He lay there for a long time thinking about the sense and meaning of this dream. Cho’lpon’s verses came to mind:
Leave now, Satan; I am afraid.
Go! My sword’s smashed, my shield holed.
Don’t you see? I am lying underneath
A mountain of troubles, crushed and cold?
Oh angel, one last breath, the last of all:
One last look, then may the skies fall!
Who was the beautiful woman in his dream? What had her words implied, so ordinary, so enchanting? Was she leaving something for him? He looked down at his hand and saw he was holding half a sheet of Kokand paper. Trembling, he examined the paper, his lips moving as he whispered, and read a poem written in a familiar, beautiful Arabic script:
Shame on me I never found my beloved nor love of any kind
My heart is hard, my spirit thrown, and vengeance fills my mind.
I have no strength to journey, my shadow’s lost in the night
Like a shadow of disgrace, I at once disperse in light.
For those parted by love, there is the hope of meeting,
But my chains of despair deny any hope so fleeting.
No friend can hear me now, even my rival’s blind,
And the bowl’s turned upside down by the unforgiving wind.
I am the martyr Hassan bereft of his Husain.
Coming to this spectacle unbidden as nonentity Oyxon,
Should I cry aloud, ‘What did you promise everyone?’
—
From that day on, Abdulla’s thoughts were no longer troubled by any temptation, or inspiration, no superfluous images. The hottest forty days of summer had come, the days when antelopes piss in the water, after which the summer passes its peak and the year begins rolling towards winter. Something had been interrupted in Abdulla’s heart. It seemed as if autumn, as it entered the world, had also come to his soul, and yellow leaves were falling onto the clear water.
That day Oyxon woke earlier than usual. She had dreamt something which made her heart beat with pleasure, made her long to slip back in to sleep, but the memory had already slipped away from her, and however hard she tried she could not bring it back. Still in bed, she searched her thoughts, seeking the identity of its protagonist: her father G’ozi-xo’ja, her late mother, her children? Her life in the palace of Kokand, her journey to Bukhara? But none of that could have made her heart ache so. What was it about, that bitter-sweet dream?
She got up, threw on a quilted gown of striped silk, and went out into the courtyard. Nobody else was yet awake, and all around was dark and silent. She took a brass ewer of water from the veranda and went to a privy under the vines. Just then, as if to be contrary, brazen moonlight shone unveiled from behind the clouds. Oyxon lifted her eyes to the heavens, and a cluster of stars dripped their light onto her lashes. No, these were drops of water falling on her face, glittering like stars in the moonlight. Her head began to spin, and instantly it was clear in her mind what she had dreamt of that night.
She had seen the last bunch of grapes poking out from under the vine’s turning leaves: its bright red fruit had made her heart miss a beat. Trying to reach it, she had put her foot on the first cross-support, then on the next one up, climbing higher until the wood under her feet cracked and she dropped from the sky to the black earth below.
Lying on the ground, she heard a voice calling her: ‘Oyxon, Oyxon!’ Opening her eyes, she saw bending over her a handsome young man. This was not Qosim, nor her friend Gulxaniy. A young man with black eyebrows, black eyes, and a well-trimmed moustache was wiping the sweat from her brow with a handkerchief that smelled of attar of roses.
At first, Oyxon trembled, thinking: who was this stranger? Then, looking more carefully, she saw nothing ominous about his behaviour, no impropriety or violence; on the contrary, there was calmness and grace in the set of his features, and in every movement he made. Oyxon found herself struck by the urge to confide in him, to be rid of the dirt and blood that overlay her life like layers of slime. The youth was taciturn, still wiping her forehead and cheeks with his perfumed handkerchief, as if to say, don’t be afraid, I’m here with you. His melancholy eyes never left hers.
‘Do you know me?’ Oyxon whispered.
‘I do,’ said the young man. ‘I know everything about you.’
‘Where am I? Am I in Bukhara?’
The young man nodded.
‘What’s happened to me? Did I fall?’
