Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor

Two weddings were taking place simultaneously. The chauffeur looked sadly at his wife, who was seven years older than him, and at his newlywed son-in-law, thirty years older than him, and it was difficult to calculate how much older he was than his wife's stepdaughter, whom the chauffeur cast longing glances at, and hard to calculate indeed. But the women were satisfied: the widow, receiving such a young and handsome husband, the father of her child, was so grateful to Aman-Jalil that she forgave some "trifles," such as the death of Sardar Ali, a friend of her family, violence against her daughter, and even the forced husband imposed on her, at the sight of whom she felt nauseated. Gulshan, for her part, was very pleased that her husband was so old and ugly.

"Ugly! Not even a thought will come to lie with you in bed at such a mournful moment. Sits there as if he's at a funeral," – thought Gulshan, pretending to be a happy bride.

Everything imaginable was on the table. Aman-Jalil spared no expense, asked all merchants for an additional tax, and they brought the freshest, best of everything. Usually, every wedding invites the zurna musicians, an ensemble of eastern instruments: tar, kamancheh, zurna, nagara. But Aman-Jalil decided to impress and invited a brass band as well. The brass band played waltzes, polkas, and marches while guests drank and ate. During the change of dishes, for rest, the quartet played "shur" or the tarist mournfully sang a long mugham. Specifically at Aman-Jalil's request, a famous baritone, Baybulat, came and sang several classical arias. After receiving the agreed sum in a sealed envelope, he habitually put the money in his pocket without opening it, preparing to leave for his next performance, but Aman-Jalil invited him to stay. The celebrity dared not refuse, although he was not supposed to receive the next fee. Invited to the table, as always, he drank, boasted, and flirted with the young daughters and wives of Aman-Jalil's colleagues. But the guests envied his presence and forgave his little jokes: this celebrity did not visit ordinary mortals, and his fees were breathtaking.

The old bridegroom stared blankly at the people gathered in his house: all strangers, he had never seen them before, except for Aman-Jalil, with whom he had had a preliminary conversation that the old man couldn't recall without shuddering. He already quietly hated his young wife, five months pregnant, for the second day since she moved in, acting as if she had grown up here, the mistress… "And her mother, damn sluts, looks so foolish: she gazes, silly thing, like a love-struck girl at the young husband, and he gazes at her daughter. Well, what a family! What's happening in this world, everything has turned upside down: the young marry old men, I'm fit to be her grandfather, and the young marry old women, but this marriage is beyond my understanding. In the past, such marriages were only for convenience, but what convenience can this young lad have? The widow has no money, although what kind of widow is she, damn it, she's not even a widow yet. I should kick them all to the devil! Just stand up and curse: 'go to such-and-such's mother!' As for me, this devil will kill my Javanshir right away, and I'm ready to give everything, sacrifice everything for the sake of saving my only child. For my boy, I'm ready to crawl on my knees before them. But this young slut, I'll get my revenge, I've already figured out how I'll do it… And what a wedding I had forty years ago, no one then thought about a coup, what a life it was under Renke, oh, what a life. Recently heard on the radio how a famous actress gave an interview: sweetly praised Iosif Besarionis's bloody regime, talked about how everyone lives well, but when asked how she envisions our bright future, she replied that when everything is like under Renke, stores are full of goods, you can freely travel abroad… and something else similar, I don't remember anymore. I'm sure all the radio workers involved in that broadcast were either fired, imprisoned, or even shot… For Javanshir, I made a deal that compared to it, selling my damn soul is nothing."

Aman-Jalil soon led the "newlyweds" into the bedroom. They bid them farewell with laughter, greasy jokes, and vile suggestions. Gulshan looked at Aman-Jalil in fear. "Is he really going to lay her down with the old man? Does he want to amuse himself?"

But Aman-Jalil, unabashed, stripped naked and climbed into the bed prepared for the "newlyweds."

– Undress and come to me, – he ordered Gulshan. – Or do you fancy this old man? So I'll get up… Just not to give him a place, but to kill him.

Gulshan began to undress, but she felt ashamed, blushed, and looked imploringly at Aman-Jalil.

