Modern Azerbaijanian Prose

By Iraj Ismaely and Vagif Sultanly

The book comprises of the best samples of Azerbaijani literature of the last 30 years. The anthology includes more than thirty short stories and novels of Ismail Shikhli, Isa Muganna, Anar, Akram Aylisli, Elchin, Alisa Nijat and etc.
Azerbaijani prose was first published about half century ago during the Soviet period in Moscow. The world readers have since then lacked the opportunity to know about the success of the Azerbaijani literature. Therefore, this anthology is of great importance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Oct 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466946033

Iraj Ismaely

I was born in 1942, in the Kubatli region of the Azerbaijan Republic. After finishing the high school, I entered the University of Languages in Baki. After graduating the University of Languages, I began teaching English at Baki State University. There, I passed postgraduate courses and defended my thesis. Now I am associate professor at Baki State University.

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© Copyright 2012 Vagif Sultanly and Iraj Ismaely.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-4602-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-4601-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-4603-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012912330

Trafford rev. 09/25/2012

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Contents

Highlights Of The Contemporary Azerbaijani Prose

Ismayil Shikhly

Golden Snake

The Traitor’s Bullet

Aziza Jafarzade

Three Kisses

The Legend Of The Weeping Willow

Faithfulness

Yusif Samadoglu

The Threshold

Bayati-Shiraz

Time Of Spring In The Hill Of Inja

Chingiz Huseynov

Islands

Isa Muganna

The Overcoat

Cousin

Anar

Talk Of The Cloakroom Attendant

Alisa Nijat

Master Of Time

Rustam Ibragimbekov

Wave Interference

Agshin Babayev

Crooked Eyeglasses

If You Need Something

Akram Aylisli

A Story Of Walnut Shadow

Elchin

Yellow Bride

Agarahim Rahimov

Zigzags

Bridge Of A Traitor

Confession

Movlud Suleymanli

A Man

Vagif Sultanly

Polar Night

A Blind Tie

Saday Budagly

Languor

Rainless Skies

Sleet

Fazil Guney

The Amazon

Rafig Taghi

Build The House After The War Ends

Becoming Soldier As Necessary

My Father And Monuments

Didactic Courses For Killer

Amir Pahlavan

The Forest

Firuz Mustafa

The Ocean

Safar Alysharly

Lessons Of Seriousness

Owl, Swallow, And Falcon

Orkhan Fikratoglu

Choice

Overturn

On The Eve

Fly

Elabbas

My Beautiful Unlucky Aunt

Scoundrel

The Tables Which Stood Next To Each Other

Elchin Huseynbeyli

Sunbeams Are Falling On His Eyes . . .

Azad Garaderely

Madness Of Crazy Sarvar

Aslan Guliyev

Earthquake

Eyvaz Zeynalov

An Expensive Chocolate Box

The First Love

Echo

The Light Of Maternity Home

Mubariz Jafarly

Hard Travel

Ilgar Fahmi

A Date

Frog

Rasim Nabioghlu

The Happy Day

Magsad Nur

Poet’s Rendezvous

A Fragment From The Diary

Spotied Book

The City, Where Fish Die In The Sea

An Afghan’s Tale

Information About The Authors

Endnotes

HIGHLIGHTS OF THE CONTEMPORARY AZERBAIJANI PROSE

The Azerbaijani literature, having significant place among the advanced literatures of the world with the volume of the covered literary and artistic values as well as the human essence, simultaneously has ancient and rich history. However, as all the ancient literary samples created by various literary figures have not reached the modern period, clarification of the scientific opinions regarding the history of establishment of the Azerbaijani literature was impossible. It attracts attention, especially as a feature belonging to the first periods of establishment of the Azerbaijani literature. Collection and protection of ancient literary samples were certainly provided by the appearance of tazkiras, jungs, and beyazes in the later periods of the history of literature and development of the science of literature.

