Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor

– 'What does my clothes have to do with it?' Bulov asked in surprise.

– '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 money, huh? You're just a humble inquisition clerk, yet this necklace costs ten times more than what you earn in ten years. Are you saving on matches?

– An aunt passed away and left it to me," Aman-Jalil replied, playing along nervously.

– So, you have several of them? My dear, then I'm at ease about my daughter. She won't know the meaning of 'denial'. Right?

– Don't worry, boss. If a shadow of discontent crosses her face, that shadow will vanish in my dungeons…

– That's right: the pure with the pure, the impure with the impure!

Aman-Jalil changing into his outfit was a matter of minutes. They waited a long time for Leila. Minutes dragged by in complete silence. Ahmed perused papers, jotting notes into a thick, leather-bound tome. 'Mortirologia'. Everyone knew about it, but no mortal, except Ahmed, had ever dared to peer into its pages.

Aman-Jalil watched a fly that had managed to slip past the servants into the study. His fingers automatically reached into his vest pocket, where he had stashed an elastic band from his suit. The fly lazily explored the vast chamber, filled with a sweet scent, gradually approaching Aman-Jalil. On the small table next to him lay a large open box of rum-filled chocolate bombs. Aman-Jalil swatted the fly over the open box, wiped the elastic band absentmindedly on his vest, tucked it back into his pocket, and with his bloodied fingers, picked up a rum-filled chocolate bomb and popped it into his mouth. A tiny sip of rum pleasantly refreshed his throat, and the chocolate eased the mild burn…

Finally, the door from the sitting room swung open, and Leila entered in her bridal attire. The men stood up respectfully, struck by her beauty and elegance. Although Aman-Jalil briefly thought Gulshan would look just as stunning in that expensive bridal gown. He thought, then pushed the thought aside and knelt before Leila.

– Goddess, I am your unworthy servant! To look upon you is to be blinded by the sun!

Leila was very pleased with the impression she made, soothed by Aman-Jalil's submission…

No mullah had ever married such an odd couple. 'I commit sacrilege, Allah! But understand: if I refuse, at best they'll throw me in prison, at worst they'll kill me, I know them. Neither of them believes in you, so this whole spectacle is illegal, but what do they care? They've desecrated the holy mosque, and now they're off to the church. They close down temples and mosques, turn them into warehouses or even stables.'

The mullah hurried through the ceremony, swiftly reciting verses from the Quran as a lesson, but upon receiving the money, he counted it with pleasure, as he hadn't seen such a sum in a year.

The wedding ceremony at the church was long and solemn. But then Leila became restless, running around the chancel, dragging Aman-Jalil, her father, the priest, and the others present along with her. She tore off her veil and waved it around, singing an inappropriate French song. The priest silently moved his lips, praying to himself so as not to incur the wrath of the Lord, and was on the verge of fainting.

– Champagne! – Leila shouted.

A crate of champagne appeared instantly. Ancient icons had often heard the clash of swords, the whistle of arrows, gunfire, but they had never heard the popping of corks from bottles. It was as if wild hordes had burst into the temple of love and forgiveness, bringing in horses and setting fires. But these were not fires; they were generous tips. Leila lit them from the candles and tossed them into the air or stuck them under the icons. They drank champagne, sprinkled it on the chancel, and poured it on the icons…

The revelry continued at the Palace of Matrimony and Family. Gleaming with excitement, Leila hurled crystal glasses at the walls and champagne bottles through the windows, shattering the glass. She theatrically tore apart the marriage registry book. The solemnity of the ceremony was shattered. At Ahmed's signal, another book was swiftly brought in, a separate one, bound in satin, with gold embossing on thick paper. Leila resigned herself, signed her name coldly, and gave Aman-Jalil a cool kiss.

At the feast table, Leila was the epitome of calmness. She looked at the abundance laid out before her but did not eat or drink. For such an occasion as a wedding, Ahmed had ordered the museum's ancient imperial gold service, a gift from the Emir, and the guests reverently partook from this service, feeling themselves among the world's elite.

In bed, Aman-Jalil was pleasantly surprised to find she was still a virgin. True, her expertise raised some doubts, but Aman-Jalil had known since childhood how girls could engage in sex while remaining virgins… Therefore, he proudly displayed the sheets with fresh bloodstains to the assembled guests, provoking a wave of delight and another reason for new toasts and libations.

