On the eastern bank of the Karadarya River, over a deep ditch, there is an office called
"Enlistment Office". During World War II it was the commandant's office of the Red Army. It was the place amid the impassable woods rustling in the outer winds with canes and bushes where young people were given recruit training. The original building of he "Enlistment Office" is now in ruins. The canes and bushes have been turned into cotton fields with a big camp in the middle and big old willows around it. A man by the name of Tukhumbey lives with his son in this camp. He is a man of middle size, with the voice of a duck and the face reminding of a macaque. He was toothless because of heavy drinking, and his wife was as thin as a smoked fish with a horse"s face, a long neck, green eyes, thin lips and a big mouth.
When Tukhumbey closes his toothless mouth the lips of his lower jaw touches his nose, hence his nickname kampir, i.e. granny.
He is the kind of man than cannot live a minute without telling a lie. All his life is made out of lies. When there were no people left in Matarak whom he hadn"t deceived he had to tour other places where they didn"t know him.
One day he left for the steppe where honest people worked developing a virgin land. When he arrived at the center of the state farm Tukhumbey was provided with lodging and money for the basic necessities. Naturally, he had drunk the money away and started looking for the way of procuring easy money. He had, as the saying goes, a black gift for that. He went straight to the director"s office. The director rose from the table to greet him with a smile. But his smile faded for Tukhumbey was crying on his threadbare chequered handkerchief.
-What"s the matter? - asked the director. Tukhumbey went on howling. Then he folded
the director in his arms:
- Oh, Comrade Director, I am in trouble! Just about half an hour ago I was told the terrible
news. Oh, my poor mother! How shall live without you?!... My mother is dead!
The director was at a loss. He started setting Tukhumbey at rest and gave him a glass of water.
-There! Have a drink, Tukhunbei! It"s God"s will. I present my condolences to you. God
rest her soul...
Slaking his thirst, Tukhmbei was gulping the water greedily. For the past three days he had been drinking vodka non stop. He"d been "on the booze", so to say. His head was as heavy as a pig iron weight. When he came round a little, he continued with his role, saying the monologue like a great tragic actor, his eyes full of tears:
-Oh, mother! Pardon me for not being by your side at the sunset of your life. Pardon me for being unable to earn money for your treatment. Now I don"t know what I am supposed to do. We even haven"t got money for the funeral! What shall we wrap your body in?
- With these words, Tukhumbey turned his face to the director, went down on his knees and started begging money he needed for the funeral. The words touched the director like magic, arousing in him compassion and pity to such an extent that he, too, burst out crying.
Then he called the chief accountant and the cashier and ordered that they should allot a considerable sum of money for the funeral of Tukhumbey"s deceased mother.
Having received the money Tukhumbey left for his village pleased and contented. But he didn"t know that by his action he had made a big mistake for he didn"t take into account the fact that the Uzbeks, like other nations, attend the relatives of the deceased.
The director of the state farm gathered a big group of workers and sent them by bus to the village where Tukhumbey lived, the man whose mother had passed away. When they arrived at the village to express their condolences, they didn"t see any indication of the funeral in the street, outside Tukhumbey"s house. In fact, there was nobody there. Then the director said in a low voice:
- Poor Tukhumbey, he"s probably all alone, with no relatives at all. With these words,
he and the accountant slowly tiptoed to the gate a peeped inside. There was an elderly woman there. She was scared but then asked in surprise:
- Who on earth are you? Why do you look inside our yard? What do you need?
- Hello, aunt. Pardon us please. Does Tukhumbey live here? - asked the director.
-Yes, why? - the woman answered with a question.
- You know... you see... I don"t know how to put it... They told us that Tukhumbey"s mother had passed away... We are here to express our condolences - the director of the state farm said.
- What? What did you say, you scoundrel? How dare you!.. I am Tukhumbey"s mother! Who told you that I had died? Damn! A living man has been turned into a dead body!
On hearing that, the director stood chapfallen. He took off his glasses, and then put them on again. Then he looked at the accountant. The latter, too, was at a loss. He didn"t know if he should laugh or get angry. When all the people, waiting in the bus, learnt that they burst out laughing. Some roared with laughter others shook their heads. Some threatened to kill Tukhumbey for meanly deceiving people by saying that his mother had died when, in reality, she was alive. That"s the kind of swindler Tukhumbey was, a man ready to sell his mother for peanuts.