The folklore samples, having different form and content, establishes an important branch of the Azerbaijani literature. The national folklore samples like Kitabi-Dede Gorgud, Gurbani, Koroghlu, Shah Ismayil, Abbas and Gulgaz, and Asli and Kerem eposes as well as magic and realistic tales, anecdotes, bayatys, holavars, lullabies, riddles, proverbs, and aphorisms attract attention like a product of deep public comprehension. The epos Kitabi-Dede Gorgud, having approximately, 1,300-year history, is one of the indicators of antiquity of this literature.

In classic period, the Azerbaijani literature was established in three languages, that is, in Arabian, Persian, and Turkish ones. The Turkish language, later becoming a native one, turned into ruling literary language, and the fiction samples were mainly created in this language.

The fiction samples belonging to the classic Azerbaijani literature cover mainly the poetry as in the entire Oriental literature. The history of prose is not so ancient as poetry. Although some investigators try to connect the history of prose with Khagani Shirvani’s letters of the twelfth century, the professional literary samples created with prose belong to the start of the nineteenth century. Thus, the novel Rashid-bek and Saadet-khanym written by Ismalil-bek Gutgashinly in French language is valued like the first sample of literary prose. The works Kitabi-Asgariyya by Abbasgulu Agha Bakikhanov, Deceived Stars by Mirza Fataly Akhundzade, Bahadir and Sona by Nariman Narimanov, Stories of Danabash Villages by Jalil Mammadguluzade, Fire In Heart by Abdulla bek Divanbekoghlu, and Ibrahim bek’s Travel Notes by Zeynalabdin Maraghayi deemed as the first appearances of the literary prose are interesting as its first samples. The social, moral, and ethical problems of the Azerbaijani people were literarily personified in these works.

In the beginning of the nineteenth century, Azerbaijan was separated between the Persian and Russian empires upon the Gulustan (1813) and Turkmanchay (1828) treaties, and it left serious impacts both in the politic—economic and literary—cultural sectors. Since that date, the Azerbaijani literature developed in two various spaces and was exposed to different aesthetic and ideological impacts. The separation continuing until date causes prohibitions for 35 million Azerbaijani Turks living particularly in Iran for reading and writing in their own language, and seriously hampered development of the national literature.

The Azerbaijani literature started the new stage of own development with Mirza Fatali Akhundov’s (1812-1878) creation in nineteenth century. He established the dramatic art, realistic prose and poetry, and the modern literary criticism and had a significant role in the enrichment of literature with social ideals.

The Akinchi (Ploughman) Newspaper commencing publication with editorship by Hasan-bek Zardaby on June 22, 1875 established the basis of the native-language mass media in Azerbaijan and accelerated distribution of literature among the public mass and strengthening of impact on the social comprehension. Establishment of national mass media caused more significant impact on achievement of social content of literature.

Interest in literary prose strengthened in the beginning of the twentieth century. The national freedom movement of the Azerbaijani people living under oppression of the tsarist Russia significantly increased the spiritual demand in the novel genre. Although the works created in this period like In Country of Oil and Millions by Ibrahim bek Musabekov, Miserable Millionaire by Mammad Said Ordubadi, Faded Flower by Ali Sabri, Heroes of Our Century by Abdulla Shaig and other novels are not deemed as professional samples of the genre and the social and political view of that period, especially when the heavy life in the country rich in oil found own literary highlights. Besides the novel genre, the new and original samples of narratives and stories also appeared in these years, especially the satirical style appearing in literary prose significantly influenced on evolution of the narrative genre.

In the period of the Azerbaijan Public Union (1918-1920) established upon the collapse of tsarist Russia as the first democratic republic in the entire East, the Azerbaijani literature started the new stage of its own development. Although the life of the Union didn’t last long, this period significantly accelerated development of the literary and aesthetic thoughts on the background of national values. The national aesthetic inclination formed in these years had lived in deep layers of literature for long years and prevented from the loss of value of its essence.

Upon collapse of the Azerbaijan Public Union, the writers, poets, dramatists, and literary critics with consciousness of independent state system were obliged to leave the country and create in various places of the world. Their creation, having rich and various load of content, established the basis of the migratory literature. In this view, the creative heritage of Mahammad Amin Rasulzade, Alibek Huseynzade, Ahmad Aghaoghlu, Mirza Bala Mammadzade, Ummulbanu (Banin), Almas Yildirim, Aziz Alpoud, Mammad Altunbay, Mustafa Haqqi Turkagul and other figures is valuable.