He said nothing, but went on wiping Oyxon’s cheeks and chin.
‘If the Emir sees you he’ll have you hacked to pieces.’
The young man shook his head.
‘Kenagas, his senior wife, can see a snake even under the ground.’
The young man shook his head.
Such laconic persistence, such gravity and dignity: might this be an angel come down from heaven? It was a worrying thought. But Oxyon felt then a warmth on her lips: his fingers had brushed them accidentally as he wiped the sweat from her chin.
He seemed concerned simply that she not distress herself, but in his face Oyxon saw her entire life reflected. This youth really must know everything. Why then was he silent? Here she was, a woman prostrate on the ground: why wasn’t he crushing her, bullying her, trampling her, as other men would?
Tears welled up in Oyxon’s eyes. Neither wiping them away nor trying to comfort her, the man only sighed as if to say, weep, poor woman, get it off your mind… Her blurred eyes looked up at the sky beyond him. All the wrongs and hurts now rose to the surface. Never in her whole life had anyone pitied the broken clay vessel that she was, nobody had asked, ‘What’s happened to you, slave?’ Not when she was a little girl, bare-foot in the snow; when she lay bruised and dishevelled after having been raped; when she was passed from hand to hand, an object for amusement and debauchery – what else could this wretched woman remember, what feelings could she pour out to this young man?
Oyxon could not hold back her tears; curling up, she turned her head towards the youth’s knees. Her face touched him, and she was struck by a warm breath she had not known since her distant childhood, immediately awakening in her feelings of safety and peace.
‘What’s happening to me?’ Oyxon asked.
Should he tell her or not? What good to shatter an already broken heart? The young man heaved a sigh. One thought after another was passing through his mind.
It was a June day. A pitch-black sun had reached its zenith, and the disgruntled Kenagas, whose jaws were ageless, had ordered her junior wife Oyxon to appear before the Emir. Oyxon dragged her fragile shadow after her as she went outside to get into the royal carriage. Would God bestow upon Nasrullo some measure of mercy and make him give her back her sons? The sun was hammering itself like a nail into the ground, burning through Oyxon’s thick veil and burrowing into her brains, giving her an unbearable headache. She had trouble climbing into the carriage and was too weak even to respond to the young driver’s greeting. Half-suffocated, she cast off her veil and flung it aside, then unbuttoned her stiff collar. It didn’t help. There was no air. The carriage rattled down the road from the fortress, and at every jolt Oyxon’s heart beat more anxiously. Why hadn’t she got hold of some arsenic when she was still in Kokand? Because she didn’t want to lose sight of her children? Did she still think she could save those two infants, when the other princes had been martyred? Might death not be the kindest fate for them? She fought for breath, there was no air…
The carriage moved out into the square and turned left towards the city. Aren’t we going to the country estates? Oyxon wondered. Although the sun was at its height, the streets were filled with the sound of people shouting and calling. What were people doing outside at this time? In the distance, someone was shouting the praises of his cold yoghurt drink, clearly anxious to sell it quickly. Oyxon’s lips were cracked: should she stop the carriage?
Would the young driver listen? She hadn’t even greeted him: perhaps he would resent that? No, he was more likely to fear Nasrullo’s wrath.
She was still desperate for air, and gasping to breathe. Or was it thirst, or anxiety? Women’s laughter could be heard in the street. Did children’s giggling bode ill at this hour?
The carriage passed down streets and lanes, leaving clouds of dust in its wake. The dust got into her dry throat, and she began to gasp for air. Her face and neck were covered in sweat. A dog barked, but the carriage rushed on. The dog running alongside the carriage suddenly screamed, a drawn-out sound that receded into the distance as the carriage rushed on. Had its wheels crushed the wretched animal? Or had the shriek and helpless howl come from Oyxon’s confused mind?