After she really died Tukhumbey gambled away the house he had inherited from his deceased mother. Then he had to move to the campsite, where the game was to take place that night. When I told my friend about it he was glad. To describe him, roughly speaking, he looked like this: a short thick man, slant-eyed, snub-nosed like a boxer, with big ears and broad shoulders. His appearance had a touch of ancient features of soldiers of. Genghis Khan. If one takes a good look at him, he will even hear the neigh and clatter of horses' hoofs of the Khaganate"s throat-cutters,
the clank of swords, the whistle of darts and bow strings, the gurgling of blood in the throats of decapitated warriors, and the distant howling of hungry wolves at moonlit night in Mongolian as well as Russian steppes such as Suzdal and Vladimir.
On hearing the news about the gambling session, Matash rejoiced but I warned him right off that my hands were as empty as drums. To help me try my hand, he, like a donor institution, rendered me financial assistance. When darkness fell Matash and I set out towards the campsite.
It was snowing, with cold wind blowing from the east. Wrapped up in our long sheepskin coats we walked across the snow-covered fields against the wind, with the ear-flaps of our winter caps pulled down. The crazy snow flakes were whirling like a big swarm of white butterflies increasingly covering the trees, fields and little huts. The wind was ironing the snowy plains looking like clean bed-sheets at five star hotels on the shores of the Pacific Ocean, where comfort reigns, and outside the windows a solitary fisher on a canoe is catching fish by the moonlight, with the moon rising over the tropic woods along the distant shores. We walked and walked, stumbling in the snow, across the Kirghizkhadzinsky fields. At last we arrived at the camp, and shaking off the snow from our overcoats, entered the corridor. Then we made our way to the main room where the gambling game was on. The room was filled with smell of tobacco, vodka and the sweat coming from the players" feet.
I could hardly see Usta Garib"s ghostly profile. He had the dice in his hands. There were crumpled notes of money on the floor. It was plain to see that Usta Garib had been draining the players before we came. Tukhumbey sat in a broken chair collecting "chutal" (money levied as if "for the rent of space"). Off and on he would bawl:
- Hey, you winners, remember to pay chutal on time! Mirzakalandar, don"t pull my leg by saying "not now", "not now". Look and see how much Kayum Karvalan has deposited in chutal.
We joined the players. Raking the money he had won, Usta Garib addressed the entrants:
-Who"s going to bet?
- I"ll do it - Adil said. Usta Garib threw the dice shouting:
-Gardkam!
Up flew the dice. To see the result of the roll, the players watched the dice"s trajectory like an eagle-owl watches the field mouse. Suddenly, the district militia officer Bozarvey, a short, swarthy, slant-eyed man rushed into the room, pistol in hand, and shouted:
-Hands up! Hands up, you-oo-o, sons of bitches! Face the wall! Quick!
All those in the room raised their hands hurriedly. All of a sudden, Bozarvey kicked one of the players on the backside drooping like a rucksack, and shouted:
- You, old kangaroo, so many times you have sworn you won"t play dice! Why don"t you keep your promise? Are you a man or a woman in a man"s suit? Maybe, you are really a mustached female?
Then he went up to Mirzakhalandar and said:
-Now, come on, you ass, turn your face to me.
Mirzakhalandar did as he was told and, dropping his eyes, started picking his nose, like a weak pupil at school who has failed to do his homework. He tried to avoid meeting Bozarvey"s intent and severe eyes. With a deceitful motion of his hand, Bozarvey frightened Mirzakhalandar off. The latter covered his head with his hands, so the powerful punch fell on Adil"s kidney. With a wry grimace on his face, Adil cowered down. Seeing this, Ulyas, the player from the neighboring village, quickly ran away. But the cop, the shorty, ran him down and, preventing him from jumping out through the window, seized him by the legs.
- Ah, you are a novice, aren"t you? You wanted to escape?
Asking these questions, Bozarvey hit Ulmas a couple of times on the crown, i.e. on the head. The latter shuddered like a drunken man after having a drop too much of booze and fell down.
Like an old woman, Tukhumbey started sobbing with fear.
