Читать книгу O’TKAN KUNLAR - Абдулла Кодирий - Страница 14

Communiqués were arriving in Qoqan daily, and fifteen days had passed since soldiers from Qoqan Khanate had laid siege to Tashkent, yet no word arrived on whether Tashkent had been retaken.

The day before, the only news on people’s lips was that “Nur Muhammad Qushbegi has been wounded, fifteen hundred of Qoqan’s soldiers have been killed.” It seemed that Azizbek was not so easily subdued.

Upon hearing of the unfolding tragedy in Tashkent, Otabek became more pensive; his worries about his hometown mingled with his lovesickness, only compounding the pain. He detached himself from the world, not emerging from his room, speaking a word to no one. Day by day, he buried himself deeper and deeper in his living quarters.

We resume our tale with Hasan Ali who, upon taking morning tea, burned to execute the plan he had hatched the day before. Marked changes in Otabek’s demeanor – a sallow face, reclusiveness, deep melancholy, to name a few – alarmed Hasan Ali and compelled him to move from observation to action as an agent on Otabek’s behalf. At any rate, from the moment he had discovered that the reason for Otabek’s mental decline was a hidden love, Hasan Ali had not let him far from his sight. Who is the beloved; whose daughter is she? Is it possible to do something? He turned these dilemmas over in his mind, leaning against the wall and weighing his options. He thought of Otabek’s youth, the fragility of youth, hesitating before speaking to the bek.

“Otabek is young. Young love is flighty like the wings of a bird; here today, gone tomorrow. Perhaps they will forget it today or tomorrow.” This was the shape of his thoughts.

Finally, Otabek’s increasingly obsessive behavior and daily shifts in mood compelled Hasan Ali to abandon his current plan, forcing him to seek out other methods. Although the logical course of action seemed obvious, he nevertheless hesitated, considering a hundred other options, which propagated a thousand more variants, but finding no cure for Otabek’s pain, he finally settled on a course of action, saying to himself, Let’s see whether my steps will be blessed. That very day, after finishing dinner, Hasan Ali went to his room, changed into his evening clothes, and then entered Otabek’s room. Otabek was reading The Baburnama.

So as to not reveal his true intent, Hasan Ali asked Otabek whether he needed anything more from him: “Do you need me, Bek? I want to go to the bathhouse.”

Without taking his eyes from his book, Otabek answered, “I have nothing else for you. You may go.”

Hasan Ali departed just as nightfall descended. A dusky haze hung in the air, enveloping him, as a frigid wind blew from all four directions. Small, random speckles of fresh snow whirled in tight spirals, encouraging people to flee to the warmth of their homes.

Usually the mud reached waist-deep during the day, threatening to suck pedestrians into the warm morass, but now the mass of sludge had frozen under a new blanket of snow, creating a path and easy passage if one made their way through the firm clods of earth that dotted the area.

In contrast to this grim tableau, the “crunch, crunch” of stepping on the patches of snow produced a melodic counterpoint to the horrific mire underfoot. Though stores were closed for the day, teahouses hummed at capacity. Men stoked the flames in the central hearths, kindling fires, while others coerced bachas into lascivious roles, posing for the patrons as their very own khans or khan’s daughter. Among those who favored khans were young mullahnamos, who were scattered among the customers in grandiose turbans, as well as men in their seventies… Long winter nights make for crowded teahouses.

There were customers seeking pleasure by drinking tea tenderly prepared by bachas, all the while reveling in their beauty and praising Allah’s name and omnipotence for creating these delicate chimeras that for just a moment cast aside the ruse to reveal not the face of a woman but that of a young boy.

Hasan Ali arrived at Ziyo Shohichi’s residence, made his way into the yard reserved for the male quarters, and looked toward a closed window of the Mehmon Khana. The light cast through its window into the yard indicated someone was at home. A candle shone through a crack in the door as he approached and announced that a caller had arrived at no ordinary house, but, rather, to a home of heavenly radiance. Hasan Ali straightened his clothing and entered the dwelling. Ziyo Shohichi was praying unattended in the guesthouse. Hasan Ali, relieved to find him alone, waited for him to finish. Ziyo Shohichi performed Namos according to the prescribed movements and rotated left and right on the prayer rug while softly repeating to himself, “Asalam-Ala- Kum.” He raised a hand in blessing as he said the final words of the prayer. After exchanging greetings, Ziyo Shohichi said: “Come in, Father! Are you at peace?”