Out of habit more than curiosity, when he returned to duty, Aman-Jalil requested information on his wife from the capital's archives. The information stunned him. The report listed numerous romantic liaisons of Leila's, but those were trivial; what truly astounded Aman-Jalil was that a year ago, Leila had officially married, registering her union in the capital out of great love, severing all her numerous romantic ties.

Aman-Jalil tasked his agent-doctor to visit all clinics, and within a day, a frightened surgeon stood before Aman-Jalil, begging for mercy.

– If Ahmed finds out, I won't escape Bibir Island.

– They don't exile the dead! – Aman-Jalil replied mysteriously.

The broken doctor spilled everything to him right away: how he performed surgery on Leila, making her a virgin again. For some reason, the surgeon began to boast about the staggering fee, but Aman-Jalil cut him off and kicked him out of the office, yelling unexpectedly:

– Get out, you sanctimonious prick, or I'll turn you into a boy!

Ahmed's betrayal stung Aman-Jalil deeply. He had been ready to marry Ahmed's mistress, only to be deceived about his own daughter. The world of men worked in strange ways.

Returning from their honeymoon brought another disappointment: his wife was expecting a child.

– A pregnant virgin! – Aman-Jalil whispered to himself in disbelief. What could be more absurd…

Gulshan fell into depression. She took Aman-Jalil's marriage hard. Before their trip to the Azores, he had spent an entire day with her, tender and tireless. Something about Aman-Jalil's disappointed face held her back from asking how his wife compared.

With Aman-Jalil gone, everything began to fall apart. And then her stepfather started paying too much attention, trying to barge into her room when she was changing clothes. He stared through the window when she forgot to draw the curtain between the toilet and the bath. Her mother was jealous, lashing out over trifles. The atmosphere in the house became unbearable. Only the old master walked around, oblivious to everything except his son. Lately, he had been dreaming of the boy, reaching out to him with a smile…

Gulshan started drinking, crying like a child. She felt sorry for herself. She had fallen in love with the cognac brought to the local chief. And she liked it so much that one day, she got drunk, passed out, and fell asleep in a chair.

Her stepfather, finding her in such a convenient state, took advantage of the opportunity. He carried her to the bedroom, undressed her hurriedly, and took her with a joy comparable to a thirsty traveler finding an oasis in the desert. Though Gulshan was insensible, she still experienced a kind of ecstatic pleasure.

In the early morning, the exhausted chauffeur fell asleep. Gulshan woke to his loud snoring. She stared at her stepfather through blurry eyes, her head pounding, mouth dry, thoughts confused. Then her husband's father walked into the room.

– You should lock the door! – he grumbled, seeing her stepfather in her bed.

And he left the room, spitting on the ground. Gulshan felt destroyed, dead inside. She got out of bed, put on a robe, and went to the bathroom. She scrubbed herself fiercely, as if trying to scrub away every touch of her abusive stepfather. When she came out of the bathroom, Gulshan drank a strong, hot tea, trying to regain her composure. But in her head, the words kept pounding: "It's all over, it's all over, it's all over… If Aman-Jalil finds out, he'll kick me out to hell and back… Then it's the panel for me, but even that won't let me go, he'll send me to some remote place where seeing a decent human face is already a holiday. I need to find a way out immediately, I need to find it now…"

Gulshan grabbed a heavy, thick stick from the kitchen, used for stirring laundry in the vat, and went into the bedroom. Her stepfather lay on his back, snoring with his mouth wide open. Gulshan struck him several times in the face with the stick, knocking out a couple of teeth before he woke up, yelling:

– Have you gone mad, you fool? I'll disfigure you, you whore!

Gulshan fetched a small, almost toy-like pistol from the bedside table drawer, a nickel-plated Browning.

– I'll shoot you, you dog!

– Fool! – the frightened chauffeur recoiled from her. – What will Aman-Jalil say when they find me here naked? Think before you act.

And with that, clutching his clothes, Gulshan's stepfather slowly exited the bedroom. Despite her urge to pull the trigger into his bare back, she couldn't bring herself to do it. Killing someone for the first time is exceedingly difficult. At the threshold, her stepfather turned back.

