«What height ... Will I reach the top? And when will this awful painful night end?... Black, lofty rugged cliffs, darkness and hopeless   loneliness... How did I lend in this sullen world?..»

The wretched nag under him trembles, scarcely dragging its legs. Fear seemed to overwhelm the animal too.  And the mountains, proud and severe are moving further and further, they lure him and frighten... He hurries the horse... How long must he trudge?.. The rock blocks are becoming steeper and more inapproachable... But what is that? The ground under him has split apart into ultimate dark abyss, and being horror-struck, he closes his eyes. The sounds are dying away, the world is fading and breath of death is wrapping him around... Is that the end?..

-        Death?.. I’m dying!.. O-oh! – He cried out, twitched and suddenly somewhat sullenly, as if from afar, he heard the familiar knock to the door. Following it, throwing away the nightmare, he heard the scream of Zhamilya. Evil, strident wife’s voice was coming to him as a rescue. The door slapped again. He breathed heavily and opened his eyes.

-     Boo-o, damn it! You want to be my death!  - His voice was getting stronger.

Loneliness disappeared, unwanted black death went away, the mountains were moving further and dissolving far off... He was on the ground, in his house, in his bed.

-     Is that you, Zhamilya? Uff...

-     What’s wrong with you? – anxious wife approached the bed. – Why are you sighing so? Are you sick?..

Khasen answered nothing. He was lying, looking around absently and feverishly, slowly coming to himself. Everything around was as usual: habitual morning mess in the room, Zhamilya’s bad mood, which was the result of her continuous exhausting quarrels with the household; the door slapping. «If I now died unnoticed and resurrected, she would meet me just the same», - he thought wearily, looking into wife’s face. Here it is – his life, standing in front of him.

He can stretch his hand and touch it, caress tenderly or pinch, say something good or raise the voice, - nothing would change. He suddenly again felt the dull annoyance, which accompanied him lately.

-         Will you tell me at last what’s wrong with you? – Zhamilya’s voice was becoming softer and smoother, - he knew it would be like that. – I think it’s because of yesterday’s wassail. Do you have fever? Shall I bring the thermometer? Did you drink a lot yesterday?..

-    I am not sick.

-         Dear, what is it with you?

-         I had a dream... – Khasen began. He stretched to caress wife, but his hand touched the bony hip of Zhamilya and helplessly fell onto the blanket.

The woman’s face quailed and immediately became grey.

-         Oh, God! You become upset because of some dream... – Her voice trembled and she cried out again: - Do you know that your sister-in-law has pushed a big plate from the cooking oven and broken it into pieces? Do you hear me? She has broken the plate!

-    What plate? – Khasen asked, thinking about quite different.

-         The one I bought on the lower market. I’ve been dreaming of such plate for so long, and there you have... Damn them...

-         Stop it, it’s enough! – Khasen lowly interrupted her. – What time is it now?

-         Seven o’clock, - Zhamilya answered angrily.

-     It turns out too early. But you won’t fall sleep anymore now... Zhamilya melted somehow and sat on the edge of his bed. Khasen looked at wife sideways without lifting his head. She looked tired and drawn; early wrinkles on a high-cheekbone dark face were shown through even more sharply. Her head was wrapped with inevitable old grey shawl, which she wore at home. Their eyes met and Zhamilya, as if reeled, slightly reached forward him and awkwardly, pathetically smiled with lips only. Gloomy Khasen turned to the wall: there is no-one that can be as ugly as she is. Zhamilya sharply jumped up from bed and ran out of the room. The door slamming sounded as if fire shot.

From the hallway there a heart-rending old-aged cough has been heard. Then there followed harsh and frequent, like falls of hammer, steps and fearful voices came: a man was murmuring with dim hoarse bass, a woman was replying him in a whisper. «Of course them», - Khasen thought, listening to the voices of elder brother and sister-in-law, who recently moved to his place from aul[1]. He listened and his thoughts went far, into the past... Khasen remembered the long-since-vanished eighteenth year, the white guards. At that time he was a chairman of regional committee, but later he fell ill and moved to motherland, into steppe, to these old people. He had been ill for a long time. And when he got well, Zhamilya, whom he married just a year ago, made a huge toj[2] and bajga[3]. Two years later – a toj again, this time on the occasion of his release from soviet prison. Zhamilya kept her promise – to bestow everyone if her husband come back unharmed: she ordered to stab the sheep, called women and gave out meat to them... Even if willing greatly Khasen could not remember any occasion, when Zhamilya begrudged something for him. Every summer he used to come home and wife did not skimp the treating: thirty and even forty lambs were stabbed. Never had she forgotten to make a valuable present for her husband. For the first time she presented him a chestnut stepping horse with blaze, later – a cream-colored one and after that – a great white-mained quarter horse... Oh yes-s... So, she must have really loved him... It was worth to give dower of thirty sheep and ten cattle for her, a girl from a rich family. Yes, it was worth it... Everything had been regained.

However, his positions as investigator and later – judge were a good bit exploited by the top men of her family, especially at the time of elections to Volost[4] executive committee and cooperative administration. Relative bonds in steppe are strong and Zhamilya knew how to influence Khasen. How much it was railroaded at her family’s instigation! Mere accusations and instruction, written by him to aul authority were worth something! How he together with wife attacked and persecuted the poor, who opposed her rich relatives! How many had been convicted, how many had been expelled from the party! Yes-s-s... Soviets in steppe were at that time softer than wax. One knew then how to press the poor... And everything stopped at Zhamilya, everything went according to her word and wish...

- Are you getting up? Tea is ready, but there is little bread, - Zhamilya murmured petulantly appearing at the doorway.

Khasen silently stood up, dressed and entered the hallway, where two of his brothers and sister-in-law lived. The room opposite was rented by a Russian family. In no way could Khasen get used to the neighbors and was always angry when they appeared in the doorway. At that time they seemed to be at home: there could be heard still voices from their room and sometimes laughter.

Without delay and turning around, Khasen quickly went outside.

Spring this year did not treat people with fine days, but that day the morning turned out to be bright and sparkling. Mountains were hulking up afar. Khasen looked at the Great peak of Almaty... There were no mountains with heaven-high tops, everlastingly wrapped with clouds on the land where Khasen was born and grew up. In ultimate wide steppe only seldom one could meet flat hills, and its land was simple, open and plain to a man. Being unable to shift his eyes, Khasen was looking at the mountains. They were beautiful, but that beauty didn’t move him. Over the mountains there were floating black thunder clouds. Descending to the green belt of firs and pines, they became thin, pulled apart and dissolved in huge billows of bat. In gaps between continuously moving and now grey fog patches there, in endless chain, were twinkling shining snowy tops, dark cliffs, bright-green meadows and forests. In a tight surrounding of rocky piles there severely uplifted the peak, which seemed to be lonely because of its height. Its chest was embraced by clouds and at the very top there sparkled snow, like embroidered with silver uzbek tiubetejka[5]. Being of right shape, with three even edge lines, it reminded a pyramid, created with hands of the ancients. It seemed like a huge monument to pyramids, once put together by people from thousands of pyramids into one and left for the descendants... The peak reminded Khasen his nightmare, and to his tired look the peak appeared to move itself and enter the foamy white sea of clouds and fog... Khasen felt himself endlessly tiny in front of that silent pile, and suddenly there emerged ludicrous fear that the mountain could squash him with its overwhelming heaviness. For a moment he even imagined the peak approaching and hanging over him...

He knew where he had all that from: heavy, haunting thoughts, feeling of desolation, as well as dull annoyance.

Who is he in the new life that despite his will firm and steadily enters all houses? The victory of socialism becomes an incontestable fact. It’s impossible to turn back on it or leave, since it’s everywhere, in everything surrounding Khasen. He is just like that peak – high, indestructible. And just as unapproachable, because he, Khasen, is not among its founders and creators. Could he have been among them?  Who will prompt him – need he be among them?.. And the past?..

Zhamilya met Khasen in the hallway. She was keeping pieces of broken plate in her hands. Wife’s face was burning with rage.

- Do you see? – She stretched the pieces to him.

«She managed to have a scrap once again», - Khasen thought discontentedly.

-    Why you are not saying something? – wife cried out. – This is what remained from the plate! She dropped it from the cooking oven...