-Why are you crying, you coward? I haven"t beaten you yet, swine. Tell me now, who gave you, wretched beggar, the right to set up here Los-Angeles, sort of?! You should be shot, and that will be too minor a punishment for you! I wouldn"t spare the bullet! You are not worth the lead. You ought to be killed with a spade like a mad dog and buried so that people might get rid of you once and for ever because you are not even worth the paper we use to write the statement of the case!
With these words, Bozarvey swung his arm wishing to hit Tukhumbey but the blow fell on another man. It was Matash. From the flash-like blow Matash had his skull-cap flown off his head, while he himself fell flat, like an inexperienced boxer that has got a knock-out punch.
Tukhumbey was still crying.
By that time Matash had regained consciousness and got up. Bozarvey gathered all the crumpled banknotes lying on the floor, which would serve the experts as material evidence, and put them in a plastic bag which he had brought.
Then he told us to go to the exit one by one. Obeying him humbly, we went out into the street.
Outside, the snow storm cried whirling the snowflakes around. Bazarvey shouted:
- Run towards the village! Don"t lag behind! Run! One, two, one, two, three! Faster!
We ran trying to keep up with one another. The worst thing was the fact that Bazarvey made us run along the streets of Matarak.
When my sons saw me outside the school I felt ashamed. It so happened that we were running by the school right during the interval, and schoolchildren, as well as their teachers, on seeing us, roared with laughter.
We ran in fear of being suddenly kicked by the undersized militiaman. After a two hour scamper our feet started stumbling and our tongues, sticking out, dangled like those of frontier guard dogs running after an infiltree breaking through the state borders of our Motherland.
At last Bozarvey stopped us outside his office. Then he pushed us all into the room to conduct a long interrogation.
I made a vow never to set foot on the casino and hardly got home.
Suddenly, I felt like eating some snow to quench my thirst. I saw a handful of clean snow on the iron grid nearby and licked it. Gosh, my tongue got stuck to the grid of the bridge. I got scared. Oh my lord, what what"s the matter? I tried to pull my tongue in somehow, but it hurt. Then I cried out in panic:
-Ah -a-a-a-a-a!
I could only shout uttering long vowels such as "Ah", "E", "O" and "U", with the accent on "u-u-u". But these are not the sounds to call people for help. If I start shouting something like meow or cuckoo, people will only laugh.
Suddenly I saw a crowd of people coming straghit towards me. They were, probably, coming home after the evening namaz in the mosque.
-Oh, Allah! Forbid me! Maybe, Allah has punished me for having played in the casino.
When the crowd approached me, Zainutdin Ibn Gainutdin, the Imam of the Mosque, looked at me in surprise and said:
-Assalamu Aleikum, Esteemed Mullah Al Kazim, What are you doing here? What is the matter with you? Are you not feeling well? Why are you silent?
"That is an interesting question" - I thought. How can I answer when my tongue is stuck to the iron grid. To hide the trouble I was in, I bent to pretend that I was doing a bodily exercise.
""Ah- E - O -U", "Ah- E - O -U"...
The men were still more surprised now. Some of them thought I was not all there and said:
"Oh Allah, Astah firullah"
At this point, thank God, my wife Babat, came out to sweep off the snow. While she was sweeping the road she saw me. She started walking aroud not knowing what to do. I showed her with a gesture that I wanted some hot water. She got me at ot once and ran to the house. A few minutes later she brought the water and poured it over my tongue. So I was now free from the confinement of the ice.
- What a magnet!-I said.
Part of the crowd still stood waiting to see the outcome. I said:
- Why are staring in such a way? Don"t you see I am working? I am testing my tongue to see how firm it is. In other words, I"m tempering it.
The men gripped their colors in amazement.
Babat and I went home.When she asked me why I had been absent I lied. I said I had been on duty at work. She believed me. After breakfast I fell asleep like a dead man. I woke up at lunch time, washed myself and went to work. As I came to my work place I saw the director, gloomy as ever, sitting in the watch-box. Then, all at once he gave me a sheet of paper and said:
- Write a discharge application at request.
- Why? - I exclaimed in surprise.
Then the director silently stretched me one more sheet of paper. I recognized it at once. It was a copy of my explanation note, which I had written at the militia station of Bozarwey.
Namaz - Mohammedan prayer ; prayer service held by Moslems in mosques (or at home)