style="font-size:15px;"> – 'They started shooting, then the police, I didn't know who came, thought they'd find your clothes and I'd be done for, stage by stage, goodbye to my native land. I threw everything into the stove, banged so hard on the door that I heard your voice when I went to open it, and it was too late anyway, I doused your clothes with kerosene, burned them so they'd burn faster.'
– 'My manuscript was in the jacket.'
– "Been and gone," Kato grumbled. "You don't know what 'big shmuck' means. They'll find any little thing, it's curtains for me, blow it up into a political case."
Bulov sighed. There was no use complaining, especially not to a cop nicknamed "the pimp."
"Well, I'll say I gave Kasym the manuscript. Kasym never reads Ayesha's crappy works anyway."
In the morning, Kato brought him old trousers and a shirt borrowed from a neighbor, and Bulov trudged home, checking the route against Kato's map every second to avoid getting lost again.
"I didn't burn the manuscript. Pulled it out of my jacket pocket out of boredom, recognized his signature right away. I've typed enough of his manuscripts over those two years, I know the typewriter font by heart. Started reading this one and couldn't put it down: this story was once written by my father, the reason he disappeared into the wilds of Bibir Island. And the one who snitched on my father, after he read the manuscript, now claims his story as his own, pseudonym Pendyr might fool anyone else, not me. Scoundrel! How he pretended to care about me when father vanished without a trace, leaving me with nothing, everything confiscated, he was father's friend, indeed, all for the sake of dragging me into his bed. I was fifteen then… Two years later, I found the draft of the denunciation, unsigned, incomplete, but in his typewriter font… I nearly died, I loved him. Kept silent. And he found a lucrative wife and threw me out onto the street, saying, 'you're grown, work!' But where to work, when everyone avoided me like the plague, no one would hire me… Until I found 'the panel.' It unites them all: professionals and amateurs. Those amateurs, I'd tear them all apart: they have families, children, everything I dreamed of as heaven… What drove them to the panel? Were they starving like me and my kind?… Were they pursued like rabid, sick, homeless dogs?… That's where you sent me to work!… Never mind, now you're in my hands. I'm sure those who sent my father away so far haven't read this story themselves. Iosif Besarionis's cockroach mustaches are sacred, and anyone who laughs at them is a blasphemer… But we must wait. Our inquisitors will catch on… Yesterday, one guard, they're just as talkative in bed as anyone else, said they're expecting a big boss's arrival, Iosif Besarionis's closest aide… He's coming to inspect… If he can't pass it on, we'll wait, there's no rush, live while you can."
Aman-Jalil got married. It was advantageous. And he couldn't refuse.
Ahmed called him to his office over the phone:
"Come in, my dear, I have a gift for you!"
Aman-Jalil hurried to his boss. Aman-Jalil's nervousness wasn't unfounded; Ahmed's gifts were hard for many to stomach, and some perished from indigestion. Anything could happen, so Aman-Jalil checked his channels, known only to him. There seemed to be no storm brewing, at least nobody knew anything.
In Ahmed's office, Aman-Jalil saw a young, beautiful girl. Aman-Jalil liked her, but she glanced briefly at him, frowned maliciously, and turned away. Ahmed stood up from his desk, approached him like a long-awaited guest.
"I'm glad to see you, my dear! Great Iosif Besarionis said he's watching your work and is pleased with it. He remembers you… And you, remember who you owe everything to… Now, back to business, I invited you here for this… Look at this beauty! Listen, you can't imagine how long it took me to persuade her. Every day on the phone, I told her about your great love, how you torment me with your talks about her, sent her your gifts, ordered flowers at your request. If I didn't love you like a son, I would have grown tired long ago of coaxing this capricious beauty. So, you owe me! I've fulfilled your pleas: she agreed to be your wife. Now you can call me 'dad'!… Let's kiss!"
Ahmed embraced Aman-Jalil and shed tears. Anyone who didn't know Ahmed, seeing this scene, might seriously think he was a "kind uncle." Aman-Jalil knew better. So, he shed tears in response, respectfully kissed Ahmed's hand.
"My gratitude knows no bounds! You are the light that illuminates the beautiful path to an unparalleled future! I owe you everything, and until my last breath, I will remember this."
Ahmed led Aman-Jalil to the capricious and discontented beauty.
"My daughter! Here's that shy admirer who tormented me with his stories of his love for you. Look, Majnun, here's your Layla. Children, give each other your hands, unite them to walk together on the path of happiness and harmony."
Without hesitation, Aman-Jalil reached out, trying to show happiness and love on his face and in his eyes. The girl stood up, glanced at Aman-Jalil for a moment, and reluctantly extended her hand. But her handshake was gentle and warm. She was half a head taller than Aman-Jalil, slender, graceful, with huge black eyes that harmonized beautifully with her flowing black hair. She was more beautiful than Gulshan, exuding an aristocratic air. She belonged to the circle where Aman-Jalil's road was previously paved. Yet, something mean, haughty, and unpleasant was imprinted on this angelic face.
"My name is really Layla, but I hope that father's beautiful metaphor is only half true, and you're not Majnun. I can't stand mad, sentimental admirers pretending to be Werther. Surely you've read 'The Sorrows of Young Werther'? Nonsense and rubbish are in the title itself, as if there could be an old Werther. What the author wants to impress upon us doesn't mean it's reality…"
She continued talking, but Aman-Jalil had tuned her out, lost in his own thoughts: he was thrilled to learn that Layla was Ahmed's daughter.
"Frankly, I was sure Ahmed would marry me off to one of his mistresses," Aman-Jalil admitted to himself. "But refusal wasn't an option. And this way, it's advantageous. To be kin with Ahmed himself…"
"Did you swallow your tongue out of joy?" Ahmed chuckled.
Aman-Jalil hastily feigned embarrassment. Layla looked at him mockingly and somewhat arrogantly.
"I agree to be your wife, but on one condition: every word of mine is law to you!… Understand?"
Her eyes flashed so fiercely that Aman-Jalil thanked Allah that his heart belonged to Gulshan and Nigyar. Falling for this monster would mean a lifetime of suffering, or at least until you loved. So he obediently bowed his head.
"So it shall be: every word of yours is law to me."
Ahmed clapped his hands. Immediately, servants entered the study carrying a black morning coat for the groom and a white lace gown with Dutch gold embroidery for the bride. Leila went to the sitting room behind the study.
– The mullah is waiting, the priest too. Everything's set at the Palace of Matrimony and Family. First the mosque, then the church. Shame they turned the Catholic cathedral into a warehouse, they've just finished renovating it. And then the seals and champagne at the Palace of Matrimony and Family… How do you like the grand plan?… Oh, here are the golden watches with two diamonds each for you. A gift for your daughter. She's a symbolist, whatever that means—I checked with the medics just in case. They say it's nothing serious… Your gift, the diamond necklace, I've already presented to the bride. Tell me, where did you get such
