, so solidly built and looking mature.
Husayn approached Aman-Jalil, relaxing on his day off after a successful fly hunt.
– Listen, I want to marry Dilber.
– Marry her! – Aman-Jalil threw indifferently.
– But she doesn't love me, – Husayn exclaimed in desperation.
– Spit