– Keep silent, or I'll come up with something you'll never wash off in your life! – he threatened menacingly, spitting blood.

And he slipped out the door. It was then that Gulshan remembered her official husband had entered the bedroom earlier, saying something she couldn't recall, but regardless – he was a dangerous witness.

"Stepfather will stay silent," Gulshan thought. "But what's the point of protecting me? He'll betray me!"

And an idea dawned on her. A terrifying idea. Such ideas only arise from desperation or from twisted minds. Gulshan went to the study. She didn't quit her job not because she had nothing else to live on, but because she couldn't leave Aman-Jalil unattended. Besides, Aman-Jalil didn't insist on it; he needed a devoted person in such a responsible position as secretary…

From the closet, Gulshan took out last year's lists of executed prisoners, found the most suitable one, which included the surnames of her late husband's son's friends and acquaintances, meaning he could have heard of or known them. Diluting the ink with water to make the writing look faded and old, Gulshan added the surname, first name, and patronymic of her fake husband's son to the list. She carefully dried the entry on the hotplate. Now the forgery could only be detected with specialized equipment, more advanced than the human eye. And the old man's eyes were weak.

Having crafted such a deadly weapon, Gulshan returned home. She had grown so accustomed to considering this house her own that she forgot it belonged to someone else, or rather, it had belonged until recently, and essentially, she had stolen it.

The old man was praying when Gulshan entered his room.

– Can't you refrain from defiling my prayers for even a minute with your presence? – the old man snapped angrily at her. – I forbid you to enter my room.

– We need to talk.

The old man sneered at Gulshan.

– Afraid I'll tell Aman-Jalil how you're cheating on him? Maybe I will, maybe I won't! Depends on how you behave!

Gulshan smiled.

– Who will believe you, you old sot! You were also forbidden to enter my rooms.

– I was thinking of my son, my feet brought me here out of habit, after all, this used to be his room.

– Dreaming of a reunion?

– It's my only hope.

– You'll meet on the other side, you won't see each other here anymore.

– Liar, whore, – the old man turned pale. – Aman-Jalil promised me…

– Men promise all sorts of things, – Gulshan interrupted, laughing. – Look here! I found last year's lists, your son is in them. He's been dead for a long time.

And Gulshan tossed the lists onto the table in front of the old man. He put on his silver-framed glasses with trembling hands and slowly moved his lips as he read through the entire list again, marking familiar names:

– Eri! And you're here! Such a bright mind… Mamad! What did you do to deserve this? You wouldn't hurt a fly…

Reaching the end of the list, the old man whispered his son's surname, first name, and patronymic, then repeated them louder and suddenly shouted at the top of his lungs, a strength difficult to imagine coming from his frail, feeble body.

– No-o-o!.. No-o-o! He promised me! I gave him everything: my honor, my house, my wealth… I paid such a ransom… And he's been dead for a whole year…

The old man cried bitterly, like only little children cry, wiping his eyes with his fists.

– Savages!.. Are these people? Worse than beasts, even beasts are better… That's why he appears to me every night as a child: reaching out his little hands and laughing…

The old man howled. His terrible cry poured out through the open window and startled all the nearby dogs, who also howled in response. Gulshan paled with fear; tears of pity streamed from her eyes, but there was no one left to confess to, the old man had gone mad; he began to laugh joyously and happily, reaching out to his apparent little son and gently calling out to him:

– Come to me, darling, come braver, only the first step is difficult, the main thing is not to fall after the first step, the main thing is not to fall…

The old man reached forward and fell, his eyes froze. Gulshan recoiled from him in horror. The old man was dead. He had lived with only one hope, and with his death, there was nothing left for him to do on this earth. Gulshan hastily grabbed the lists and fled from the room of the man she had killed. In her own room, she carefully cut out the perfectly forged piece with scissors, burned it, and returned the lists to their place in the study: who knows, maybe someone would dig them up. However, in all her time as a secretary, no one had ever asked about them, no one had shown any interest…

Aman-Jalil arrived and went to work the next day.

Seeing Gulshan, he snapped:

– Started drinking?.. I'll beat you!

Gulshan burst into tears. All 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.