Khasen despisingly made a wry mouth. «The cooking oven», - he mocked her silently. – Some scientist here. She murders her native language which has neither letter «kh» nor «f». After all, in youth she learnt «Mukhammadija»[6] и «Sybatylgazin»[7].At that time, I remember, in one of her sweet letters she even undersigned in Arabic: «Bente Fazyl» - Fazyl’s daughter. But, as it is seen, no use of that erudition...

-      She has dropped it from the cooking oven, - Zhamilya repeated.

-      Leave me alone, you with your cooking oven! – He turned back from wife and saw his brother and sister-in-law, sitting quiet near the wall. Having met his angry look, they started blinking, like naughty children, and guiltily turned their eyes.

Khasen burst into flame and rushed into the guest room passing them.

-    No rest for me! – he dropped them through the clenched teeth  on the way, booted leather galoshes of his sister-in-law, that happened to be under his feet and, pushing the door with his shoulder, disappeared in his room. 

Galoshes flew off to the side and bumped into a low iron bed, where Khasen’s younger brother, Salim, was lying. The latter sat up disgruntled.

-    What a bally nuisance! – he cried out, his black eyebrows gathering and young rosy face darkening. With clear, sparkling after strong dream eyes he looked reproachfully at younger sister-in-law - Zhamilya, what is wrong with you, after all? Shame on you!..

Salim’s meddling, apparently cheered the older brother up – a thin unhealthy old man with poor white small beard.

-    It’s everything because of you, - he angrily rebuked wife. – Are you blind or what? Were you haunted by enemy? To drop on the floor a plate of the size of a tunduk! How can anyone be calm?

-     All right, calm down everyone, - Salim said. He jumped out of bed and began to dress quickly.  – It’s just a plate, and that’s it. A big deal...

-     Do you understand what a plate was that? – Zhamilya jumped.

-     As for me, it could be even gold...

-     I’d been chasing it the whole winter on the lower market.

-     So what? – Salim smiled. – It’s time to quiet down already.

A tall Russian woman of thirty, with open friendly face came out of the next room. Her big blue eyes radiated kindness. Amidst her short hair greyness can be seen.

-     What a pity, - she aggrieved, seeing the pieces in Zhamilya’s hands, which the latter still couldn’t leave. – The plate indeed was beautiful. But, Zhamilya, it can happen with everybody, - she began to comfort the neighbor. –I have also broken so much crockery. But after all, crockery is made to be broken. Really, it happened accidentally.

-     You will never find such a plate!

-     Oh come on, Zhamilya. Recently I saw just the same in a shop.

-     Leave her, Anna Ivanovna. A day never passes without her quarreling with someone, - Salim noticed.

Zhamilya couldn’t stick it any longer and threw the pieces onto the floor.

-     Just look at that, he rebukes me! Do you see that?

-     Salim, shame on you! She is older than you. - Anna Ivanovna reproachfully shook her head. Seeing that everyone calmed down a bit, she hurried to change the subject. – Better tell me – have you read my book?

-     Yes, I have. An interesting book, Anna Ivanovna.

-     Yes, the childhood was greatly described by Gorki. You, as a student, should read as much as possible.

-      Are you going to give me something more?

-      Of course, Salim. Well, I have to go for work.

Khasen, passing by, heard the conversation of brother and the neighbor and slowed down his steps.

 «Oh, these windbags! – he thought with irritation. – You know such people... They admire and are passionate about someone’s tales and paper amenities. And they find the time for such nonsense... As for me, books aside. I have enough of the book of life. It’s much complicated. If only I could find meat today, for example.  It would be much useful than reading matter...»

 

 

 

 

 

 

To get to the office where Khasen worked one should go up along the straight wide road, bowery with young birches. He was late that day, but for some reason he was walking slowly, lazily dragging his feet like an old jaded horse.

He was passed by hurrying for work men and women; the crowd was spreading to establishments. Ahead, as if watching after him a black peak was lifting up. Khasen tried not to look at it.

Having passed two blocks he saw Kasymkan in front of him, passing the street.

-     Hey, wait! – Khasen called him out.

Kasymkan looked around to the voice. It was a tall, narrow-shouldered middle-aged man with long meager face.

-     Quicken your pace, - he hurried the fellow. –Why are you hardly lingering?

-     The legs won’t go, - Khasen replied. He came up and shook Kasymkan’s hand. – We have no meat.

-     Who would have thought that a day would come leaving Zhamilya without meat! – he squeakily broke up.

-     Stop laughing, I feel completely hollow inside. Better tell me: can you get meat anywhere? If you do, I will take a liter (of vodka).

Kasymkan broke with laughter again:

-      You say... I myself haven’t seen meat for a weak already. What’s with allowance? – He got serious.

-      There’s nothing to talk about allowance, - Khasen gave a wave of the hand. – Is it possible to survive with allowance? Eh, I wish I could eat mutton to repletion and fresh sausage from horse meat...

-       We will figure something out. Do you remember the last time?

-      Do you think we will make it? - Khasen looked at his fellow with hope. – Damn spring: it’s always hard with meat in spring, come hell or high water...

-      Yes, as they say, - it’s time to tighten the bell. By the way, Khasen, can you get shoes for my wife? And remnant for a summer dress would be good as well.

-      Kasymkan, I’m looking for it myself. I repeatedly hinted those, whom I fixed up for a job, but still uselessly.

Kasymkan, knowing Khasen’s character well, looked at him suspiciously.

-      I’m saying seriously, Khasen.

-      I’m also for serious.

-      As they say, tit for tat, Khasen, - and slapping his fellow on the back, Kasymkan continued in half-joking and half-serious way: - You’d pay for the yellow boots I got you in winter... I fought with local committee and got the resolution from very Nejman for your sake. And you…

-      I will pay you back, have no fear. The debt hangs on me with the help of hairy lasso, and you won’t have to say that it will decay on my neck, - Khasen winded in foxy pace.

-      Is that all you can tell me?

-      Listen, Kasymkan, - Khasen hastily continued. – Don’t disturb me uselessly. Let’s better think how to turn Salmenov flank.

-      Why?

-      Knitted goods are said to be brought to Kazkrajsoyuz[8].

-      This is no deal. He takes care only of himself, - Kasymkan replied with artificial indifference, though it was obvious that he clearly was interested in the news.

-      Wife said that he allegedly got clothing only in pairs. Men’s clothing certainly goes in pair with a women’s one and surely in the same color.

-      Damn it! And I heard he had three brand new suits in the wardrobe, with etiquettes even.

-      See? – Khasen completely fell into confusion. Their thoughts of shoes and meat when others are that rich seemed so pitiful and cheapish. – All right, leave that. What about our business?

Kasymkan pondered a bit and answered lowering his voice:

-    There is hope for improvement but who knows?.. It’s difficult nowadays, you know that...

No one dared to speak about the most sacred of their own.

-      Perhaps our business will also go up, - Khasen sighed. – People did recover even after «Aktaban shuburundy»[9].

-      They are said not to spare their forces, - that’s what I understood. But the battle comes difficult forth, - Kasymkan in a low voice informed and suddenly broke loudly with laughter: - And we here discuss meat... Ha-ha-ha!..

When meeting Kasymkan, Khasen seemed to recognize himself as if seeing his refection in the mirror. And now, staring at  Kasymkan‘s awkward form, he felt the bitterness rising in the soul because that one was laughing not only at himself but also at him, Khasen and their situation and hopes, unlikely ever to come true... Earlier there was an ultimate abyss, they belonged to two poles of life and were endlessly far from each other in everything. But now, in hard for both of them times they couldn’t do without each other.

-    We’re laughing... - Khasen grinned ghastly. – What’s happening to us? We should somehow get closer and join. - Khasen by chance told about thing that long ago had happened in spite of their will. 

They looked at each other and nervously, loudly burst into laughter. Laughter stopped as suddenly as it started. Kasymkan firmly shook Khasen’s hand and humping his back straddled away. Khasen stumbled to his office.

Most of clerks were already at their places. Khasen was slowly going along the endlessly long corridor, then through spacious common room, greeting the clerks.

-     Ah, Ivan Semyonovich, greetings! Great, Nikolai Petrovich! Hello, Mark Aronovich! – He was bowing left and right, gently holding the hat and beaming. – Good morning, Zinaida Nikolayevna!..

Having noticed that office administrator had already come, Khasen changed immediately: his slow virtue that accompanied him to his place was gone in a split second. He frowned, solicitously opened the case, took out a pile of papers written in full and having placed it on the table he headed to Zharasbeyev’s office.