– What, does this old prick bother you? – the brazen man taunted. – Hey, old prick, did you hear? You're bothering your lawful wife. And every word of hers is law to you. Bring a small table, put wine and fruit on it, and disappear. There's a small closet nearby, you haven't forgotten it, I think tonight you'll spend it there so that the guests think you're sleeping in tender maiden embraces… Oh, before I forget: take the sheet stained with blood from my bag, in two hours come out to the guests and show it with a happy face. Got it?

The old "bridegroom" nodded grimly. Aman-Jalil frowned.

– Didn't hear, say it again!

– In two hours, with a happy face, I'll come out to the guests and demonstrate the symbol of her innocence. If the guests don't die of laughter, they'll be satisfied.

– If someone starts dying of laughter, they'll report to me, I'll help him… die.

The old "bridegroom" set a table next to the bed, put wine and fruit on it, took out from Aman-Jalil's bag a sheet pre-prepared with signs of someone's innocence, and went to the closet located next to the bedroom.

Gulshan slowly undressed, feeling unusual excitement and novelty. Being five months pregnant, she had never really known a man until now. This was truly her first wedding night. Gulshan turned off the light and lay in the bridal bed next to her lover, the father of her future child.

Meanwhile, her lawful husband lay sleepless in the closet, thinking about his son, about the immense sacrifices he would make in the name of saving his life, waiting for the stipulated time when they would come for him, and he would have to play the comedy, affirming the innocence of his imposed wife, who was not his wife, and therefore acknowledge himself as the father of another's child, all in the name of saving his…

And this shameful moment came. Aman-Jalil's men went after him and led him to the guests. The guests greeted the "happy bridegroom" with drunken, sated laughter. Pretending to be overjoyed, the unfortunate husband and father unfolded the sheet and demonstrated fresh blood stains. Welcoming cries, approving shouts, even rowdy remarks filled the air. But only for a moment did silence fall, a neighbor of the old man's sneered from across the street:

– You can work miracles like a saint. However, no saint has ever performed such a miracle, you're the first.

Each of his words was his death sentence. In the morning, the neighbor was arrested, in the afternoon he was tried with a group of "conspirators," all of whom willingly claimed him as their own, and in the evening he was shot… If there are deadly jokes, this one was suicidal.

Aman-Jalil began to demonstrate his omnipotence.

Winter and spring flew by unnoticed. Upon Gulshan's demand, her husband rewrote his house and all his property to her, and he now lived in his own house as a lodger. The widow pitied him and took care of him, feeding him, washing his clothes, while Gulshan paid him no attention, as if he didn't exist. People are like that: they love those whom they do good to and hate those whom they offend or harm, willingly or unwittingly. The chauffeur courted Gulshan lovingly, trying to please her in everything, catching every glance from her, while his wife silently envied her daughter, silent but watching their every move.

In the summer, Gulshan's mother gave birth to a girl, and Gulshan gave birth to a boy. Her first childbirth was difficult, and Gulshan was to spend at least a month in the maternity hospital. Aman-Jalil visited her, but not daily.

– A chief can't show undue interest in his subordinate, – he reassured her.

In reality, however, Aman-Jalil had cooled towards Gulshan. He became infatuated with a cabaret singer. The woman turned out to be unyielding, and it was difficult for Aman-Jalil to arrest her on suspicion of espionage and enjoy her for the three lawful days of preliminary investigation. Almost every day, Aman-Jalil visited the young detainees in prison. The newcomer was transferred to a specially equipped cell, where there was a nickel-plated bed with a soft net, delicacies and alcoholic beverages were brought to the cell, and Aman-Jalil spent three nights in the prison. Having enjoyed the fresh air, Aman-Jalil released her, even if she was actually a spy. But if the girl resisted, then she was tied by her arms and legs to the bedposts, and Aman-Jalil got what he wanted, but in that case, a queue of guards lined up after him, anyone who was free and willing, patients with venereal diseases were put at the end of the line, and the poor victim serviced everyone against their will. Sometimes the weak victims breathed their last under another sweaty and stinking body. If the scandal couldn't be hushed up, the guards drew lots, and the one who drew the lot was "disgraced" from his job. A report on the harsh measures taken was sent upstairs, and Aman-Jalil placed the failure somewhere in the area.

