Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor. Nikita Dandy

furniture, patched clothing, on the bodies of those who lived here, and it seemed, even on their thoughts… And the palaces, in turn, surrounded miserable hovels where five or six people lived in each room, where children, giggling during morning play, shared experiences glimpsed and overheard from parents and older siblings. These homes supplied beautiful bodies of young prostitutes to the palaces and thieves and robbers to prisons, for minds corrupted from childhood were difficult to steer toward good deeds, and the world of thieves, like the world of luxury, was ensnaring. Between the two criminal poles lay the world of toil, the world of hardships and concerns, occasional bright joys, unswerving and mercenary love, friendship and betrayal, business and careers, kindness and envy, hatred and cruelty, loyalty, forgiveness, and revenge. Men went to work in the morning, factories and workshops awaited them, women headed to the market, thin dark-spotted streams of mothers and wives, sisters and brides, carrying fresh greens and fruits, vegetables and dairy products in huge baskets. Poachers entered the yards offering black caviar and red fish, pheasants and small birds, all at such affordable prices that people forced to economize snatched up all the goods brought in within five minutes, though they knew perfectly well they were buying stolen goods. And this duality lay over everything: parents lied to children, children lied to parents, the government to the people, the people to the government, and truth became entangled in this labyrinth of lies and deceit, despairing to see the light of truth. The natural law of survival and selection cast aside the weak, the naive, those suffering, while the kind and compassionate received evil or mockery at best for their kindness, cruelty, using them mercilessly for their own purposes and discarding them like unwanted junk: the peel of a peeled orange, a broken coarse porcelain plate smashed into small pieces… But if an antique porcelain plate broke, it was carefully glued back together and prominently displayed, boasting its imperial crest, as though joining the royal family, feeling exceptional… This feeling was indomitable once it appeared: infected by it, one sought others similarly afflicted… just as addicts recognize each other by the gleam in their eyes, by a particular, uniquely theirs gaze, by chapped lips. The union of the exceptional was ruthless in its invulnerability, and only a similar union of the exceptional could destroy it. The city, like Chronos, devoured its children, yet no Zeus had yet arisen to cast it into Tartarus.

      "Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep…"

      From the tambour, through the slightly ajar door, a small, chubby man watched with interest as Aman-Jalil occupied the empty reception area. With the second door closed, the tambour created a semi-darkness from which one could easily observe all those waiting for their appointment while remaining invisible themselves… Waiting and catching up, waiting and catching up! This was the hardest part of life, where everyone was tested, and few mastered the art… Aman-Jalil mastered it.

      He calmly watched a fly buzz annoyingly over his head, but his hands, lying undisturbed on his knees, tightly gripped the half-stretched rubber band with his fingers. Similarly, from the tambour, the provincial governor Ahmed calmly observed: "how old is he? Twenty-five? Or older? Or younger? I must see for myself… why is he so carefully examining the reception area?"

      The fly darted several times towards Aman-Jalil's prominent nose, but the young man remained unperturbed, not flinching. However, a slight exhale caught the fly off guard, causing it to hesitate and ultimately land on the sweaty, faintly fragrant nose, which smelled slightly of pleasant rot, choosing it as a suitable spot for reflection on the nearby wall.

      Aman-Jalil turned just a few degrees so carefully and flexibly that the fly did not notice his movement, and by the time it did, it was too late to escape; a precise strike flattened its head against the wall. The fly twitched a few times and fell to the floor, behind the bench.

      – "Did you hit it?" asked the provincial governor with interest through the crack in the door.

      – "In the head!" replied Aman-Jalil through the crack. "And who are you: a genie or a gnome?"

      – "I am the one whom everyone listens to in semi-dark silence… Do you know such a person?"

      – "No, we didn't cover that…"

      – "We did, you just didn't learn the verses well…"

      Aman-Jalil remembered reading in class:

      – "I remember a wonderful moment, Before me you appeared, Like a genius of pure beauty, Like a fleeting vision…"

      – "On the contrary only," noted the teacher aloud, though he intended to say it to himself.

      Immediately, Aman-Jalil started again:

      – "I remember a wonderful moment, Before you I appeared, Like a fleeting vision…"

      And he stumbled, feeling he had made a mistake. Kasim, the know-it-all, sitting in the front row, calmly finished for Aman-Jalil:

      – "With a humped nose and a pig…"

      The classroom buzzed. Suddenly, Aman-Jalil wished intensely that Kasym would turn into a fly for just a minute…

      And Kasym did become a fly, but no matter how much Aman-Jalil swatted at him with the rubber band, it bounced off Kasym as if from Milanese armor. Aman-Jalil futilely chased after Kasym. When he grew tired of the pursuit, Kasym fluttered out the window, waving a goodbye with his tiny paw at Aman-Jalil… Once again, the class erupted in uproarious laughter at the failure…

      The teacher restored order with a wave of his hand:

      – I can confidently predict one thing for you: you will never be a poet; you have absolutely no feel for poetry… Remember when you once read: "…and her eyes clicked shut, and she snapped her fingers"…

      – "My grandmother used to curse: 'You won't study, you'll either become a dervish or a poet, or some kind of bandit,'" Aman-Jalil thought. "They're all pursued, laughed at, mocked, even killed… If I ever need it, Kasym will write for me"…

      Ahmed swung open the reception door wide. Seeing the deputy, Aman-Jalil straightened up in a "stand at attention" posture and "eyed the boss."

      – Come in! – commanded Ahmed.

      Aman-Jalil, marching as if on parade, entered the office and froze. Ahmed carefully closed the door behind him, looked satisfied at the stunned Aman-Jalil, and sat down at the desk.

      The beauty and luxury of the office overwhelmed Aman-Jalil: black and red wood, handwoven carpets, Anatolian, walls adorned with paintings in gilded frames, gold and silver statuettes, ashtrays, inkwells… everything gleamed, sparkled… mesmerized.

      – Come here!…

      Aman-Jalil took two steps and froze again out of deference.

      – You may sit down!…

      Aman-Jalil timidly perched on the edge of the chair and glanced at Ahmed. Ahmed was barely visible behind the desk, but his bulging eyes inspired fear.

      – Listen!…

      – I am all ears, teacher!

      – Who are you?…

      – Your servant, teacher!…

      – Are you already a member of our party?…

      – Disciple!…

      – Who recommended you, besides Ismail Pasha?

      – My uncle, Gyaurov…

      – Not our man… Do you know anything about him?… Something…

      – You always know everything about relatives, or almost everything… What do you want to know?

      – After… Do you want to become my man?

      – I dream of it!

      – And