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…
– Do you think betraying or not betraying is the same? Informing or not informing, killing or not killing?
– We see everything, we know everything, we understand everything. If we cowardly remain silent, we’re no better than others. If we keep quiet, others, seeing us, also close their mouths, adapt. If the desire to survive is stronger, if the desire to keep comforts, a comfortable life, is stronger, then we’re animals, not predators, but herbivores. Sheep calmly watch their brother or sister being slaughtered. We’ve all become like that. We’ve lost the right to be called humans. We were promised freedom! The only freedom left is the freedom to choose: to cowardly, submissively remain silent or to go to torment, and even this freedom will soon be taken from us, everything is heading that way. A stone thrown from a mountain drags other stones behind it, each not posing much danger individually, but together they form an avalanche that sweeps away everything in its path: trees, houses, and people. And already the submissive will be swept away by this terrible force, and those weaker stones in the avalanche will crumble into dust from the weight, but the avalanche will continue to grow, until it loses its strength in fighting itself. It’s not enough to be honest with oneself, one must be honest with others. That’s the hardest part!
Kasym’s throat was dry from excitement, he poured a glass of water from the carafe and drank it greedily, almost in two gulps. Nigar approached him, hugged him, and pressed her head to his chest.
– I love you!
Kasym kissed her tenderly.
– It’s time to start the concert… Maybe reading this story will be the most significant thing I’ve done in my entire life. I know how it should be read…
And the concert began. Nigar sang so that the audience’s hearts melted, and Kasym made them laugh to tears.
Arif admired the concert. Unrecognized by anyone, who could have guessed that the closest aide of the Great Iosif Besarionis was sitting in the hall like an ordinary mortal, without security,