But Nigyar, as the singer was called, belonged to those circles where Aman-Jalil had not yet been granted access and where he was eager to enter. Perhaps that's why Aman-Jalil craved her love, admiration, her attachment. But this "ungrateful" woman refused to see him, sent back expensive gifts. But most offensive to Aman-Jalil was that Nigyar was the wife of Kasym-the-know-it-all, who had tormented him with mockery at school. Kasym worked as a compere, leading his wife's concerts, filling the pauses between numbers with jokes, humorous sketches… His wife, apparently, had told him about Aman-Jalil's courtship, and Kasym publicly shamed him, not naming names, but Aman-Jalil understood everything, he had already learned to understand half-words, and Kasym-the-know-it-all he always understood. And he always had the desire to slap Kasym like a fly, he hated this brazen, insolent man.

But his hands were tied. Kasym was a relative of Ahmed himself, not close, but a relative. And it was impossible to take him with bare hands. Especially since at all government concerts, Kasym spoke the right words, only those that are allowed to be spoken. But at government concerts, Kasym did not perform so often. But at regular concerts, Kasym, as Aman-Jalil found out, also managed to work as an intelligence officer, catching foreign agents who flew into our "world center" under the guise of musicians. Kasym was very intelligent, for Aman-Jalil's love of Nigyar's family, the government would not touch him. And so the matter was at an impasse.

Times were changing, but Kasym couldn't change quickly enough. He often had a strange dream: that wings were growing out of him and he was leaping off a cliff, flying far, far away through the darkness of the night towards the horizon ablaze with the dawn's flickers. Yet, the wings started to fall apart feather by feather, and how helpless his hands felt in the air, how powerless they were, nothing to lean on, nowhere to hold onto, and the abyss was endless, and as he fell, Kasym gradually dissolved into the air, or rather merged…

Aman-Jalil decided to try to destroy Kasym, to "catch" him on something. For this, he needed qualified help. So, he summoned Ayesha, a well-known writer in the city and throughout the country. Aman-Jalil knew well that the writer also worked in the circus and cabaret, writing sketches and replays under the pseudonym Pendyr. The summons to the inquisition already evoked a tremor of respect in the law-abiding hearts of citizens; for many, this summons proved to be final, and they did not return home. Therefore, the writer, pale as a wall, looked obsequiously at Aman-Jalil and was ready for anything. Aman-Jalil spent a long time compiling lists of "conspirators," paying no attention to Ayesha. Then he graciously noticed him.

– Dear Ayesha! Have you been here long? These secretaries don't understand anything about visitors. They have one measure for everyone. And I'm exhausted, I have no strength left.

– It's okay, it's okay, – stammered Ayesha, – I'll wait, I have plenty of time, not in a hurry.

– Once we summon someone here, they stop thinking about work. They're only interested in their own skin. Do you understand me, my friend?

– Clearly, how could I not understand, I completely agree with you.

– Do you know that your relative has been arrested?

– I know, of course, but I declare that he is not my relative and not even of the same surname. Among the Ayeshas, there have never been degenerates.

– A major conspirator, eh! I swear by my father, I don't know what to do: he claims that you, dear respected writer, knew about his conspiracy. No, he doesn't say you were involved, I don't claim that, it's up to the investigator to say, but he knew.

Ayesha slid off the chair onto his knees.

– I swear by my father, I didn't know, damn it, I've only seen this relative once. I'll eat dirt, he's deceiving you, dear chief.

– Perhaps, perhaps, they're capable of anything. But unfortunately, it's possible that you will still learn about the delights of Bibir Island.

Ayesha banged his forehead on the floor.

– I beg you, dear Aman-Jalil, save me, I'll do anything for you, want me to write a book for you "Iosif Besarionis and the Children," and you can present it to the Great Leader.

– Let's think about it, let's think… Listen, do you know Kasym?

– I've met him, but he doesn't read my stories from the stage, prefers to write them himself.

– Write one that he will read, one that can get him arrested. "Set him up," and I'll remove you from the lists, I promise. Are you willing to help me?

– I'll do everything, boss!… There's one story about Iosif Besarionis's mustache.

– Listen, isn't that the one whose author is already relaxing on the island?

– I'll offer it to Kasym as my own. No one knows about this story.

– Go, work for the good of your country.