Administrator seemed to be particularly strapped and businesslike today. Wearing pince-nez that made him look unusually serious and emphasized the meagerness of his face he sat straight, with tights lips and attentively listened to filing clerk. Khasen thought with dislike that administrator looked then like a tightly drawn with a saddle strap horse, all nerves of which were gathered into a bundle before the race. Such will go far...

«He wants to show that even without education he’s already a   paraprofessional and acquired «american» businesslike person», - Khasen thought approaching the table with petty steps. A mere smile flashed on his lips.

The filing clerk was lively reporting:

-     Here is the draft decree of Council of People's Commissars on new construction... This is an urgent telegram from Eastern Kazakhstan region... you should reply as soon as possible. The decision of board meeting, -look through and sign. We will send it to regions...

A sad, bold accountant standing right there, having waited for a pause boringly started his own business:

-       Comrade Zharasbeyev! I should urgently be present at the meeting in the bank.

-       Concerning what issue is the meeting held? - Zharasbeyev lifted his head from the papers impressively flashing with        pince-nez glasses.

Khasen caught his eye and greeted him.

-     Subsequent discussion of construction budget, - accountant replied. – I should present substantiation.

-         Well go faster! Defend our position and watch for the budget not to be cut...

Khasen sat at the edge of the table. He had already got used to the new administration. As personnel department administrator he tried as often as possible to communicate with him, not losing an opportunity to consult, talk about work and show his zeal. Trust administrator was a communicative and polite person and Khasen being by no means embarrassed put in a word and began inserting his remarks.

-      Yes, yes, of course... of course... correct, that’s that same case, I remember... – He even brought the filing clerk down a peg several times, placing him in an awkward situation with hidden joy.

Zharasbeyev seemed not to pay attention to that, although it was clear to everyone that Khasen tried by hook or crook to create impression of him as of indispensable specialist, who not only knew the trust from inside but also the inside of regions and districts. And Zharasbeyev before working in cattle-breeding trust used to occupy prominent positions but had no special knowledge required for a new job. No wonder Khasen seemed to be an indispensable assistant initially. They talked for a long time and Khasen described to a new administrator exceptional complexity of trust activity, unintentionally named «trickster-specialists», which should be avoided. They caught hold there and cared only of their apartments and wages and later when they stabilized their position and came up with cash, they would move to other quieter warm places. He, Khasen, knows them very well... All in all, it turned out that only one Khasen could be trusted. However, lately for some reason they spoke more rarely and that seriously disturbed the personnel department administrator.

Zharasbeyev briefly instructed the filing clerk and dismissed him.

-     Well, what are you going to say? – he finally asked Khasen.

-     Here is the statement of three Kazakhs. We all speaking about localization policy but in Karaganda, Aktobe and Eastern Kazakhstan regions there are no Kazakh specialists in our system. I think that these comrades should be sent to supervise personnel and act through them already. You know there are bureaucrats at places and do nothing. If we don’t take resolute steps concerning the intensive localization policy...

-     Do you know those people well?  - Zharasbeyev interrupted him.

-     Very well. That is why I recommend them.

-     Are they specialists?

-     They used to work in cooperation on economic positions.

-     And what about knowledge?

-     Which knowledge?

-     What education do they have? Do they have experience in working with many people?

-     Oh, don’t you worry about that. They are elderly people, so there’s nothing to be afraid of. Zharasbeyev gave a look at Khasen’s eyes.

-     Why you always recommend the elderly?

-     Young people don’t stay long here, - Khasen replied fast. – Today you will employ them and tomorrow they will leave either for study or find easier work.

The administrator laughed stiffly:

-        And I think you simply are not looking for vigorous young Kazakh specialists.

-     Oh, don’t say that, comrade Zharasbeyev!

-      Well why? Among those whom you employ one cannot find such.

-      You say no? - Khasen was at a loss. – After all, you might be right...

-       If you want I can enumerate the names of engineers who might have been useful for us.

-    But they won’t be fit for us.

-      And what about those studying at specialized education institutions? Is your department interested in them?

-      Where should we find them, comrade Zharasbeyev? – Khasen raised the eyebrows. Tiny beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

-      What about higher education institutions of Moscow, Leningrad, Kazan? Do you know how many Kazakhs complete their studies this year? And in a year, or two years?

-    I had them on my mind but...

-     Then tell me: how many students do we pay scholarships to? – Zharasbeyev stopped him.

-    I don’t know exactly...

-     I think you haven’t thought over the issue of specialists’ training and recruitment consequently; any intensive localization policy is out of the question.

Khasen crumpled from exact and strong arguments of the administrator. It was hard to object him, especially when Zharasbeyev didn’t give time to concentrate.

-     So, comrade personnel department administrator, we provide ten Kazakh students with scholarship. Yesterday I signed the order on appropriation of scholarship to four more students.

- Very well... But there is so much to study for them, - Khasen found what to say, - and I’m talking about current localization policy...

-      We have discussed this issue with you several times already. You know the instructions of regional committee and government, don’t you?

-      Yes, yes...  That’s the thing, the deadline is coming.

-      Let us talk in specific. What was the percentage of Kazakh specialists against the total amount of employees this year?

Khasen embarrassedly scratched the forehead.

-      In percentage... I cannot tell exactly.

-      Al right, how many Kazakhs have you employed?

-      About ten already.

-      And that is for one hundred and fifty employees! And who are they? Of course, the delivery man, cleaning woman and copyists, employed upon my insistence.

-      Yes. And they as well... They also are.

-      No, comrade! –brazen tones appeared in Zharasbeyev’s voice. – This won’t do. You are the one who most of all blows about bureaucracy and you yourself do not deal with it. You slack your work... I give you ten-day’s term to bring the percentage of Kazakhs in our establishment till thirty.

-      But we need only skilled specialists! 

-      Are you or me here engineers? 

-      But what should I do when a man possesses no knowledge? - Khasen did not give up. – Our work is not an easy one and you know that.

-      You take into account only our generation, but there is also youth – strong, vigorous and conscious. Five-year plans would be an empty phrase if we didn’t have such cultural concentration. If you are capable of something – recruit and train young workers, - Zharasbeyev replied and picked up the telephone: - Give substation, please!

-    And what should I do with these comrades? – Khasen wondered keeping silent for a while.

-    Send them to me.

Khasen stood up and slowly headed to the exit. At the door he gave way, turned and dropped aggrievedly:

-    Of course, you blame only me for all that.

-    We are not looking for the guilty ones here, - Zharasbeyev objected. – It goes about a responsible case and it is its outcome that is important. Substation! Give me secretariat of Council of People's Commissars!

-    The whole department could not deal with...

-     Well, all right! - Zharasbeyev sat back with discontent. –You have never told about your difficulties. Neither to the board me nor to me.  

-     I was afraid I could be misunderstood: one would say I do nothing or am not able to do that.

-     Nothing of the kind. It would be like there are only you who do the work. And now as a result – ten persons...

Khasen could not recognize Zharasbeyev. He stood for a while trying to say something more but did not ventured. Certain chill ran through his back when he was closing the door behind him. Realization of the fact that he had been treated like a stupid, helpless person was painful; he seemed to himself a lonely wandering horse, being fought off from the herd by a strong well-cared-for entire...

«However, the reason for everything is his party membership card and position, - he mentally comforted himself trying to calm down and get back into routine. Having returned to his table, he took one more pile of papers out of the bag. – If I were at your position, all of you would dance here... I would show you...»

Suddenly, as if feeling someone’s stare, Khasen turned to the window. The Great peak of Almaty was silently observing him and black thundery clouds were slowly curling at its chest... Khasen sighed and looked around. The book-keeper, secretary and typist sitting in his office were enthusiastically working and they did not care for his feelings. Khasen quietly stood up and left for the corridor.

Stout-built, seemingly quiet man in horn spectacles, standing in far end of the corridor, welcomed Khasen with a hand wave and at an easy pace waddled towards. He had a cigarette in the mouth.

-     Have you got a light, Khasen Nurbaich? - Khasen stretched the box.

-     Please, Aleksei Nikolayevich, - he addressed the «indispensable» old trust specialist, - whom would you recommend to employ? Zharasbeyev urgently and decidedly demanded to localize our staff.

-     You should learn how to forge people. Take a hammer, small anvil and forge the personnel. Ha-ha!

-    It goes tight, - Khasen sighed.

-     Do not fall apart, dear, - soothingly cooed Aleksei Nikolayevich in a kindhearted bass. – Do not be so sensitive. I do understand you... But what can you do? - He had a light, and puffing the cigarette gave Khasen a searching look. – Let’s better meet tomorrow, closer to the weekend at pool.