This was enough. Whether she is to be knifed, strangled or suffocated, let Oyxon spend her life rushing on in this carriage. Under no circumstances would she enter that devil Nasrullo’s country estate. Under no circumstances would she meet the face of her tormentor, neither in the shade of vines nor in the baking heat of the open courtyard. Let him not give his guards the signal to bring Oyxon’s little sons out of the house. Let her not throw herself in the dust at his boots, to beg in her crazed state for mercy when they pushed one of the boys forwards and Nasrullo pronounced the dreaded words: ‘Sentence! Exterminate the whole tribe!’ Under no circumstances, absolutely not.
Why should the young man talk about such things to this unhappy woman, why should he dig the knife in further? He had trouble swallowing the lump in his throat; he bent down and kissed her on the forehead.
‘You won’t abandon me, will you?’ Oyxon pleaded. Wiping the tears from her face, the young man shook his head.
‘I have nobody left in this world,’ she whispered.
‘Neither have I,’ Abdulla said in a strangled voice.
No, he didn’t believe this. One hot summer day, Oyxon had been sitting in Nasrullo’s harem and weeping over her unhappy life when her old maidservant Gulsum came from the city and told her that two English spies had just been beheaded at the fortress. Afterwards, as Hakim-to’ra had written, Emir Nasrullo returned again to Kokand and had Oyxon, her sons Muzaffar and Mansur, and the servant Gulsum, executed. Hadn’t Cho’lpon said:
She listened, constantly toying with her hair,
And then declared, ‘Legends are false and vile.’
The words the angel spoke have stayed in my ear:
‘I’m swimming,’ she said, ‘in streams of blood and bile.’
Life is nothing but a swim in this bloody, bilious water. You get only a momentary glimmer of the moon’s face, the literal meaning of Oyxon.
‘But it’s not evening yet… They still don’t know who they’re dealing with,’ Trigulov continued in full flow, standing up: as if divining Abdulla’s thoughts, he approached and whispered in his ear: ‘Come on, let me show you your final scene. You’ll remember it for the rest of your life.’ He stepped out into the corridor, dismissed the guard by the door and gestured to Abdulla to follow him. Abdulla got up. Trigulov led him past three cells to No. 38, peered inside, and opened the spyhole.
‘Take a look,’ he said. Abdulla set his eye to the spyhole. In the middle of the cell – he couldn’t believe his eyes – was the mighty elder Jur’at, stroking his red beard; next to him was the squat, potbellied Muborak; listening to them were Kosoniy and Professor Zasypkin; while Laziz and the frail Mulla Shibirg’oniy staggered about in the background. In the centre of this devils’ dance was Abdulla’s best friend, the wretched poet Abdulhamid Cho’lpon, whose tear-filled eyes shone through the lenses of his spectacles. Or were these the wax figures Muborak had told him about? Abdulla bit his lips until they bled.
Leave now, Satan; I am afraid.
Go! My sword’s smashed, my shield holed.
Don’t you see? I am lying underneath
A mountain of troubles, crushed and cold?
Oh angel, one last breath, the last of all:
One last look, then may the skies fall!
—
Early autumn had come to the region. As Cho’lpon said:
In the autumn… when the soil is dead –
When the soils are pale in the falling time.
For the last time, when the leaf turns red –
When the leaves are red for the last time.
Crows croak in empty gardens but
Whose fate are they bewailing?
They fiercely clutch the fallen nut.
Yet whose final hope is failing?
You ice-clad folk from lands that freeze:
Leave your foul dreams there in the snow.
You stole the fruit from my orchard trees:
May your black heads be buried below!
Who knows whose hopes have now been lost
In the falling time when the leaves turn red?
Whose destiny’s withered with the frost
In the autumn… when the soil is dead.
As Abdulla whispered these verses to himself, new meanings emerged each time; red leaves, bare earth, cawing crows made his head spin, a nostalgia for vanished hopes and broken fates.
On one such autumn days, he was taken yet again to Trigulov.
‘Let me show you something,’ the interrogator said. ‘Something you’ll remember it for the rest of your life!’