There were such terrible rumors about the delights of Bibir Island, and the writer's imagination was so rich that Ayesha had to drink heart drops at home, even though his heart was perfectly healthy… Taking a copy of the manuscript from its hiding place, for which the author was arrested not without Ayesha's help, he retyped it on his typewriter. Kasym had other manuscripts, and he could accidentally compare the fonts. But Ayesha didn't dare to call Kasym and personally hand him the story, afraid to reveal himself with something. So, he called Kasym's friend, the cabaret director Bulov, and asked him to come over in the evening to take the manuscript for Kasym. Bulov willingly agreed; Ayesha always had good cognac, as soon as he hinted that gasoline was expensive these days, Ayesha pulled out a bottle of Courvoisier from the buffet and poured a glass. Bulov, slowly savoring, squeezed out the cognac and, taking the manuscript for Kasym, left. On the way, he stopped by the club of underground millionaires, met a couple of acquaintances in the buffet, drank a glass of vodka on their tab, washing it down with a glass of dry wine, then his friends persuaded him to take them to a restaurant to meet the veterans of the battles in the Serra mountains, the veterans had already stopped consuming strong spirits. Overloaded beyond measure, Bulov remembered that he promised to deliver the manuscript to Kasym.

The steering wheel of the car stopped obeying Bulov, so the director decided to leave the car at the restaurant and walk, luckily Kasym lived in the center, nearby. But after a block, Bulov saw the woman of his dreams and went after her. The woman was a professional, hoping for an acquaintance, she walked slowly, but Bulov thought she was speeding like an express train. Staggering from side to side, he stubbornly followed her, but caught up with her only in the old city district, when the woman, convinced that she was being approached, simply stopped. Bulov circled her for a long time, then tediously seduced the woman, from those women who make their piece of bread with butter on the panel, and was very proud of himself when he convinced her to take him home. He offered her twenty-five coins, so he liked her. If the woman demanded payment, the night of adventures would have cost Bulov only five coins, and twenty would have remained for a familiar venereologist. But the pleasure of being able to persuade another woman also cost something, let it be an extra twenty coins.

Slums, they are everywhere – slums. In a sober state, Bulov would not risk showing up here, but he was "knee-deep" in drunk. After a long wandering through crooked, tangled alleys, passages, through yards merging into each other, Bulov would not have found his way back even if he had been threatened with execution, the woman finally led him to her small, tiny apartment, where she honestly earned the unexpectedly inflated amount.

Bulov felt like going to the toilet. It turned out that all "amenities" were in the yard.

– You'll go out to the yard and fifty meters to the right, – the woman explained to him readily.

– What if I run out in just my underwear, I'll even put shoes on one bare foot, nothing?

– Who will you see here at such a late hour, your acquaintances, or what? The night is warm, run like that, just don't fall there. Maybe I should escort you? – she worried.

– Are you crazy? – Bulov was offended. – I'm as sober as a glass.

As soon as Bulov crossed the threshold of the house and found himself in the yard, the fresh night air played a nasty trick on him: instead of sobering him up, it further dazed him. Bulov went left, and having reached the neighboring yard, remembered that he needed to turn right, and turned right, wandered through the yards for a long time, finally, not finding the toilet and unable to endure any longer, he relieved himself in front of someone's window, not seeing a grandmother in the window, apparently suffering from insomnia, and now she was fearfully crossing herself at the sight of such shamelessness of a strangely dressed creature… And warm autumn nights become cold far beyond midnight, sometimes even frosts occur. Bulov, trembling, began to lose his fleeting body, wandered from yard to yard, from alley to alley, but only completely confused himself in the yards, forgot what the house where he was so warmly greeted looked like. To warm himself up, he started running, examining the houses, looking for "his," but the alleys unexpectedly began to end in dead ends, the houses threateningly loomed, the alleys became all too narrow, he could already touch the opposite sides with outstretched arms at the same time. Bulov began to feel that the houses were trying to catch and flatten him into a pancake. He suddenly imagined that he had stumbled upon an ancient labyrinth, a trap from which there was no escape. Losing control over himself, going mad, he began to wander and shout:

– Ariadne!.. Ariadne!.. Save me!

