Buddha's Return. Vahid Mammadli
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Khadija:– Your friend is stupid. This is the money that I had told you about while you were taking me to isolated cell. See, what he did. I wonder why haven’t you told him anything. – She looked at Safarov reproachingly.
–
Well, would I need him? I told this to chief and he was supposed to let us both of us to carry out the investigation.
Then Safarov muttered something which only he could hear in sotto voice:
–
How could we know ahead, we considered him a dork. We didn’t think that he would find the money so quickly.
Khadija stared furiously at Safarov. Safarov looked hesitantly at Masud. But he could feel what Safarov wanted to say and that was why he waved his head.
Safarov:
–The chief won’t let you get off the hook.
Masud was silent.
–
Why wouldn’t you agree? Hurry, we don’t have much time. The investigator may enter the room at any moment. The witnesses are also in the next room. Hurry up and come to a conclusion.
Masud moved towards the door. Safarov approached the window and said angrily: – Khadija, he is crazy, there is no use.
Khadija tilted forward her large breasts to Masud and said: – Well, take all the money yourself, don’t give me anything. But I feel sorry for the money. Don’t submit the money.
He moved fowards making Khadija to back up and headed towards the kitchen where the investigator was writing a report. But from behind he could clearly hear Khadija and Safarov to say simultaneously:
– Stupid…
***
Masud was happy. Jokes apart, but he succeeded to return their honestly earned monies to a number of honest people.
When captain Ibrahimzade was in high spirits he used to tell some hemistiches of Pobindrant Togor in Russian language. However him being in high spirits was a rare case.
One – is always one, and nothing but the one
But it takes two to create the beginning of the one
That day, towards evening he didn’t know where to go after work. Since he divorced his wife and longed to see his daughter, life lost its meaning. The tables of the tea-house near theatre “Nizami” were outside. Two men were drinking tea sitting under the tree seemed to come from a different reality. It seemed that he was not living in the same city with those guys indolently drinking their teas under the shade and playing backgammon.
He couldn’t find an empty place. He entered a nearly located used books shop. For a long time he didn’t visit bookshops. He had forgotten which book he had read recently. The atmosphere of the bookshops attracted him when he studied in Moscow. What luck that he entered the bookshop, he felt good, he felt young and hale like he was in student years. In fact, he still was “a student”. He always had some small change in his pocket, and always daydreamed. People like him are often called “eternal students.”
The salesman was looking at him attentively, as if he was watching him. He wondered which books he will encounter. Then his glance fell on a poetry book. – Oh, my God! This is an Indian poet – Ashok Vajpeyi. A photo of a young man wearing glasses was pictured at the cover of a pocketbook. Under the photo it was written:
“Ashok Vajpeyi was born in 1941. He is the head of the Academy of “Lalit Kala”, that is to say the Head of Academy of Fine Arts. He was awarded the name of the commander of the French art and literature. Ashok Vajpeyi is one of the talented representatives of the trend of “new poetry”. His poems have been translated into some Asian and European languages”.
He began again to dream about India. Taj-Mahal palace …And his first love.
His heart gave a leap. He looked outside through the window and saw an empty place in the tea-house. He bought Ashok Vajpeyi’s book of poems and rushed out of the shop.
–
Come again! – The salesman said.
He opened a book on the random page and read the first poem he came across:
My words
Touched you
Like a light wind,
Like sun beams,
Without being felt.
The buds of the words
Faded before blossoming
Fine smelling of the faded words
Disappeared all of a sudden
On the branches of tree named you.
What a happy man was Ashok Vajpeyi. What a beautiful poem was he able to write, able to express his feelings… He never wrote even one hemistich during all his life. In fact, he never thought about writing a poem. But now, while sitting under a tree behind theatre “Nizami” and drinking tea, dreaming about India he regretted that he wasn’t able to write. He felt sorry for himself.
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