-     All right. Let’s invite vice administrator.

-        Deal, - Aleksei Nikolayevich agreed and laughed clapping   interlocutor on the shoulder. – Tell me, Khasen Nurbaich, do you like the administration? Old bird...

-    I don’t really take Kazakh directors. The Russians - these are all right. They know how not to remind their position in a company... All in all, we shall meet, Aleksei Nikolayevich. We should also have a thorough talk.

-    Ok, - the latter puffed with a cigarette smoke, leaving in sure steps.

Khasen returned to his office, sat at the table and engaged with papers, but in a minute as if suddenly having remembered something, quickly rose and hurried to local committee.

-    Comrade Sergeyev!

A busy-like young man with spectacles lifted his head from the papers and looked at Khasen.

-     Did you yesterday distribute the food coupons? Comrade Zharasbeyev charged you to solve my issue.

-     Yes, we did.

-     Which category was I in?

-     The second one.

-     You must be joking! I’ve got a lot of dependents; the second category won’t do at all. I told you that several times! And you... I won’t be able to work here anymore!

-     Wait. Why do you put the question that acute?

-     It’s all very well for you to say!

-     Wait a moment, I myself receive the allowance upon the third category.

-     This is none of my business! - Khasen almost shouted his argument. – You provide no conditions for the national personnel! You’re trying to make us leave!..

-     Which category do you want?

-     What about the first one? Who receives upon it?

-     The same ten persons. Even qualified specialists and presidium members receive insufficiently. You know that.

-     Oh come on! I don’t even want to listen!.. – Khasen said, plunging out from the room.

And he went wondering along the whole establishment. He was going upstairs, entering the departments and there, where at the tables Kazakhs were sitting,        inquiring which lists where they included in.

-       There you are, localization policy! – he grieved.- Try and involve national personnel. None of the Kazakhs entered the list of the first category. Local committee is administrated by absolute chauvinist. It cannot be left unspoken.

-      My dear Karim, think yourself, - he suggested the young Kazakh, who was a member of the local committee. - We toil not for the sake of money but for the sake of honor... That is not about five-ten pounds of meal, but about the principle. None of the Kazakhs receives food products under the first category. How shall we involve Kazakhs for work? You know, whoever is invited – they inquire about the conditions, to begin with.

-      The first one is for specialists and presidium members, - the lad objected.

-      Still, not all of the specialists receive such allowance, Karim. All right, when possible, we will provide them. Let them gut, but they should do their work: create the industry and complete five-years plan development. We will be satisfied even with that...

The lad broke with laughter kindheartedly:

-      Don’t you compare them with American specialists. They are soviet specialists and we don’t need to be divided into Kazakhs and Russians.

-      I say what I think, dear. Political substantiation is already down your alley. More simply: aul is ours, they are the guests – if guests – we can tolerate... There is nothing to argue between us, the Kazakhs.

-      What is the matter than?

-      The matter, dear, is that tomorrow a Kazakh-specialist might enter our trust. What allowance will he get? Having provided Russians with ninety five percent of total allowance, was it forbidden to leave one or two positions for the Kazakhs too?

The lad replied to his arguments with an insignificant chuckle and Khasen stopped expatiating upon the issue.

-     All right, let it be as destined... I shall save my nerves as well. Blast it all: the chauvinists in local committee and everything else, - he summarized, turning away.

Khasen returned to his place. He was sick at heart, he felt he couldn’t leave that issue unsolved and forgotten. Heavily sinking into chair, he saw the high peak again in the window – a silent witness of his powerlessness. Thunder clouds left and white-snow top was glaringly shining under the midday sun. It was painful to look at it...

It took Khasen considerable time to calm down and engage with papers. Gradually he got involved and did not notice somebody approaching him; only hearing the greeting he lifted the head. In front of him there stayed a petitioner – a tall man with spotted face and long ginger moustaches. There, before Khasen’s eyes, in a dark jacket with high neckline, in tre-ukh[10] and boots with high color there appeared Amanbai– as if he was an ambassador from a far district council. Khasen suddenly felt his eyes gladdening. He stood up and firmly shook Amanbai’s hand.

-     I have directed your statement to Zharasbeyev himself, - he said when both of them had a seat. – I’ve talked with him. He has recommended you.

-     And who is Zharasbeyev?

-     Don’t you now? He is a big man in the city. He’s our administrator.

-     Hey, how should I know that?

-      True. He wants to talk with you himself. You will tell him that you’re an economic executive with solid experience. Understood? He struggles for localization policy, so now let him charge to employ you... I think you will be employed, - Khasen encouraged him.

-      It would be great if it turned out so, - Amanbai brightened. – I do have the experience; I’ve worked in a district council and cooperative as well...

-     Excellent.

-     And the last two years I’ve been working as filing clerk at cattle-breeding state farm.

-      In which state farm? Near here?

-      Not far. In «Zhylga» state farm.

Khasen leaned, almost laid on the table. He touched the    interlocutor’s shoulder.

-    Great. Amanbai, probably you can find some meat, can’t you? We’re starving here.

Amanbai burst out laughing:

-      Yesterday, with all those people present I couldn’t ask you. Is it really that bad?

-      Don’t even ask, - Khasen frowned. – We are completely pinched with hunger. We will carry you in our arms if you find some meat. If I could just eat at least a bit of thick clear soup, sit for a while and recollect the past...

Amanbai looked around and making sure there were no Kazakhs in the room started speaking boldly.

-    I think I can get some. A horse has been brought to the city. – He kept silent for a while and added: - However, there is one small sticker. But let’s deal with it later. Can you find any starting hole where I could stab it?

-            Of course I can! - Khasen got excited gladly and shuffled on the chair. – We can do that at Kasymkan’s. Or even at our place. Can we make it today?

-      I’ll tell you a bit later. I need to settle something down.

-      Today would be really great.

-    If I settle it down, then even today, - Amanbai answered. He maintained silence and started in a lowered voice: - What is anticipated, Khaseke? Will there be any changes? What is in the wind?

-Ah, what changes there could be? You know the proverb: «The luck lives in a far aul», - Khasen dropped hopelessly, but having recollected their not seeing each other for a long time, frisked aside: - I said it for no reason... They are trying there... Something will change for certain.

-    What should I believe?

-    What I am saying. Hunger as people say, - sharpens the scent. – He started laughing together with Amanbai. - True... We haven’t grasped in time, overslipped, let them strengthen and now...

-    So what is now?

-    Period of temporary difficulties. My dear friend, things will straighten out, - Khasen comforted him and added in conclusion: - And now the following: you shouldn’t break ties with the state farm, ask Zharasbeyev to leave you here. Don’t even mention about Karaganda, is that clear? We shall meet in the evening and discuss the remaining issues.  

Amanbai took leave and went out.

Amanbai had hardly left before Zhamilya appeared. Her dirty with mud shoes and crumpled up faded dress immediately caught Khasen’s eyes. Zhamilya came up, hardly dragging her feet and wearily sat on the chair.

- What is it with you? - he met her petulantly. –One might think you’re just from the fire. Couldn’t you be tidier?

Spacious light rooms of the regional trust differed from tight smoked cramped rooms of their apartment and the new polished shoes and chairs standing there were lifelong dream of the married couple. Even sitting in the room colleagues being strapped, dressed tidy and well, seemed to be people from the other world in comparison with Zhamilya, who grew old too soon with trouble and skittering through the markets. «Needed she turn up now?», - Khasen thought, squinting at the weathered face and cracked to darkness hands of wife. Zhamilya was sitting indifferently; she had nothing to do with Khasen’s thoughts and feelings.

One time he used to be a director; he didn’t know the exigency and felt no life inconveniences. Those happy days his wife was at home, took care of herself and him, as he could recollect, was looking at women who have to toil and serve in a quite different way... But time when he was a host in the city and together with Zhamilya were met in auls like notable people had passed. The change came so unexpectedly and at the same time so dramatically as if they bungled unnoticed and lost their way. And now they hopelessly drag behind life. The Almaty peak was coldly towering outside the window and the spacious high room was ruthlessly lightening. He was sitting in that office – one of numerous unremarkable trust workers... It became painful for oneself; it hurt for the wizen sunken Zhamilya. He himself and his wife seemed to him orphans and step children of the new life.

-    You look tired, - Khasen noticed. His voice was now warm-hearted and soft. – What’s wrong with you? Did you need something?

