On my way home from hospital I met Zainuddin Ibn Gainuddin, the imam of our Matarak village, a mullah. We greeted each other, and as we started talking he said in an accented tone:
- Reverend Al Kazim, God told us to respect one another and be in good relations with our neighbors. For he said: "I forgive a man his offences if he can forgive the offenses of the man who offended him". So if you are a true Muslim you should forgive Ramazanov".
I was God fearing by nature, therefore I forgave Ramazanov. We began to live peacefully as before in our village of Matarak.
Our village has a strange name. Up to now nobody knows what it means. One scholar, a topographer, had been long looking for the clue but couldn"t find it He even fell ill but never learnt the secret of the word.
But people appreciated his endeavors and presented him with a shirt on his birthday. But the shirt"s sleeves were a bit too long. So the attendants of the "mental teem" would bind the sleeves tight because the scholar had the habit of striking himself on the head.
From then on both the villagers and topographers stopped trying to find the etymology of the word.
In Matarak there is a cotton waste refinery. The waste is called "uvada", that"s why the villagers call the refinery "Uvada Factory". The cotton that people grew and harvested was taken out, as for us we only got the waste. People used it for sewing mattresses, caftans, pillows and other basic necessities.
It was ten years since I had been working at the refinery as a stockman.
My wife"s nickname was Babat. Her real name was Mukhabbat. When she was a little girl her parents called her Babat, and we still call her Babat. The poor one was so accustomed to her nickname that she only got to know her real name when receiving her passport.
When I was young I fell in love with her, and we got married. We had two children, Arabboy and Sharabboy. The manager of the Refinery was our neighbor whose house was beyond the house of the Ramazanovs. The latter was his driver. The director"s name was Kalankhan Adalatov where Kalankhan was his first name. He was a man almost without a neck, his head as round as a ball and his nose resembled the moon surface with red and violet craters. He had one tea-pot with a broken handle and one piala with a crack. He drank coffee from this piala.
When he wanted to shave he used this same bowl to whip shaving foam. When the director smoked he used it as an ashtray. At supper, treating the inspector, Adalatov poured vodka into this bowl.
He was not much of a drinker but he did drink occasionally. Some time ago a worker from the winding shop invited people he worked with to his wedding party.
We sat at the party eating, drinking, and listening to music. I looked at Kalankhan and saw that he had had a drop too much. It was obvious that he was dizzy. Now he told me:
- Pour some vodka!
I filled his glass. He drank it and didn"t have a snack to kill the taste. Then he turned to me and said:
- Tell me, when was Karl Max born?
Frankly, I did not expect such a question. I was scared to death; my heart sank. In a trembling voice I said:
- I don"t know, Kalankhan Adalatovitch.
Then, wiping his lips with a napkin, he rose from the table, and showing his big, firm, gorilla-like teeth, got hold of my collar and starting strangling me:
- Politically blind man, you! You have no right to live in this world! You don"t know when Karl Marx was born!
It"s good that during the row some nice people interfered and released my throat from the strong fingers of the director. I nearly died at the wedding party from the hands of my own manager.
I now sit and drink water to soothe my heart thinking feverishly that from now on, without delay, I will start learning by heart the dates of birth of all famous personalities including Napoleon, Kutuzov, Adolf Hitler and, of course, Kalankhan Adalatov.
Meanwhile the director started shouting:
- Hey you, Master of Ceremony, where are you looking? We"ve run short of vodka!
Why don"t they bring some? Who treats the guests that way? What? No more vodka? Well, let them pay back the money we chipped in and donated as a wedding gift!
The director kept shouting while the guests stared at us reproachfully. We were ashamed. Everybody turned red in confusion. And when Kalakhan Adalatov hanged his head dropping his face into the cake there came a group of burly guys in dark eyeglasses, their skinheads looking like peeled eggs, and tried to help the director to get up and go. But doing this they only provoked a shaky situation letting the genie out of the bottle.
