Aman-Jalil vanished. Ahmed remained alone. Heavy thoughts weighed on him: the underground struggle in the mountains of Serra had bonded him with Iosif Besarionis, then a humble and compassionate fighter known as Sucker. Thanks to this friendship, Ahmed stood firm, but how to 'dig'? One could easily collapse; so many former friends of Sucker had already perished—from stomach ulcer surgeries, colds with blue spots appearing on their bodies, to fatal accidents—corpses' ropes removed later, doctors losing sight, health fading, and sudden death, never ill… So the whole province had to be taken over quickly, then thrown to the feet of the great Iosif Besarionis, lest replacements arrive faster than one could pray to Allah in the mosque…
Wind whipped dust along the street, forming diverse outfits and annoying those unlucky pedestrians who ventured out in the midday heat. Hot sand polished their skin like sandpaper, irritated their eyes to inflammation, and made breathing difficult. From the heat, people moved like sleepy flies, while flies crawled like drunken people, and amidst them walked Aman-Jalil, bewildered by heat, with a needle, matches, and his beloved rubber band… A swat struck a fly's wing, causing it to circle slowly in place. Aman-Jalil expertly caught it by one whole wing, impaled it on the needle, lit a match, and began slowly roasting it until it charred or the match burned his fingers. Then Aman-Jalil tossed the remaining match to the ground, flicked off the tiny ember from the needle's point, and started again. Endless auto-da-fé, always with enough material…
A few years ago, Aman-Jalil found Dilber sitting on the stairs, crying with an open book.
"Did someone hit you?" asked Aman-Jalil, who himself was struck three or four times a day.
"No, no one ever hits me!" sobbed Dilber.
"Then why cry, dummy?" Aman-Jalil was disappointed.
"I feel sorry for the little monkey," complained Dilber, pointing at the book.
Aman-Jalil took the open book and slowly read aloud how little Philip burned a monkey on a homemade bonfire in the palace. "Royal pleasure," sighed Aman-Jalil to himself, and ever since, he experienced and satisfied it daily, burning flies…
Wazir stepped onto the veranda from his room, heading to the bathroom. In the hot midday sun, his consciousness nearly shut down, granting him a brief respite: the dusty, straight, sun-drenched road, the pole to which he was tied, and his young wife Anush, whose torn body Wazir carried through life like a heavy cross.
"Boy, what grade are you in?" asked Wazir, as if seeing Aman-Jalil for the first time.
"Sixth," Aman-Jalil replied dismissively, expecting another insult.
"Want me to take you to a concert at the philharmonic? Have you ever been to a concert?"
"Don't want to!"
"You'll meet Mozart, Beethoven…"
"Don't need your friends…"
From the kitchen, Aman-Jalil's grandmother shouted:
"Stop bothering the boy again, shameless, I'll report you to the police for your Turkish tricks, wretched Sunni…"
The grandmother peered out from the kitchen, casting an experienced gaze at Aman-Jalil, and yelled at him:
"Ruining needles again? I see why needles are spoiling—this son of a whore is amusing himself, instead of setting an example like his heroic father…"
Aman-Jalil's father, a small shopkeeper and secret addict, was shot by the rotten Renka regime for harboring insurgents, led by Iosif Besarionis, without his knowledge, hiding in his shop all night from pursuing gendarmes. Aman-Jalil's mother worked as an assistant to a prominent management figure, Ismail-pasha, who in gratitude for her help came to her house twice a week, ostensibly to assist with household chores, locking themselves in a separate room…
The best time of year in the mountains of Serra was early autumn. Gardens and vineyards delighted the eye. A fertile land, generous earth. But there was no peace on it. When one takes more than he needs, more than he can eat, another lacks even the necessary… Nature balances everything. Violence begets violence, and he who digs a pit for another often falls into it himself…
Kalanvale district-vilayat head sardar Kareem believed in revolutionary justice in his own way: an idiot received as many benefits as a genius, because a genius finds solace in his own brilliance, while a poor idiot did not even realize his idiocy.
"'From each according to his ability, to each according to his need'!" This slogan adorned Sardar Ali everywhere possible to hang a multicolored rag with white letters, even on public toilets cleaned and washed once a month, where asthma or heart disease patients died from miasma, but large signs hung: "no smoking here!"
Aman-Jalil shook in the car, tearing through the mountainous terrain on a dusty road full of ruts. There was less and less time left for fly-hunting, and more and more important assignments were being entrusted to him, but the one he was currently on was the most crucial of all. Another man in his place might have enjoyed the rare respite that only came while traveling, but Aman-Jalil didn't care for such pleasures. What he did enjoy was the sight of children running in packs behind his car, shouting, "Sardar, the sardar has arrived!" He relished feeling like a god in this godforsaken hole. In the villages, they brought him flatbreads with salt, offered the best house for his stay, and Aman-Jalil organized rallies for them, delivering the same speech every time, showering them with a torrent of words he barely understood himself, reading from the paper given to him by his secretary Ahmed. "…The People's Government cares for you, thinks only of the people… in general, of the masses. You have already felt this keen care, and if not, you will bloom and flourish in the next hundred years. Everything is given to you, but you must give more in return to show how much you love your People's Government. You are obligated to give your government all your strength, all your wealth, everything you have – what belongs to the people is state-owned, and what is state-owned is governmental. We will not allow anyone to plunder the commonwealth, no matter how high they sit. Our father-eagle soars above us all, his powerful wings shielding us, his sharp falcon eye spotting every enemy before they even think of it. Identify these people, list them, let them not yet know they are enemies, but you must know. Be vigilant…"
The gray-bearded elders nodded in agreement, not understanding a word of what was said but not daring to admit it to themselves or others.
The chauffeur, dressed in a black, shiny leather jacket with a Mauser at his side, snapped photos "for memory" on behalf of the special department of the Commission for controlling the moods of the happy and the free, while also causing envy among the poorly educated with the creak of his leather, the gleam of his camera, and his unflinching significance.