But he there was to be no tour of the prison’s cells this time. Trigulov stayed seated, pulled out a document from a thick criminal case file and passed it to Abdulla. Abdulla read silently, translating the Russian in his head:
‘Ever since 1932, he has been engaged in spying for Japan and giving secret information about the Council of People’s Commissars of the USSR through an agent known as ‘S’. He used the same agent to pass on information about the situation in counter-revolutionary and nationalist organisations in the national republics.’
Abdulla was lost for words.
‘Do you know whose case file this is?’ Trigulov asked.
Abdulla shook his head.
‘Your friend Cho’lpon’s. Those rogues were the devil’s apprentices when they fabricated cases. Here, read this, and see the state they reduced him to.’ He proffered another document.
Abdulla looked hard at the neat handwriting he had known since his youth:
‘To close this statement I wish to affirm that there have been plenty of mistakes in my life. These have to be struggled against, they are not my mistakes alone, and in general there is no need to search for them in places where they are not to be found. Where they truly exist, they should be easy enough to find; otherwise, all that will be unmasked is the level of deception to which the ‘unmaskers’ have themselves fallen victim; the deception, and the deceit…’
They couldn’t crack Cho’lpon if they died trying, Abdulla thought.
‘Now read this,’ said Trigulov, handing Abdulla yet another sheet of Kokand paper. Again it was the same familiar Arabic calligraphy.
‘A savage wind blew into the harem, a number of golden vases were knocked over, tea cups were smashed… wine was spilt, water containers broke, chalices were cracked… there is as much pleasure in defeat as in victory.
‘Rise up from defeat and head for victory! Our wings have been broken, our light has gone out, our woes are shattered; we walk forwards in the darkness, ignorant of our destination…’
There was more: ‘To forget your bright face, the white-faced beauty has to put on a black veil. The waters of the yellow river swallow the blood of the fish that have been hacked to pieces…
For Abdulla, at least, these words were an epilogue; an epilogue to a novel that had long been finished.
Epilogue
Autumn that year was unusually miserable. On the fourth of October, while it was still dark, Abdulla was awoken by a familiar voice; he opened his eyes and saw Sunnat standing there.
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‘What is it? What’s happened?’ asked Abdulla, who hadn’t yet washed his face: he didn’t wish Sunnat good morning.
‘You’re expected,’ said Sunnat. The boy had gone to the old town, which was why he hadn’t been seen here for some time.
‘Who by?’ asked Abdulla, getting up and throwing his violet Uzbek kaftan over his shoulders.
‘You’ve been summoned,’ said Sunnat, squirming awkwardly. Abdulla swallowed.
‘What’s the time?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure… maybe four or five.’ Sunnat would not meet Abdulla’s eye. Abdulla felt his legs give way.
‘So they sent you to fetch me, did they?’ he whispered.
‘It’s my job, boss,’ the soldier replied, seeming apologetic.
‘And if they tell you to fire, you’ll shoot, will you?’ Abdulla pointed to the rifle slung over Sunnat’s shoulder.
Sunnat said nothing.
‘May I go and get washed?’
‘No, they’re waiting, boss, you need to get a move on.’
‘Aren’t we even allowed to relieve ourselves, then?
‘I don’t know. Let’s be quick about it.’
They filed out into the prison entrance hall. Four soldiers, with nervous dogs, guarded the outer doors to the prison. Now prisoners’ silhouettes could be seen in other cells. The smoking paraffin lamp revealed a magnificent shiny forehead: it could only be Fitrat. Some distance away, a pair of round spectacles seemed to flash in the distance: Cho’lpon? Abdulla thought he saw the hunched figure of G’ozi Yunus, and Anqaboy’s long neck. The dogs were barking, the soldiers holding their leads were yelling, and the Black Marias in the NKVD yard had their engines racing as they warmed up. All these sounds merged into one single roar.
When Uzbeks have their early morning plov the first guests appear and the hosts, taken aback, bustle about not knowing what to serve first: someone runs to fetch water to wash the guests’ hands, someone else to get a towel, another to warn the cook, another person to put the samovar on. But what sort of feast were they preparing now?
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