The angry director started putting up resistance to the police volunteers.
- Let me go! Hand off Vietnam! I want to drink! - he shouted, and, to prevent the Volunteers from pulling him away, he seized the edge of the table. But the guys in dark glasses were strong enough to pull Kalankhan Adalatov like a sack of grain. Our director did not want to give up either. This time he got hold of the table-cloth, like a drowning man that catches at a straw. The costly chinaware, the crystal vases, glasses and goblets were all smashed to pieces. A fight broke out. Somebody punched Kalankhan Adalatov in the face. He staggered but did not fall down. Only his hat flew away like an unidentified flying object.
I tried to defend him but he shouted at me:
- That"s all, don"t hold me, Al Kazim! Give him a sheet of paper and a pencil, let him write his will. For he only has a short while left to live in this world. In the name of God, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen!
With these words Kalankhan Adalatov struck a blow in the groin of a monstrous skinhead, but missed his aim, and the blow fell on another guy. The fight was going on all through the night. In the morning the guests, like beaten dogs, with scratches, bruises and black eyes, turned away.
I came home and went straight to bed. I was sleeping like a log the whole day. In the evening I went on sleeping.
My wife was scared thinking that I was dead. In the morning I woke up, thank God. I washed my face, had breakfast and went to work. I came to my working place and saw Kalankhan Adalatovich there. He wasn"t drunk. We exchanged greetings, and as I opened my mouth to say something, the director interrupted me saying:
We need a supra. We are taking on a novice.
Supra is a thick table-cloth used when making dough for bread. It has been, from ancient times, a sacred thing with Uzbek people.
Each time Kalankhan Adalatovich provided someone with work he insisted that the new employee should swear over supra in front of the Charter of Uvada Factory.
The Charter read as follows:
"I, such person, hereby, joining the ranks of workers of Uvada Factory solemnly swear before the present Charter to hold sacred the secrets of Uvada Factory and never get involved in political activities, nor participate in unapproved meetings even if I do not get my salary for months and years. Should I break this solemn vow, may the severe penalty of the Charter and contempt of Administration befall me! May I be thrown, with my hands and feet bound with ropes, into the barrel where wastes are decomposed".
My Manager"s task was a law for me!
I brought a supra and we solemnly took on a new worker. Then Adalatov gave me an envelope with the words "Top Secret" written on it.
I took the envelope and went out to take it to town. I had to hand in the confidential letter to a secret receiver.
I got on a bus., took a seat and looked around. A man in a striped mattress-like shirt, about forty years of age, with a triangle head and big dragon-fly eyes, took the seat next to me. He kept chewing a gum, like a cow, that lies in the shades of conifer tees of Holland, languidly frightening away the annoying flies and digesting the grass in a sultry summer.
There was a girl standing right in front of me. She looked out of the window watching the scene of landscapes floating by. She stared at all that caught her sight.
I looked and saw a white thread on her skirt.
- I will do a good turn - I thought - if I put that thread away insensibly.
I touched the thread but it was sewn-on. Then I twisted the thread round my finger and pulled it wishing to tear it off. What a mishap! The girl"s skirt snapped at full length up to the waist. The passengers fixed their eyes on the girl"s snow-white panties with a delicate lace and burst out laughing.
I turned pale. Some passengers were looking at me reproachfully, others were staring in surprise.
- That"s the end - I thought - she will now kick up a row, and the crowd will make a pizza or omelet out of me and then deliver me to our near and dear militia.
So I said:
- Sorry, girl, pardon me please, I only wanted... I mean... I just wanted to remove the thread from your skirt...
But the girl didn"t even notice that her skirt was torn in two. She turned round, looked at her skirt and said to my amazement and contrary to my expectations:
- How nice! Thank you. You have helped me a lot. I was just going to drop in at the atelier to have my skirt cut. Skirts with a long cut are in fashion nowadays. I don"t know how to thank you.