Being dispirited with unfriendly husband’s meeting Zhamilya thawed a bit.

-     Stockings and silk jersey were given out in Kaztorg[11]. I’ve reserved a place in a queue, although I had no money; I’ve been standing the whole day. As soon as my turn came, the goods have finished. I wish that Kaztorg decayed!

-     It cannot be the other way, - Khasen smiled. -  It is not that easy to buy something there. As if you didn’t know that...

-     What can I do? I have nothing.

-     Wait, I will write a note to Salmenov. - Khasen took a sheet of paper, dipped a pen in the ink. – Knitted goods are said to be brought also to Kazkrajsoyuz...

Zhamilya completely calmed down.

Khasen set forth his request in several words, meaningfully hinting at his place of work; then he gave some money to Zhamilya and stood up to show her out. Zhamilya hid the note and lifting a bag with potatoes asked accidentally on purpose:

-     What do you think of Salim's behavior today?

-     Yes, what was he jabbering about? What else was he lacking? – Khasen frowned. In the morning being in a hurry he didn’t manage to puzzle out their arguing; he only partially heard Salim rebuking Zhamilya for something.

-     He defends your dear brother with sister-in-law. Probably, he is hounding them on me. You see, he is dissatisfied with our treating them!

-     Where did he get that manner? - Khasen started fretting. – He has no right to poke his nose into else’s business?

-       I guess he felt himself a man, - Zhamilya made a wry mouth. – He just says that straight: «Shame on you...»

Lately Khasen noticed the independence of his brother’s assertions, the trace of which there hadn’t been earlier. Salim was growing up fast, but his character and relations with people were changing much faster. It seemed he was growing a foreigner and didn’t regard the opinions of the elders. Khasen’s words about children being persons of one father, born at one hearth, words about congeners achieving one aim, trying not to lose each other on the way did not strike a chord with Salim anymore. Khasen knew, it was the influence of the new life which he himself would never accept. And it was terrifying that a strange hate-worthy world was obstinately trying to enter his family, his house and a moment would come when he would not be able to stop that.

-      Tell him not to bristle up, - Khasen forced with an effort. – Or else I will throw him away. He is feeding on and dares to talk back. If he utters a sound more – knock his teeth in! Enough!

-      You should also tell him that, - Zhamilya asked. –Others study and take care of family too: how many different things are brought home. And there is no use of him. Try and ask him to bring something – he rears.

-      He became Komsomol member activist...

-      I, he says, am not a cheapskate. So, it turns out that we, who share a piece of bread with him, are cheapskates. He says that while he is studying he has the right to receive a scholarship only.

-      There, how easy he wants to gain the character of a disinterested person! Wait, we will see!..

Being satisfied with husband’s words, Zhamilya thought it would be appropriate to cook his favorite beshbarmak[12]. She remembered about the meat.

-    Will you get any meat, Khasen? Did you undertake anything?

-    Luck seems to favor us today, - Khasen answered. – I will tell you later. And now go, Zhamilya, go and try to get some knitted goods.

Zhamilya left.

 

 

Khasen fell on papers again. Hardly ever he managed to run through one or two of them as Semenov, a secretary of party cell, came up to him. Khasen couldn’t stand his instructions and therefore he pretended to be very busy.  

-      Comrade Zharasbeyev and our whole cell as well consider the work on localization policy to be going with low speed, - Semenov started, sitting at the table. – How is the business going? What are you undertaking?

-      That’s the only thing on my mind, - Khasen sighed heavily. – The decree of regional committee is fully clear but the percentage of localization policy here in our staff doesn’t even reach ten persons. It looks as if we, comrade Semenov, are not worth our salt, - Khasen continued. He seemed to be heavily depressed with the whole situation. – I cannot regard the issue of localization policy with unconcern. We, Kazakh workers, work not because of bread. Do we?

-      Yes, of course you are right, - Semenov agreed. -Please, tell me about personnel recruitment in detail.

Khasen coughed and involuntarily looked in the window at the cold lowering peak. He withdrew his eyes in haste. The peak as if stood over his soul...

-      You know, comrade Semenov... The Party and government are aware of the difficulties in finding skilled Kazakh workers, especially specialists...

-      You should recommend from the bottom and educate them. In a short period of time it is possible to train good fellows. The youth should be sent for study, at least for accountant courses.  And Russian comrades should be recommended to learn Kazakh language. Well, it is their direct obligation but you should control that.

Khasen being bewildered at the beginning had collected himself already. Indeed, he used not know anything and care less about recommending young workers and any of courses. And today everyone as if conspired to talk about that.

-    We are just planning to undertake all that, - he followed Semenov’s words and smiled. – It’s good that party cell is concerned about that as well. You know that until today there has been no one to help me. I was left for my own. And now with the party cell facilitation the affairs will go forward.

-    You must have started that work long time ago, mustn’t you?

-    I was just about to bring to your knowledge the state of our plans. Beginning from today we will coordinate everything...

-    What in fact has been undertaken?

-         So far we intend to train Kazakh socialists according to plan. - Khasen cleared his throat again. – We were providing ten students with scholarship. Now we will provide four more...

-      This is already known, - Semenov interrupted him. – It has been done upon an initiative of comrade Zharasbeyev.

-      Correct, correct, - Khasen nodded, - comrade Zharasbeyev knows that. Well, we have recommended Kazakh workers to regional organizations’ staff; have employed someone to trust administration. Although their amount is little, but still... All in all, the party policy is obvious. We, comrade Semenov, now take joint actions and spare no efforts for fulfilling the party’s instructions.

-      Until now those were only words, - Semenov concluded, clapping with his palm over the table. – Make a detailed comprehensive plan of actions and stick to it precisely. Secondly: inform us of the work done every ten days. And that’s it.

Khasen stood up right after Semenov.

-    Everything is clear, comrade secretary. It’s good that you came in. We have chatted heart-to-heart, - he thanked, showing Semenov to the door.

 

                                          * * *

After his quarrel with Zhamilya, Salim went to his study. He hurried; today he had much work to do. Though, all of his days were busy with lectures, komsomol and trade union activity. He was catching the right people in corridors between the lectures, in canteen, in dormitory. At present a political discussion was about to take place in the institute or the so called by the students “political fight”. Having remembered that, Salim quickened his pace.

He was a vigorous and sympathetic lad; comrades liked him. He had sound health; it sufficed him to take a nap for an hour or so and in the morning, breezily striking hair backwards, in a jacket wide open he was ready to rush into center of activities. His entering the institute looked like invasion of military forces: some were getting instructions straight off, the others were advising him and with the third ones he was arguing heavily. Social life still was for Salim the most important thing and he was espoused to it whole-heartedly. But today after the quarrel with sister-in-law he bitterly understood that he gave no due consideration to the life at home, as well as the situation of elder brother and his wife. He used to come home late. Then under the light of lamp standing on a stool beside the bad in hallway, he read. The other time he stayed overnight at the dormitory with friends. The morning altercation gave him a headache...

Fifteen days have passed since his elder brother with wife moved to the city.  Khasen did not really want that but Salim being aware of frequent illnesses of the relatives, called them with a letter.

The young man remembered elder brother and his wife being even earlier embarrassed at Khasen’s presence, though each time impatiently waiting for his visit. Should they find out about Khasen to come, they excitingly spread that news over the closest auls, narrating about unusual wisdom and erudition of brother. Even the fact of Khasen’s wife, Zhamilya, being pedestaled in auls, couldn’t do without them - her dress being of special city cut from the most expensive fabric and she herself being well-mannered, courteous, respectful for the elders... The elder brother and his wife, who were no different from plain inhabitants of steppe regions suddenly turned into noticeable and respected by everyone persons the days of honorable family visit.

Being grown up by elder brother, Salim, no doubt, as well admired Khasen. None of his peers had so prominent brother who was so respected even by the aul rich and atkaminers[13]. Everyone spoke of one thing: how the whole-mighty Khasen would teach Salim, put him on his feet, do for him things that others couldn’t even imagine. Salim used to follow his brother about, be with him on a visit and fondling, he took on Zhamilya’s knees. Childish admiration of brother remained with Salim for a long time; he strongly believed him, came to heel and was convinced that it should be like that always. For the last two years, studying at the institute, Salim basically lived in the dormitory. In winter he was busy with lectures, exams and in summer – with practical training in collective farms and state farms. He visited his brother on holidays for a day or two. Only at the end of that winter, when they run out of firewood in the dormitory and it became impossible to study he temporally moved to his brother. Those were also recollections from the childhood that attracted him to Khasen and Zhamilya. He missed the steppe, his aul and couldn’t do anything about that. Two months have passed since then...

