Читать книгу O’TKAN KUNLAR - Абдулла Кодирий - Страница 11

The morning tea was prepared by Hasan Ali’s own hands. Otabek sat silently while Hasan Ali took note of his mood. The silence between them lingered for some time as they drank their cups of tea. Finally, Hasan Ali surveyed a sullen Otabek several times over. “It seems to me that you have been despondent these past few days.”

Otabek looked at his interlocutor and made a gesture of confirmation. “I don’t know,” he said, stopping for a moment. “You must be feeling my depression as well. I don’t know… Maybe it is Margilan’s weather, perhaps it does not suit my temperament.”

“It is just as you say,” replied Hasan Ali. “The weather of Margilan is horrible. My mood has swung back and forth over the past couple of days. If we don’t leave Margilan soon, I think something bad will happen to me.”

Hasan Ali fixed his eyes on Otabek. If last night’s sleep talking had raised Hasan Ali’s suspicions, then he was certain that mentioning an imminent departure would reveal the truth of the matter.

Otabek sensed a dead-end street. Completely hemmed in, he made no response at first.

“We will return,” he said after thinking for a while. “Then again, our negotiations for the price of our goods have been unsuccessful. Customers have asked for prices that are too low. For that reason, maybe we will stay for several days longer… I don’t know…”

Hasan Ali’s test was a success, and he restrained a laugh when met with Otabek’s evasion. A tense silence rose between them. Hasan Ali hesitated over whether to speak directly to the issue or leave it alone. He considered himself a trusted confidant and a worthy steward of his ward’s secrets, and so he decided at last to speak openly with Otabek.

“My son, Otabek…” “Please, speak freely.” “What do I mean to you?”

Otabek did not understand his intent and looked at Hasan Ali with questioning eyes. “You?” he said, smiling. “Though you are not my father, you are a man who has loved me with nothing but the most dedicated paternal love. You have always been a faithful and kind presence – hence you are my spiritual, moral father.”

“Bravo! My son,” said Hasan Ali, “your answer was as I thought it would be. Now I will ask you this: As a slave who is faithful to you, who is, according to you, your spiritual father, would I wish any harm on my son? What do you say to this?”

Otabek, surprised by this unanticipated question, responded, “Although I do not understand your intentions, Father, I will answer. Until now not only myself, but my entire family has considered you a paternal soul guiding us all, because you wish us only goodness and nothing else.”

Hasan Ali did not change his tack. “Maybe it was this way before, but now, especially you…”

“Especially me? Please be frank.”

“Your trust in me seems exhausted. I would like to know what transgression I have committed against you.”

“You speak most strangely,” said Otabek, alarmed. “What sort of ill omen do you see in me that would make you think I no longer trust you? There is no need for us to bandy about meaningless words. I rely on your tender mentorship and presence. I believe that my secrets will be kept as if in a mother’s womb when I tell them to you. You must believe this, Father.”

“But your tongue and your heart are saying different things, my son.”

Growing impatient with Hasan Ali’s steady rebuttals, Otabek said, “You are mistaken, my father.”

“I am not mistaken. On the contrary, I am confident that I am in the right.”

“Prove that my tongue and heart are at odds.”

Offended, Hasan Ali raised his ponderous brows. “You are keeping some private matter from me.”

“You mean I am hiding a secret from you?”

“Yes, you are, my son,” said Hasan Ali. “If your declarations are sincere, if you believe me trustworthy, please don’t conceal your concerns from me.”

Otabek, deflated, scoffed and shook his head, yet he reverted to his former agitation. “Do you think I have a secret?”

“You do.”

“Be so kind as to tell me about your discovery.”

Hasan Ali raised a cup to his mouth, sipped some tea, and revealed his thoughts. “Since our arrival in Margilan, you have been in a strange mood,” he said. “Though you brush this off as ‘the bad weather of Margilan,’ I have found out otherwise.”

Otabek felt compelled to turn his face away from Hasan Ali, who stared hard at him. It was as if this all-seeing old man could decipher all his private thoughts from only the slightest degrees of change in his facial expressions. Feeling Hasan Ali’s eagle eye upon him, he scratched his forehead. “Fine, continue.”

“If you hide your secrets from me…” Hasan Ali said, fully satisfied now and certain of his discovery. “Very well, maybe you have a right to hide them, but are you going to achieve anything from concealing them in this way?”

Otabek blushed and looked at the ground as if he had committed an egregious sin. As if the embodiment of mercy, Hasan Ali’s sonorous, patrician voice broke into Otabek’s thoughts and took the unbearable weight off his back “Nothing is unbearable, my son,” he said. “True love is a gem of the heart that very few men receive in their lifetime; at the same time, in most cases, it visits many evils upon a man. Even though it is hard to endure, please do not obsess over your love, it is best forgotten. Do not dwell too long…”

At these words, Otabek raised his head and looked into Hasan Ali’s eyes. He took a deep breath and looked at the ground again, as if he wished to follow Hasan Ali’s advice. “It is impossible to forget; I haven’t the willpower.”

A long silence intervened. Both were lost in thought. Hasan Ali had the habit of chewing his beard when he was concentrating on something. Now he was busy twirling his beard as he bit the tips of his moustache.

After much consideration, he resolved to find a way to conclude this lingering issue at a later date. Meanwhile, the feverous tension that wracked Otabek made its return.