the pain and resentment, all the horror she had endured spilled out and flooded the room. Aman-Jalil recoiled from this outpouring and shut himself in his office. After a while, he summoned Gulshan to him.
– Everything remains the same for us. Don't be upset!.. Remember: we have a son! What happened to you?
– The old man died.
– I know, they told me… It's all for the best. I never figured out how to tell him that his son has been dead for a year…
– And you knew about it? – Gulshan was horrified by the coincidence.
– An agreement was made, but I simply didn't have time to help his son: he fled the island, tried to swim across the ocean strait, and was torn apart by sharks; they specifically breed them there, feeding them the bodies of prisoners.
– And you kept silent? – Gulshan stared at him in fear.
– Am I a fool to miss out on such a benefit? Something came your way too, I did it for you. And the old man lived another year, married a young woman, what's wrong with that?…
– His death is on me!
– Forget about it! One less person on earth, one more… "You can't make an omelet without breaking eggs!" There are plenty of people.
Gulshan was about to leave the office but stopped at the door and said:
– There's more! The driver is making lewd propositions. Yesterday, I had to beat his face with a stick; he almost raped me.
– Almost or did he? – Aman-Jalil smirked. – Just kidding, don't get mad, almost doesn't count. Don't worry, I'll cool him off.
Gulshan left the office, and Aman-Jalil took a powerful Zeiss binocular from his desk and started looking toward the garage in the courtyard of the inquisition. A group of drivers, gathered around one of the cars, were "killing time," telling jokes, smoking hash, and gossiping about their bosses. All these conversations eventually landed in recordings on Aman-Jalil's desk; sometimes, even a minor detail could spark a serious case. Aman-Jalil's driver, showing off his new gold teeth replacing his knocked-out ones, laughed and joked more than anyone. His eyes were hidden behind large black sunglasses, making him look like an Italian mafioso. Aman-Jalil watched him for a long time, pondering what to do with this scoundrel, then called his assistant, showed him the driver through the binoculars, and quietly whispered instructions. The assistant listened silently, nodding in agreement.
Aman-Jalil stayed late in the office, catching up on work accumulated during his honeymoon. The driver waited obediently; it was his shift. He was nervous, feeling a gnawing unease.
– Curse the day and hour when the crazy thought of taking Gulshan came to my mind, – he scolded himself. – For one sweet night, I might end up on Bibir Island if that fool confesses to Aman-Jalil… No, she wouldn’t. Is she mad? They'll send me to the island, but she'll never forgive that night with me, kick me out… And she has a child! She might even say it's mine… No, she'll stay silent, I'm sure. I'll wait… If she keeps quiet, she's scared. When the boss is busy, I'll make her sleep with me again; now, he'll be busy at night often: young wife, beautiful, not like that village girl… But what a body she has, what a body. A houri!
Late at night, Aman-Jalil finally got into the car and ordered the driver to take him to Gulshan. The escort car followed them, but Aman-Jalil didn’t take any guards with him. Hearing the address, the driver got scared, sweat trickling down his spine. Driving as if in a dream, he reached the house, feverishly contemplating: will there be a talk with the three of them, after which he’d be sent away, and that would be the best outcome, or not? Stopping the car at the entrance, the driver quickly jumped out to open the door for Aman-Jalil.
And then rifle shots rang out. Consecutively. Three bullets hit the driver. The first bullet wounded him. He turned around and looked pleadingly at Aman-Jalil. He sat still, smiling at him. In Aman-Jalil’s eyes, the driver read his verdict. And it was only death. It came with the second bullet. So, the third was redundant. The guards rushed out at the shots, thoroughly searching the nearby houses but found no strangers.
The widow mourned at the funeral; she still felt sorry for her foolish young husband, the father of her little daughter. But Gulshan smiled, beginning to enjoy the power to control life and death…
All the morning newspapers were filled with descriptions of the nocturnal attack by the enemies of the people on the defender of law and order. They detailed Aman-Jalil’s firmness and bravery. They praised the driver’s heroism: "the valor of a soldier shielding his commander with his body." The driver was posthumously awarded a high honor. A toilet on Liberation Square was named after him, and Gulshan loved to visit it whenever she was in the center, to pay her respects… The widow was granted a pension and a hero’s ration. Gulshan’s mother took her little daughter back to her hometown. Now she was not ashamed to return…
Arif, Iosif Besarionis’s closest aide, hadn’t visited Ahmed in a while.
– How many years have passed? – he mused, standing by the train window, watching the endless salt flats roll by. – Ah, it was the year when I failed to catch that shepherd boy. Clever boy! Vanished like a ghost, even abroad they can’t find him, probably changed his name. I always said: clever boy!… What a memory Sucker has. So many years, and he remembers every look. Hears another word behind every word. A true Great Leader!… If he’s sending me on an inspection, it means he's dissatisfied with Ahmed. Impossible to find out, the Great One doesn’t share such thoughts, so better find a replacement for Ahmed just in case. But who?… Candidates are plenty.
The special train raced on, not stopping even at major stations. And who doesn't love a fast ride. Other trains moved aside, letting this armored, weapon-laden, thug-filled convoy pass without complaint. When the train safely passed through a station, the station master crossed himself, whether he was a follower of Allah or Buddha…
The platform, washed with hot soapy water, smelled of French perfumes and church incense. For a week, all public toilets within a five-hundred-meter radius around the platform had been closed. On the platform, covered with expensive Persian carpets, stood the local elite headed by Ahmed. An honor guard of beast-like Indians from the Chech-In and In-Gu tribes was assembled. Young girls in national Indian costumes, all plump and to Arif’s liking, practiced their poetic greeting one last time.
Ahmed was nervous, though he skillfully concealed it. Aman-Jalil, gazing devotedly into his eyes, inwardly gloated; he also understood that an inspection, especially by Arif, wasn’t just a friendly visit; it meant the ground was burning under Ahmed’s feet. It would be skillful to pour gasoline, but without burning his own hair…
Arif was met with music, flowers, kisses, and welcoming speeches. He was taken in armored limousines to the palace of honored guests. Ahmed and two plump schoolgirls, handpicked by Arif, sat in the car with him. Arif liked them very much. After the journey, they took Arif to a Finnish sauna, where the chosen schoolgirls gently washed him, and then he lovingly washed them. Clean and satisfied, they sat down to eat what the gods had sent.
Only the most elite and trusted were there, but as Arif looked around, he realized that none of them could be fully relied upon; they would betray at the first opportunity. But the speeches were more loyal and friendly than the next. Ahmed sang praises of Iosif Besarionis’s wisdom and other virtues…
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