He had witnessed such quarrels two times already. Salim could not understand what the problem was. What was happening at home? Where were those dissensions from? But neither Khasen nor Zhamilya cared for his feelings. It was a sudden for him. Zhamilya, she simply understood his efforts to settle the relations between relatives as a wish to create hassles at home; and Khasen carefully noticed nothing of that. Salim couldn’t get rid of painful thoughts. Day by day they were taking the burden of new guesses and revelations, and he gradually was coming to conclusion that it was not a mere family misunderstanding but encounter of persons with different beliefs and views. To be more exact, the encounter of two worlds – the new and the old ones. The old world being held to by Khasen and Zhamilya was crashing like viand, breaking into pieces that morning and it was painful because brother did not see that. Perhaps he is not able to understand the new life?.. Earlier Salim found him educated, and it turned out that his brother possessed no serious knowledge in any of the branches of knowledge!.. You can never see him with a book. For instance, what does he know about the Marxism and Leninism, about dialectical materialism? When Khasen was studying, all that was forbidden. So, he had no idea of Marxism and Leninism theory... How come?

- A notoriety, - Salim murmured, remembering the aul rich to vehemently praising Khasen. –If you look at those, who liked you, it becomes obvious for whom you were making efforts. But still, you used to long something earlier. And now? You hid like a marmot into its hole and care only for yourself. You look at everything from the point of view of your belly: is breakfast served in time, is dinner substantial, did he manage to get all kinds of viands or stockings... And if anything won’t go, it’s all the fault of soviet power, socialism... Eh...

Salim instinctively felt his right. He was dispirited by Khasen’s behavior. But is he an exception? There are lots of such. And even he, Salim... He himself had the relict of the old; of features established under Khasen’s influence and he-like people. Why hasn’t he understood that earlier? Couldn’t he? Or didn’t want to?

Perhaps he didn’t dare to, the believe in impeccability of once notorious brother?.. Salim discontentedly was clenching his fists and walking faster. His eyebrows frowned and met noseband. «What if all that might become useful one day? – he thought suddenly and felt relieved straight away. – There always will be people praising “good old times”. Then one may show them the very “good”, alive representatives of that life -Khasens... On second thoughts, - he waived his hand, - what a nonsense!.. What are these kind of absurd thoughts...»

Salim was approaching the institute. Again he remembered about the forthcoming discussion with the students of physics and mathematics faculty.

Both of the groups have fully gathered in the third lecture hall. The discussion theme - «New features in organization principles of our party» - was announced in big letters, carefully written with black ink on a sheet of paper. Also a list of issues was given here: on ways of raising people’s consciousness, on renewal of society, on the struggle with relicts of the past.

The first to answer those questions was the group of physics and mathematics students. A skinny pale-faced lad with long black hair divided in the middle took the floor. Being a komsomol member of the same age as Salim, he spoke confidently, basing his speech on the organization of political departments in the republic. He was listened to attentively; the audience made some notes in their notepads. There was no sign of orators’ rivalry or antagonism between the separate groups; komsomol members were felt to gather in order to discuss and thoroughly understand the party policy by everyone. Then spoke the second physics and mathematics student, the third one and all of them in some way complemented each other.

Everyone spoke correct in general, although slightly shallow. Some speeches had no clarity; the others lacked logics and concretion. Salim did not ask anything, but noticing that one of his faculty fellows started joshing physics and mathematics students and behaving defiantly, he made a comment:

-      You seem to have forgotten that you came here not spar.

But someone from his group has already asked a question:

-     To your mind, who is stronger: political department or district committee?

Everybody broke with laughter and the speaker again took the floor to answer, but he lost the track and everything suddenly was reduced to the contraposition of the activity of political department and district committee. Now he spoke not so confidently and enthusiastically as at first, but laughing and getting distracted to retorts. The questions came one after another, everyone started talking together, interrupting each other; in different parts of the lecture hall there were heard arguments. Someone tried to correct the speaker and completely entangled the question. The audience became vociferous and divided into two camps.

And then Salim asked to speak. He wanted to tell comrades about what he was thinking on his way there so much, but it turned that he spoke of quite different.

-     Comrades, the question has been asked incorrectly! – he said. The noise went down in the hall. - A party district committee and political departments cannot be opposed. Those comrades who are looking for the strongest and the weakest of them have also mistaken. One should base on their unity....

Salim assessed the speeches of his comrades, explained the reason for establishing political departments by the party and their vital necessity. Salim’s arguments were convincing and very soon he completely gained the attention of the audience. He spoke of the task to liquidate the differences between a city and a village; of the fact that if the relicts of the past still expose themselves in a city, in auls it is to be supposed, all the more. One of the most difficult fields of party work was the increase of consciousness and culture in aul. And there should be no trace of doubt in the need of political departments, but at that point it shouldn’t be forgotten about the lively unity of party district committee and political department activity. Everything in Salim’s speech was correct and clear. He was even approvingly applauded, but no one after him asked for speech. Komsomol members lively discussing went to the exit. And Salim suddenly remembered his feelings and doubts, everything he was going to say in the speech. «Some other time, - he thought. – It will keep...»

 

* * *

 

 

It was about twelve o’clock when Zhamilya came to Kraysoyuz with a note from Khasen. She was told that Salmenov was at the meeting and she started waiting. An hour has past, an hour and a half... She felt tired. In the morning she went to the market, crossing it        throughout, pushing in the queues, and now this tedious waiting... And who knows if he comes out?.. Will she get the knitted goods or no? Perhaps she should leave? But to leave when in a few steps behind the door there was Salmenov was more difficult. After all, stockings and knitted goods are such a rare occurrence! She does not work; the only income of the family is husband’s salary and one can always feel the lack of money at home. If something is decided to be bought, then it is done only after thorough discussion and only under condition that one cannot do without such a purchase in any way. Everything is calculated till a kopek. How could one not be upset because of the broken plate?.. Hardship races Zhamilya through the queues, offices and acquaintances. It makes her look for meeting with the right people and grab hold of them. No, she cannot leave without seeing Salmenov.

Life has taught her a lot: to get goods and the next day sell them triple the price on the market. She, just like Khasen, learned not to be ashamed of that. The other time when there was an opportunity to get something in two places, Zhamilya tried to jump the queue.

Sometimes she managed to do that, but sometimes she was revealed, caught and then she became evasive as she could, by all means, even playing a fool. In the queues, unimaginable squeeze and          tightness she never lost her temper. She knew very well that pressure and impudence were sometimes necessary.  And lying into eyes, pushing people aside she insistently moved to the aim – a counter. But soon she became recognizable and two or three times Zhamilya got it. She remembered how one Uigur woman cursed up her hill and down dale and on the eyes of the whole turn pushed her into chest. Zhamilya will never forget it. But she had to stand that, since even worse buffets of fate were to be endured. She assured herself that wealth did not come by itself. It is true just like the fact that a man cannot be stronger than his times. One happens to search for loopholes to deceive and perhaps steal. Together with Khasen they were on the same wavelength. And was there at least anything they could talk about? Both of them were doing the same thing. One thing – one hand... The meeting was dragging on.

-    Oh God!.. – Zhamilya sighed. – The dinner is not ready. What should I do? Should a wait a little or no? If I go I’ll have no stockings and dress.... Plague on him! Why is he stuck?

At last Salmenov came out. He greeted, politely asked about the daily life and joked good-naturedly. But having heard Zhamilya’s request he became strict, as if to distance himself.

-      The price hasn’t been settled yet. As soon as it will be set, I will tell you.

-      But I’ve been waiting for so long... – Zhamilya felt aggrieved. –Perhaps you might be able to manage that?

But Salmenov was uncompromising.

-      I’m telling you, the goods will not be sold so far to anyone, - he answered and tended to the office.

-      Don’t leave me empty-handed at least. -Zhamilya made a few steps following him.

-    All right... All right! – replied he without turning around.

-    At least half of what you are going to buy for your Rachel... - stopping, Zhamilya cried out.

Salmenov did not answer. She waited until the door behind him closed and silently swore.

It was hot and hard to walk. Zhamilya cursed the streets of Almaty, Salmenov and her house on the outskirts being so far as well. Knees were bending, shoulders became heavy. She was striding in a hurry up a steep street, her legs were now diving into soft soaring dust, now stumbling by sharp edges of broken cobble. Nearly falling down, she heavily dragged her legs as if shabby horse knocking at the stub. It seemed to her that inside everything was broking down.

