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.