His cries rang out loudly in the silence of the night, though such screams were not uncommon in these slums. Perhaps a startled bystander, awakened in the dead of night, might have wondered upon hearing such an unfamiliar name, but in the slums, women often bore exotic names: Rosa, Lily, Hortensia, Traviata, Viola… In every dark corner, Bulov began to imagine a lurking Minotaur, awaiting human sacrifices. For some reason, Bulov didn't fancy being devoured, so he darted from side to side, grinding his teeth and feverishly trying to recall the name of this woman, but all that echoed in his mind was, 'Ariadne! Ariadne!'

Suddenly, two enormous yellow eyes flashed in the alleyway, and something growled and sneezed as it slowly moved towards Bulov. Seeing this, Bulov screamed madly and fled down the alley, only to collide once again with the wall of a building. Feeling halfway consumed, Bulov turned back, bidding farewell to life, to the stage, to his wife and children, and… unexpectedly burst into song: 'Oh joy, my life!' Before him stood a police car. Bulov dashed towards it like he had only ever dashed towards his mother in his early childhood.

A policeman stepped out of the car.

– 'Where's the split?' he asked dryly and routinely.

– 'That's exactly what I want to find out from you!' exclaimed Bulov.

– 'What, you mean to say we split you?' the policeman took offense threateningly.

– 'No, I always undress by myself.'

– 'Did someone hit you on the head by any chance?'

– 'No, I just got lost…' Bulov hesitated. 'Do you know where a certain whore lives around here?'

– 'If you'd asked about a decent woman, I could have told you – there's one right here, in this house, paralyzed since childhood. But as for whores in this area, there's no shortage. What kind do you want: young, old, blonde, brunette, redhead?'

– 'Blonde!' Bulov cheered. 'Looks like my first wife.'

– 'I never slept with your first wife or your second. Describe your first wife, maybe we'll find your whore based on her.'

– 'Slender, tall, young, with a face that was still… intelligent, eyes like two blue stars…'

– 'Well, well, aren't you a poet!' laughed the policeman. 'That's Kato, daughter of an enemy of the people. Be careful, she might recruit you… as a spy. Get in, we'll take you.'

Gunshots rang out nearby.

– 'It's starting again!' grumbled the policeman. 'Get in quickly, I said, we're taking you to the blue-eyed one.'

Bulov quickly hopped into the police car, and within minutes, Bulov found himself circling Kato's house, they were on the scene. The policeman ascended the stairs first and pounded on the door as hard as he could. There was dead silence behind the door.

– 'Kato, open up!'

The policeman hammered on the door with his mighty fist, like a sledgehammer.

– 'Did she fall asleep or what, damn whore!'

It was three in the morning. Bulov stood behind the policeman's broad shoulders, trembling like a leaf, cursing his love for adventure. For ten minutes, there was no sign of life from behind the door, and for those ten minutes, the policeman pounded relentlessly with his fearsome fist. Finally, a disgruntled voice came from behind the door:

– 'Couldn't find a better time for a visit?'

The door opened, and a startled Kato peered out through a crack. Upon seeing the policeman, she yelled:

– 'What the hell…'

– 'Open up, open up, witch!'

Kato swung open the door and yelled even louder:

– 'How many times have I told you not to come in the middle of the night, you damned pimp!'

– 'Shut your trap, I'm here on business.' The policeman nudged Bulov forward. 'Is this your client?'

Only then did Kato spot a trembling Bulov behind the policeman's broad back and burst into laughter until tears streamed down her face. Ignoring her laughter completely, the policeman pushed Bulov into the room and left, closing the door behind him. Meanwhile, Kato continued to laugh. Every time she looked at the nearly naked Bulov, a new wave of laughter shook her.

Frozen, Bulov leaped headlong into the bed, warming up in the warm sheets and stopping his teeth from chattering, he looked around and noticed that his clothes had disappeared.

– 'Hey, where's my clothes?' he wondered.

Kato bent over laughing even harder.

– 'Oh, I can't, I'm going to die right now…'

– 'Hey, don't die, where did you put them?' Bulov asked worriedly.

– 'I burned your clothes, threw them in the stove, burned everything.'

– 'Are you out of your mind?'

– 'You brought this on yourself.' Kato stopped laughing. 'Half an hour later, I went to look for you, thought maybe you fell into a pit, that board there is completely rotted. You weren't in the toilet, or in the pit either, I walked around, shouted, nowhere to be found, came home worried, every morning we find at least one corpse, how many don't we find?..'