-    Oh, damn! Damn you all! - Zhamilya was swearing through the clenched teeth. She swore at the sun burning so mercilessly as if penetrating with its beams.

Barely alive she dragged home, but she stepped over the threshold with frowned eyebrows and the same cold        forbidding air with which she left in the morning for the market. Khasen lied on bed, waiting for dinner and being turned to the wall. Her brother-in-law and sister-in-law were cleaning the room in a fuss. Zhamilya passed the old people silently as if not noticing their absence. The old ones shuddered, simultaneously looked at her and right there cast down their eyes timidly. With the same gloomy expression on her face Zhamilya lighted up the oil stove and began preparing dinner.

The first one to give away was brother-in-law. He came up to Zhamilya with sherds in his hands.

-       I think the plate can be glued together... It broke only into three pieces...

It was obvious that the old man decided to at whatever cost bring the peace back home. No matter how painful was the insult caused to him by sister-in-law, he behaved according to the wise custom of the old, who did not tolerate family discord. In addition, they, the elderly, unwillingly had become the origin of a quarrel! Zhamilya stood with her back towards and the old man did not see her face shivering and blushing.

-      If you give me some money I will go to the market tomorrow, - continued the old man timidly. – It will be enough to fix it with two or three copper pins...

-      So, now you decided to get money in a tricky way? - Zhamilya indignantly flung in the old man’s teeth. – Such people like you make a profit on us. So this is what’s on your mind now!.. Did you ever live like the decent ones not trying to tear something off? – smashing the door she leaped out into the yard and almost ran into Salim.

Salim was taken aback by unexpectedness.

He was coming back home in the most hilarious mood. Outside there was unique Almaty spring; the sky was clear; the high midday sun as if caressed the young strong body. That day was the first one when it indeed became warm. Sparkling emerald leaves not covered with dust yet were gladly rustling on the trees, rearing in steady wall on both sides of the streets. There in canals, flowing, clang glass pure water from the snowy tops; among the greenery of leaves there flickered white, red and pink petals of early blossomed wild apricot, apple trees and lilac; the nightingales spruiked. And from the mountains in soft waves there came the air with the odor of trees, flowers and herbs. It befuddled, that unbelievable air, filling the chest with joy. Und all of a sudden Zhamilya... The same as in the morning as if no hours had passed after the quarrel... As if she had no eyes and she did not see the spring... He let Zhamilya pass and entered the house. In the hallway he came up to his sister-in-law and beckoning to that side asked:

-     I see she cannot calm down, can she?

-     Dear, has she ever respected the elder? At least you tell her to leave us alone... Is she doing that on purpose or what?!

-     This plate can be repaired, - the old man interrupted her showing him the pieces.  He came up, sat on the felt next to Salim.

-     I told her I needed some money for repair. And she thought I wanted to trick that money out of her. – The old man sighed and sadly shook his head. – I haven’ heard such words even from the strange people and hear them from my own daughter-in-law. I used to carry her as a little girl on my hands...What should I do now?..

-     My own daughter-in-law... She is dear to us... After Khasen and you she is our most precious child. We have been nursing you since you were very little... – the lips of the old woman trembled and she began to cry wiping her eyes with the sleeve, - Blast it all, she says... It’s nothing to me so far, but calling him, the one with the white beard, a cheater...

Salim was listening to the elderly with a sore heart. After the death of his parents the elder brother and his wife from the childhood nursed Khasen and Salim. Salim loved them and respected as father and mother; he couldn’t let them live alone, ill and weak in a far aul. But Khasen, who had early left his paternal home, seemed to consider their moving in inappropriate. What should be done to make them live in concord? After all, the elder brother had spoken of that so much! Suddenly it appeared unbelievable to Salim that here, in this house, the ancient good imaginations of family relations could be preserved by the Kazakhs.

-    You don’t understand yet that a lot has changed. The old camping grounds were left by people. They, - Salim cast a glance to the side of guest room, - have also stopped roaming... just into the other side. They’ve changed and you want everything to stay as it was earlier...

The old did not understand him. Brother moved to Salim, leaned and spoke half whispering:

-     Salim, explain properly! You don’t speak clearly. Is he lacking money? Difficulties with food? Perhaps they are ashamed of us? Why don’t they say straightly? I cannot believe we are the burden for them, like unwanted eaters?..

-     No, it is not about that. They receive a decent allowance and also they do have stores... It is just that your closeness is burdensome to them. How else can it be explained that you live and eat in the hallway separately?

-     True, true! – The old man thoughtfully nodded his white head. Zhamilya entered and the old man fell silent, noticing his daughter-in-law still not settling.

-     Well see, they do can work... But no – the only thing they do is watching how to dodge! Onhangers! Snowed like in the jute period...

-     Why, Zhamilya, did the relatives become a burden already? - Salim sarcastically broke with laughter.

-     Yes, they did! – Zhamilya burst.

-     You have to feed them, don’t you? Have you completely gone bust or what?

-     Perhaps, this is you who pay for everything in this house? – Zhamilya retorted, with her arms being akimbo. – Go ahead!.. We will listen.

-        Of course. Are you sure you will find how to get rid of unwanted eaters?

Zhamilya’s voice rose to a shriek:

-    Stop cackling! Are you the one to advise me or what?!

-     Look where you have gone, Zhamilya! – Salim dropped. –What nonentity you have become.

-     You shall not judge the elder! Ignoramus! Sponger! You yourself are not capable of anything; you’re at our expense...

-     That’s not true! – Salim said storming. – I am not a dependent!

-     Not a dependent? Then why do you live here? 

-      So that’s what it is! Get this clear – from now on I shall consider it to be shameful to eat a piece of bread at your house!

-      Look, how high minded he has become! - Zhamilya measured him with contempt.

At the noise there ran out Khasen from the guest room and sprang at Salim.

-    What nonsense are you talking here? You!... Do you consider yourself a man?

-    I am telling the truth.

Salim did not storm already; he spoke calmly and firmly, being confident of his right. That had maddened Khasen. Jerking and rolling his eyes, for a while he could not utter a word. At last, having clenched his fists and stammering from epicene fury he cried:

-    If so... go away! – The rage he had been somehow managing at work burst out – Get out! I don’t want to see you anymore!..

Salim remained calm.

-     I was just about to leave.

-     An albatross on my neck!

-    That’s a lie! - Salim couldn’t bear that and jumped to his feet. –Let it be when Zhamilya says like that... But you!.. Anyway, it does not matter now.

Salim proceeded packing his sleeping accommodation. Khasen came to his senses; there appeared embarrassment on his face. Apparently he did not expect such a harsh turn of things.

-    My dear ones, stop quarreling, - the elder brother gave mouth. – We have one father...

But Salim’s decision was irrevocable.

-    Don’t persuade me... – Having rolled sleeping accommodation he slapped the cap on.

The independence of younger brother whipped Khasen up.

-     I see you have smartened up in your worthless institute! Is that all you were taught there? 

-     You are not able to understand that; it’s beyond your depth. Better not touch this issue, - Salim smiled.

-    Just look how they crammed you!

Khasen felt how hatred towards Salim overwhelmed him more and more. Yes, it was hatred to everything new; it had been born long ago and hiding deep inside. Growing gradually, it embraced all his being and now turned against his brother, having completely separated them. Now he did not seem full blood to him. Khasen would rather break up with his brother than let the new enter his house. He was overtaken by desire to find so devastating words and strike at Salim so hard that the last one would not recover himself. And he dropped without thinking:

-    In that case, - Khasen pointed to the side of elder brother, - take them with you! Let me be a bad brother for everyone!.. Was it that what you wanted to prove?

The elderly started crying.

-     Dear Salim, our little one, - they began to plead, - at least you yield... Oh God, what a bad luck!..

-     No need to cry. Why are you crying? – Salim got angry. – Are you afraid there will be nothing to eat?

-     Nothing to eat? – Khasen mocked. – Are you beginning to reflect?

-     Don’t cry. He wanted to punish us, but he backed the wrong horse, - Salim comforted the old. He headed to the exit. – I will take the things and be back after you. You always used to work quite good, - we will not go to the bad.

Khasen turned on his heels and went to his place.

Salim kept his promise. The very evening he took the old people to the dormitory. Khasen was lying in the guest room and listening them packing. He did not come out to say good bye. Zhamilya said he was asleep. In a while being glad she entered the room.

