– Why haven't you taken the scoundrel yet? – Arif was surprised.
– Ahmed's wife's relative.
– Which number?
– It's complicated, your opinion will free Ahmed's hands.
– I see, the old fighter has softened, got mired in domesticity, softened by women's tears… Yes, you haven't forgotten? – he suddenly asked in a different tone and about something completely different.
– She'll be in bed with you at night.
Aman-Jalil almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation: he could, of course, find a replacement for Gulshan, especially since her face wasn't visible in the photos left in Sardar Ali's room, but Aman-Jalil didn't want to risk over such a "trifle." If he married a pregnant virgin, Ahmed's daughter, Gulshan wouldn't stop his progress to the tower. True, she might resist and not go to bed with Arif, she had already led the young driver to bullets, but Aman-Jalil had already devised a plan based on information about how Arif behaves in bed: he attacks like a beast on a lying victim and likes the victim to lie submissively and calmly, not twitching, and once sated, he turns his back to her and immediately falls asleep, waking up early in the morning and leaving to work in his office, forgetting about the partner.
– Everything will be fine! – he repeated unexpectedly firmly and harshly, crossing the final line separating him from his desired goal, and with it, crossing the line separating light from darkness. From now on, he was lost to goodness…
– Good! – Arif unexpectedly agreed. – I'll give you these two hours, but make sure there are no traces.
Aman-Jalil filled the streets around the theater with agents, but forbade them to enter the theater, so as not to arouse the slightest suspicion.
Three hours before the concert, Aman-Jalil remembered that Ayesha hadn’t called to inform him whether Kasym had taken the manuscript or not, and whether he would read it. Aman-Jalil rushed to the writer, alone, without security.
The writer, seeing him, paled, but tried to appear as a gracious host.
– What an honor! Such a guest brings joy to the house! Come in, dear Aman-Jalil…
– Why didn't you call me: did Kasym get the manuscript or not… I hope you gave it to him?
– You see, dear Aman-Jalil, I felt uncomfortable imposing my work on a famous actor. I asked his friend, the famous director Bulov, to give him my story. He handed it over.
– Call Kasym, ask, fool, couldn’t you have thought of that before. Trust, but verify!
Ayesha, now as anxious as Aman-Jalil, feverishly dialed Kasym’s number. He was at home, preparing for the concert.
– Dear Kasym, sorry to bother you, you’re probably preparing for the concert, I keep forgetting to ask if Bulov gave you my story?.. What, no! He told me he did, maybe you forgot?
Ayesha slowly put down the phone and started mumbling incoherently. Aman-Jalil slapped him to bring him to his senses.
– He didn't get the story?
The writer's dead look spoke more than words. Aman-Jalil knocked Ayesha down with a punch to the stomach and pulled out a Walther. Seeing the gun, Ayesha wet himself in fear, sobbing and groveling at Aman-Jalil’s feet. Aman-Jalil wanted to shoot him but a brilliant idea struck him at the last moment.
– I can always shoot him later, – he thought. – I need to salvage the situation.
After relishing the writer's terror for another minute, he ordered:
– Get up, scum. Quickly wash up, change clothes, you reek of piss like an old mule.
Ten minutes later, Ayesha was unrecognizable. When he came out of the bathroom, he smelled of French cologne. Another two minutes to dress in a formal suit.
– Take a second copy of the story, go to the theater, – Aman-Jalil instructed. – By any means, you must make Kasym read this story today. Or tomorrow you won’t see freedom, or even light.
Ayesha looked at him with slavishly devoted eyes and agreed to everything.
The terrified writer rushed to the theater by taxi. There were no strangers in Kasym’s dressing room, and his wife had stepped out. Ayesha boldly handed the manuscript to Kasym.
– Look it over, you might like it, though, honestly, it’s quite bold, I think, not the time…
Kasym, dressing and applying makeup, started reading the story, and the more he read, the more agitated he became.
– I didn't expect such genius from you, honestly… Why didn’t you bring it to me earlier, I would have learned it for today's concert, I'm tired of the same old reprises.
– Bulov, the scoundrel, let us down! I was busy, asked him to give it to you, and he… Listen, you have a phenomenal memory, learn it for the second act! – Ayesha innocently suggested.
– That’s an idea! – Kasym lit up. – I’ll move the reprises from the second act to the first, and read the story in the second. Decided!
The writer embraced Kasym and left the theater, informing Aman-Jalil on the way that everything was in order.
Kasym’s wife, Nigar, entered the dressing room.
– What did that scoundrel bring this time?… Another cheap piece?
– Why do you dislike him so much? He admires you, praises you everywhere…
– Better if he left us alone, talentless hack!
– Don’t spoil your mood before the concert, my joy… By the way, that "scoundrel" brought me a wonderful story. Here, read it!
And Kasym handed his wife the manuscript. She took it with such distrust that Kasym laughed. Nigar read the story carefully and, running her hand over her face, said:
– It can’t be!
– Don’t believe your eyes?
– I don’t believe it! Such a scoundrel couldn’t write such a wonderful story… No, I don’t believe it!
– I’ll read it in the second act.
– You’ve gone mad? Do you think they won’t figure it out?
– The audience today is good, the working class, if they figure it out, they won’t run to inform.
– Kasym, I beg you! Ahmed won’t cover for you forever.
– He will! He won’t have a choice… Yes, I’m showing a "fig in the pocket"! So what? The world won’t change because of it.
– This is not a fig, it’s a slap in the face. They won’t forgive you.
– They ignore these mosquito bites… Instead of calling for revolution, we settle for jokes and consider ourselves honest, but we’re no better than others…
