Читать книгу O’TKAN KUNLAR - Абдулла Кодирий - Страница 19

“Today is the seventh day since their wedding. Otabek married Qutidor’s daughter.”

Hamidboi heard the news on his return from Qoqan. While contemplating the various terrible means and methods of revenge that gave rise to a sinister demeanor worthy of his mood, the phrase “he married Qutidor’s daughter” echoed in his ears.

His arrival from Qoqan meant a great calamity for his two wives, both of whom were beaten for no apparent reason. They avoided him out of fear for their well-being. Understandably, both kundosh dreaded setting foot in the same room with him, loathing his awful visage. Hiding in the dark corners of the yard, disgusted by his behavior, the two women were united in wishing for his death. “If he had died in Qoqan and his corpse had been eaten by dogs, he would not have our pity,” they whispered.

Deep in thought, he considered his next step. In that moment a predatory brutality could be discerned in him. His posture showed that he would soon prey upon an innocent. He contemplated evil, seeking the right course of action to accomplish his wicked designs. A malignant sneer then appeared. Snapping his fingers, having finally made a decision, Hamid leaped up, snatching his dirty turban from a peg on the wall, and left the room. Giving some instructions to the foreman and workers in his outer yard, he walked through the great gate and onto the street. Clumsily winding his turban around his head while walking, he struggled to get the turban just right as he traversed the narrow streets. He finally made it to the western side of the city – to the neighborhood of beks.

At the edge of the beks’ district, located near the great south gate, two soldiers with swords and rifles were talking to each other. An individual already familiar to us approached them and asked, “Is the bek at home?”

Since he was rudely intruding upon their conversation, one of the men gave him a hostile glare. The second one pointed his rifle at a house, answering, “Go!”

He passed through the gate into an enormous yard where approximately fifteen armed men were sitting in a circle, heating themselves at a fire that was devouring a tree stump. He walked toward the guard standing at attention in front of the main doors of the house. He requested an audience with the qorboshi, asking for permission to enter the veranda. He was led in by the sergeant at arms.

The qorboshi, a man between forty and fifty years of age, had a blue turban wrapped around his head, a heavy O’ratepa robe bound with a silver belt around his waist, and a silver sword in a sheath on his knees. His naturally dark complexion was yellowed by years of using koknar or tiryak. He sat, carefully reading an order.

The qorboshi absentmindedly acknowledged the visitor’s greeting and in a colorless voice, asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Taksir, I have a complaint to register.”

The sergeant at arms left the visitor and went to stand alone near the door, his fist clenched at his chest out of respect.

“What kind of complaint do you have?” “Your Honor, if you would permit me to sit?” “Very well, sit.”

The applicant moved forward, half-bowed, and kneeled on the faded, tattered carpet in front of the qorboshi. Putting the folded order in his robe, the qorboshi looked at the visitor with disdain.

“Where are you from?”

“Taksir, I am from here – from Margilan.” “What is your name?”

“Taksir, Hamidboi.” “What is your profession?”

“I am a master weaver,” he said, attempting to be vague. “Good enough. Tell me your complaint.”

Affecting a dramatic voice, Hamid delivered his complaint. “To our honored father-in-law of the khan, Shah-an-Shah, even under the just rule of Musulmanqul Bahadur. The Qora Chopan do not wish to lay down their arms quietly. The people of Tashkent remain in opposition to his rule, planning insurrection against our elder brothers the Qipchaqs. They desire self-rule and are condemning the country to anarchy. Until now we thought that these rebels were led only by Azizbek and his chief adviser, Yusufbek Hajji, in Tashkent. But their seeds of rebellion have spread into Margilan as well.”

The qorboshi’s eyes widened. “What are you saying? Who are the rebels in Margilan?”

“One of them is the son of Yusufbek Hajji, an agitator from Tashkent by the name of Otabek who is now staying in Margilan. The second is his coconspirator and father-in-law, Mirza Karim Qutidor.”

“Are they indeed?”

“It is so, Your Honor.”

“Where did you learn this information?”

“Not long ago, I was at one of their meetings, Your Honor.” “All right, all right, what sort of meeting?”

“Many things were said at the rendezvous, Taksir,” said Hamid. “Otabek, who was the head of the gathering, told us of the Qipchaqs’ oppression and hegemony, and how under the mandate of seizing power from the Qipchaqs in Tashkent, Azizbek and his father started an underground movement. He told us that Margilan must also follow their path, and participants at the meeting, especially Mirza Karim, supported this plan. If we do not prevent this plot, disaster looms for the future of our lands and governance, Taksir.”

“In whose house did the meeting take place?”

This was an unexpected question. It made him lose his composure. If he named the meeting place, his brother-in-law and cousin Rahmat would also be incriminated and he would have cut off his feet with his own ax. He was confused, and he began to stall. His confusion delayed his response, which came at last: “I don’t remember the place of the meeting, Your Honor.”

To this suspected dissembling, the qorboshi shouted angrily: “Don’t remember?”

Hamid became more flustered and said in a weak voice, “Even if I could remember it, I can’t tell you the location.”

“Ah, you can’t tell me the location?” the qorboshi said, laughing angrily at him. “If you do not tell me immediately, you will be thrown into the pit reserved for traitors.”

“I am sorry. Spare me, Taksir.”

The qorboshi growled like an animal. “No excuses!”

Hamid reverted to his last resort; he started to dig in his pocket and, with great difficulty, took out his purse. Taking out about ten gold coins without counting them, he handed them to the qorboshi.

“Taksir, I have a small gift for you.”

The moment Hamid began rummaging through his pocket, a calmness came over the qorboshi. Taking the gold coins and placing them in his pockets, his voice returned to its former stateliness, and his words were suddenly polite.

“So, as you say, it was in a hidden location, Hamidboi.” “Taksir…”

“So, they planned insurrection as well?”

“Taksir… If we do not act decisively, we risk utter destruction.” “Of course we are going to punish these insurgents… I will now go to the beks… and give a report. We will catch these cowardly traitors before this evening is over,” said the Qorboshi. Hamid’s countenance eased. As the qorboshi really began listening to him, the joy of revenge and the hope for resultant paradise played in Hamid’s eyes. How easily the qorboshi had swallowed his bait.

Taking from the shelf a reed pen and an inkwell, the qorboshi placed them in front of Hamidboi. Preparing to write, he asked, “Could you tell me in full, Hamidboi, who were the conspirators?”

“One of them was the son of Yusufbek Hajji from Tashkent, Otabek.”

“Yes, yes! So you’ve said, the son of Yusufbek Hajji. So those cowards are going to sink Margilan into a sea of blood? And the second?”

“Mirza Karim from Margilan, who recently married his daughter to Otabek.”

“A bastard will find another bastard, even in the dark… And the third?”

“Hasan Ali, the slave of Otabek.” “The fourth?”

Thinking for some time, Hamid answered, “I do not know whether he was in Margilan or not: Akram Hajji from Andijon.”

The qorboshi wrote.

“The size of the conspiracy is considerable. Who else?” “Nobody else, Taksir,” said Hamid, adding, “if Otabek and Mirza Karim are caught, the head of the snake will be crushed. As for the others, they are not major conspirators, Your Honor.”

Finishing his report, the qorboshi put the document in his robe. “Now this will be settled. Tomorrow morning you will hear of the scandal.” Standing up from his place, Hamid bowed, thanked the qorboshi, and took his leave.