-     What do you want? – Khasen murmured, his eyebrows discontentedly frowning.

-     They left!

-     They left... - Khasen silently repeated after her. – I was wild with Salim. It serves him right... But those... I ache for them...

-     As for me they can even kick the bucket! We’ll see how he will manage. No apartment, no food. Even no dishes! Dog-poor. - Zhamilya laughed       victoriously.-We shall see at him now!

-      Leave that! – Khasen waved looking remotely at her. – Found the one to revenge! Oh God, how the times have changed. Where are we going? Weren’t we one family? – he uttered sadly.- Whose fault is here?

-      You always worry. – Zhamilya looked at husband with anxiety. – We have always cared for people and who will remember that now? Yes, you were called «ak-zhurek» - «the soft-hearted», so what? Here’s how even Salim treated us. And we nursed him, helped him on life.

The word «soft-hearted» Zhamilya heard for the first time from aul atkaminers and always used it with a special delight. Previously in aul that word was perceived by the couple as the one belonging undividedly to them only. In the last years no-one had ever called Khasen soft-hearted but the favorite word still lived at their house. To be more exact,    it had been living out its remaining days.

Khasen stood up and began putting the pea coat on.

-      Soft-hearted... oh yes, soft-hearted... – he murmured drearily. – Do people good things and don’t wait for gratitude! They will take advantage of your kindness and then you will be thrown mud at. This is what turned to us, isn’t it, Zhamilya?

-      Let it be, - Zhamilya noticed, being satisfied that she managed to calm down her husband. – We have lived not that little. What is done cannot be undone!

Khasen, having dressed, pondered.

-     You are right after all, - he said. His voice already sounded more confident, although it was still quiet. – Well now, if it happened like that, let none of them show their face here anymore, - he finished heading for the exit.

He shut the door with his shoulder and stepped into the yard.

-     I’ve sent them myself... I have been and done and now eat my heart out... – murmured he dully.

The mountain grew in front of him all of a sudden. So unexpectedly that it seemed his face was burned. He paused distractedly.

-    That is true. Now I eat my own heart out... – he murmured again as if someone convicting stood on his way.

He lifted his head and looked at the peak. It chilled to creep from the granite covered with grey shadow. Khasen suddenly seemed to see formidably lowered eyebrows, a face in black wrinkle splits... Leaning backwards the peak penetratingly looked at him... Squint eyes... Only a few steps away from him... Khasen frightenedly jerked his shoulders.

-     Oh God, what an obsession? – he waived with his hand and quickly strode towards the gate.

-     Are you going the way you intended to? – he heard a loud gruff voice Zhamilya, exactly like in the morning when he woke up from the nightmare. – What should I engage myself with?

Khasen stopped and looked around. There was no-one in the yard and in street, but still he decided to be wary.

-     Come here! – he called wife, stepping towards her. – As soon as it gets dark, grab a sack and dishes and run to Kasymkan. And sit there, - do not leave anywhere.

-     You cannot do the other way. I do know Kasymkan’s wife. She will wear you out with talking, foul you and grab the lion’s share, - Zhamilya followed. – And you won’t be able to snatch it – she’s got no use from food.

Khasen stopped listening to his wife, pushed the gate and went to the street.

Amanbai already was at Kasymkan’s. There was a broached litter of vodka bottle between them from which they obviously had already muffed. The chaser was poor... Seeing Khasen, both of them jumped and greeted him noisily.

Kasymkan poured another one and smilingly stretched Khasen the snort.

-    Have a wet!

Khasen came up to the table but did not take the snort.

-     Eh, this kind of water requires better chaser, - he broke into laughter with friends and looked at Amanbai. – I expected to see something hot, - roast meat, for instance. And what is this? - Khasen dabbed his finger at a piece of bread. – If so, I will not drink.

-     We’ve been waiting for you, - Kasymkan said. – There is something to noodle.

-     And where is our horse?

-     Not far... Really close, - Kasymkan faltered. -First, there is some business to settle.

-     Well? - Khasen was impatiently looking at them in turns.

-     So good that we gathered at last! – complacently Amanbai laughed. – We shall sit as we used to, chat and recollect the old times. And then we’ll decide.

-     Listen, can you say straight? Where is the horse?

-     It is here. Standing... How dense you are, - Kasymkan tried to calm the friend down. – Right now we’ll settle everything.

Amanbai clung glasses with Khasen and drank.

-     Today I told you that there is one hitch, - he began addressing Khasen. – So listen. I have brought the horse from the state farm where I used to work. It was an ordinary horse, a good one. But two months later he started limping. Its leg swelled. The vet examined it this and that way but could not really say what was wrong. I gave him a treat and persuaded that the horse is incurable and such disease is popularly called “eternal founder”. In general, I whipped off his conclusion. Then I talked him into returning the chestnut for treatment to a horse doctor. I took him to one aul and they have fed him so much...

-     Fat? – Khasen’s moth watered at the very mentioning of a fatted horse.

-     It has got fat at finger’s length, - Kasymkan replied. – Or even more.

Joyfully and bright Khasen poured vodka to everyone and clinging glasses with friends drank.

-      Go on, go on! - excitingly he nodded to Amanbai.

-      All in all, that part is all right. The only obstacle is one collective farmer who knew the chestnut earlier. He’s from shock workers. By the way, it was he who gave me a ride to the city. Seeing the horse, the whole way he cursed the vet who, as he said, knew nothing and couldn’t differ a healthy horse from the ill one. I started to talk about how good it would be to stab the horse, it had fat at two finger’s    thickness, and the meat had to be tasty, but no way! He bristled up: «Stab such a horse when we lack horses at the farm?!»

-      And you were not able to persuade him! – Kasymkan rebuked. – You could tell its leg is rankled and like the vet was right. You do have the documentation!

-      I did say that. But not everything. I’ve left something for the future.

Khasen laughed being satisfied with Amanbai’s smartness.

-      You did the right thing. How can one believe a stupid Kazakh?

-      I haven’t even hinted at the documentation and vet’s conclusion.

Kasymkan liked Amanbai’s inventiveness as well.

-      Well done! – he couldn’t contain himself. – And you seem to be smart.

-      Well, what are we talking about then? - Khasen stood up, gave a wink to friends and showed his pointing finger across the throat. –We should blow the horse away... Eat Makhan[14]! – he added, twisting the words on purpose.

Kasymkan still hesitated.

-      Won’t that be charged as steal? You know the laws are strict now.

-      Oh come on! - Khasen interrupted him. His voice instantly became rough. – The soviet power will not grow poor just because of one horse. Didn’t it take enough of livestock from us? Go on; cut it, damn it all! No use of beating about the bush!

Amanbai and Kasymkan said nothing.

-     All right, where is that collective farmer? – Khasen inquired at the sight of his hesitating friends. – We should invite him, cram him up and shut his throat. Is there anyone interfering beside him?

-     Kasymkan worries about the fact that the latter one came here today and saw the horse, - Amanbai informed.

-     Exactly, - Kasymkan confirmed. – After all, it’s dangerous.

But it was hard to stop Khasen. In half an hour he was supported by pretty drunken Amanbai. Finally, having exhausted all the arguments even wary Kasymkan had to agree with friends. The chestnut’s fate was decided. Meanwhile the night fell and the horse had been stabbed in the yard without any misgivings. Khasen’s and Kasymkan’s wives, not letting each other out of sight, messed around the butchering men.

At home three of the friends going heavy on the hot fatty meal from fresh horse meat, fell into the second litter of bottle. The tongues loosened and the secret thoughts came out. They spoke of all the stories and business from dear to them eighteenth and nineteenth years, when there was no soviet power in the steppe. Khasen boastfully thrusting out his chest announced:

-    We are the people who believed into historic affairs! All three of us will remain in history!..

Hardly had he finished his speech, when a loud tramp was heard at the door. Unknown voices were heard. Kasymkan grabbing the bottle dived under the table. Four men in a military uniform entered. The fifth one was recognized by Amanbai as the collective farmer with whom he came to the city. 

It was useless to speak or maintain their innocence. Still Khasen tried to resist.

-     We are the personnel... Responsible workers of district establishment... – Intoxication instantly left him. But he was not listened to...

Friends were taken to the yard.

At the turn of the street Khasen’s look glanced into the distance. The Great peak of Almaty was watching him coldly being far and unscalable... Even as granite and unaware of defeat, the majestic peak of Almaty...

1935