I was puzzled with what the girl had said and wondered whether it was a dream or reality.
Maybe, it was just hallucination, a false distorted perception of things? I thought, perhaps, it was time to see the doctor. I must have fallen ill. Now the man, in a striped mattress-like shirt, about forty years of age, with a triangle head and big dragon-fly eyes, chewing a gum, suddenly interfered:
- Oh yes! Bravo! Bravo! I am delighted! You are a juggler! I suppose, you are a pick pocket and an experienced one at that! What you have shown now is just great! Wonderful! Superb! It"s a great skill! You have easily cut the skirt, like a surgeon with forty years of experience that transplants human organs in remote India where delinquents on rainy days, an umbrella in hand, sing:
Ya gardishma-a -a asmanehe-otan -tara hoooo -ooo
Avarahoo- ooooo-ooo
Avarahoo- ooooo-ooo
I understand, I understand. It"s hard times! Life is hard both for thieves and common people.
For thieves, in particular. Only the poor use busses and their purses are as thin as the owners themselves. The state doesn"t care for them. Life is getting harder and harder with every passing day, and that affects all layers of society, including you, I mean thieves. Misery reigns all around, and the wages are extremely low. There"s no use to pinch an empty purse. It"s deadly for a young talent. Art and skilful hands are dying out. That"s the reason why so many crooks join the militia. They now work as prosecutors, judges, governors and the like. Some swindlers have even become deputies and senators. There will be a time, and very soon, when they start running for presidency. Am I right, my colleague?
With these words the man in a striped mattress-like shirt, about forty years of age, with a triangle head and big dragon-fly eyes, chewing a gum, fixed his eyes on me.
I flew into a range on hearing what he said, and shouted to him:
- Think what you"re saying, comrade. How can I be a thief? I am a simple, ordinary law abiding citizen of my country! I am not a colleague of yours!
Suddenly, the man in a striped mattress-like shirt, about forty years of age, with a triangle head and big dragon-fly eyes, vanished in the haze.
The passengers, too, seemed to be riding in the haze. The bus turned into the sweating room of a Finnish bath-house. Me, too, I was sitting on the bank of the Thames river where in the thick fog ghosts in checked caps, with their collars up, were walking on wet cobblestones across Trafalgar Square smoking pipes, like Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.
Suddenly the driver let out a shriek:
- Dear passengers! We are burning! The bus will explode now! Run for your life, if you can! Stand from under!!!
- The driver, having given us the warning, jumped out of the bus. The deadly scared passengers dashed to the door like one.
The bus had only one door which was wooden. There arose congestion. The women cried, the men wrangled with one another, some swore like troopers. As ill luck would have it, my pocket caught hold of the nail sticking out of the door. Off it flew and I was free.
- Thank God - I said - oh my Lord!
I looked and saw people laughing and congratulating one another on successful evacuation. The driver, too, climbed out of the ditch. Then he came up to the bus, got out the axe, the hack-saw and some nails and started fixing the wooden door made of rough planks. Presently, I came up to the girl who had her skirt torn and with a big hug, staring into her eyes, started congratulating her. The girl whispered in my ear a poem in some language unknown to me, which resounded like a rustle of green canes in the autumn wind on the banks of the Nile. The rhymes went like this:
Et l'amour est là, et l'amour s'en va,
Tu pars avec lui, il meurt avec moi,
On a beau prier, on a beau crier,
L'amour nous oublie, comment l'oublier,
Though I didn"t understand a single word I didn"t want to leave these amazingly tender lines unanswered.
I buried my head in her fine, soft hair producing a heavenly pleasant odor and whispered in her ear, like a distant echo of waves:
- Merci, Madame, comment vous appelez-vous? Je m"appele Al Kizim. -
Vous parlez français déjà tres bien! Au revoir!
Piala - a small bowl, a cup size, without a handle, commonly used in Central Asia
3 Supra - a small size table-cloth used for special occasions