“Thank you, everything is fine.”

They sat warming themselves at the tancha. An uncomfortable moment of silence hung between them as they struggled to find words. Ziyo Shohichi’s eyes prompted Hasan Ali, as if to ask, What is the purpose of your visit?

“Don’t be alarmed, Bey-aka, I came out of an ‘obligation.’ ”

“Did Otabek send you?”

“No, I came on my own accord, Bey-aka.”

Again, Ziyo Shohichi did not understand. As Otabek’s slave, it was a bit out of place for Hasan Ali to pay a visit to Ziyo Shohichi’s house, not to mention unusual to have intimate discussions with slaves who arrive to discuss matters of “obligation.” Puzzled, he finally asked, “Your obligation?”

Hasan Ali grinned slightly. “If I tell you my ‘obligation,’ you won’t believe me.”

“All right, well?”

“As you know,” continued Hasan Ali, “we came to Margilan about twenty-five days ago, almost one month. Since our arrival, Otabek has been very ill.”

Ziyo Shohichi was surprised.

“Has he been sick? He seemed to be in good health…”

“You are right,” said Hasan Ali. “For many days the nature of his sickness remained obscure even to me.”

“All right, what kind of sickness does he have?” “Love.”

“Love?”

“Love!” repeated Hasan Ali. “During these past twenty-five days, he has lost track of everything. You would not believe it. I worried over him for many nights until I discovered the truth.”

“Do you know who his beloved is?” “I do. It is Qutidor’s daughter.”

“Yes, yes… Indeed, indeed!” Ziyo Shohichi exclaimed, losing his train of thought for a moment. After a little while, he asked, “Do you know this for sure?”

“I know it for certain.” “Did he tell you?”

“He did not actually tell me. He only alluded to it.” “Where did Otabek see this girl?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t know.”

In light of the now obvious reasons for Hasan Ali’s late visit, Ziyo Shohichi asked, “Now what do you propose?”

“The main purpose for my visit was this very issue,” said Hasan Ali. “To see if you could provide any insight or means to resolve this matter… perhaps we can then act accordingly. In short, I put myself in your hands.”

Ziyo Shohichi sat thinking. He said “Interesting” a few times and put some snuff under his tongue. Meanwhile Hasan Ali relayed the events surrounding Otabek’s finding love.

“A very delicate issue,” said Ziyo Shohichi at the conclusion of the account. “If Otabek gets married in Margilan, will Yusufbek Hajji be offended?”

“Long live Bey-aka! Your slave has thought long and hard about this. If he is offended by our actions, how could we avoid it if we were forced by circumstances to act in this manner? But I am also weighing the other side of this issue: Do you think Qutidor will agree to a marriage?”

Ziyo-aka again mulled it over, scratching his head.

“As you have mentioned, this is a very delicate issue,” he said. “I know that Qutidor has a favorable opinion of Otabek, but there is the problem of distance… What if he says, ‘I will not give my daughter to a foreigner’? Who knows…?”

“In my opinion, we, at any rate, should ask for Qutidor’s consent to our proposal,” said Hasan Ali. “If he agrees, all is well. If not, we deliver his decision to Otabek; after that, maybe his heart will cool.”

These words were well received by Ziyo-aka.

“In that case, what do you think, when should we go to Qutidor?”

“It’s up to you.”

Ziyo-aka thought for a while and then a smile came over his face. “We will go now,” he said. “Let us perform the job of matchmaker at least once in our lives.”

When Ziyo-aka rose to get dressed, Hasan Ali asked him, “Do you think it’s all right for me to go with you, or should you go alone?”

Ziyo-aka waved his hand. “There is no harm if you come too,” he said.