Occupation of Azerbaijan by Russian bolsheviks since April 28, 1920 again exposed the literature to hard and unlucky destiny. This history of colonialism covering a seventy-year period left deep traces in content and essence of literature. Since the first years of own formation, the soviet political regime commenced removing various creative trends and tried to establish a unique literary method, that is, socialist realism. Acting under the formula of national in form and socialistic in content regarding the creation method, in fact the socialist realism implemented the policy of russification of national literature in all periods of existence. Also, it’s noticeable that in the period of soviet politic regime, the activity of all the existing literary societies, unions, and organizations was terminated and consolidation of writers in unique creative organizations was provided. As existence of censorship in these years was making obstacles for evolution of literary comprehension in any form, all trends causing differences of idea were removed.

Several novels were written in historic and modern topics within the first decades of the soviet reign. Morning by Mehdi Huseyn, Shamo and Sachly by Suleyman Rahimov, Students, Between Two Fires, and Girls’ Spring by Yusif Vazir Chamanzaminly, Hero and Budag’s Memories by Ali Valiyev, Misty Tabriz and Sabre and Pen by Mammad Said Ordubadi, Slopes and The World Gets Torn Off by Abulhasan Alakbarzade and other novels are noticeable from this point of view. These novels have influence of the soviet politic reign with several exclusions.

In the years from 1937 to1938, the Azerbaijani literature was exposed to the repression policy of the soviet empire. This policy envisaged physical destruction of those not humbling with the soviet ideology. The victims of repression of those years were Ali Nazim, Hanafi Zeynalli, Huseyn Javid, Mikayil Mushfiq, Amin Abid, Bakir Chobanzade, Yusif Vazir Chamanzaminly, Vali Khuluflu, Mustafa Guliyev, Ahmad Javad and other writers, poets, dramatists, and critics. Most of them were shot and only few ones died during banishment in awful arresting camps of Siberia. The repression policy had terrible influence on the Azerbaijani literature and terminated the free-thinking trends relatively existing until that period. Within approximately twenty years, that is, before I. V. Stalin’s death, the Azerbaijani literature lived in a difficult period, which was full of horror and tensions. This period is also named as the gray literature in the literary science. Color tints were almost absent in the literature of this period. The literary works created within the mentioned period were written in compliance with the requirements and principles of the soviet ideology from the point of idea and content. The works written in this period regardless of the genre and topic are deemed very weak from literary point of view.

The strengthening of trend and interest in human, moral, and ethic values since the sixtieth years of the twentieth century promoted to renovation of content of literary prose. The ideal and positive heroes of the soviet period were gradually supplanted by the complicated human characters. Although the monomethodicalness was not removed, the horizons of literary thoughts significantly expanded and became estranged from the traditional writing style. The novels The Roaring Kur by Ismayil Shikhly, Bridge Builders by Ilyas Efendiyev, Burning Heart by Isa Huseynov (Mughanna), My Voice In All Over the World by Aziza Jafarzade, Mahammad, Mammad, Mamish and Fatali’s Conquest by Chingiz Huseynov, The World Measure by Sabir Ahmadly, The Sixth Storey of Five-Storeyed Building by Anar, and so on, were published, namely, in this period. As a human being, human destiny was selected as the main researching object in the aforesaid novels, in which the stereotypes of the soviet ideological thought are not expressed in their essence. Consequently, the sixtieth years seriously influenced the soviet ideological thought in the literary history and destroyed its basement. Furthermore, the factor of the boundless realism was realized in the context of certain time as a creation method in the personification of the created works.

Several successful samples of the Azerbaijani literature were created on the background of certain weakening of the imperialistic units in the period of restructurization policy commenced in the soviet union in the eightieth years of the last century. In this period, the writers tried to express the public problems in the context of works of historical content in one hand and in modern one on the other, and had trend of criticizing and discovering the negativenesses of the existing reign with more courage than the previous periods. The Murdering Day by Yusif Samadoghlu, Secrets of Family by Chingiz Huseynov, Don’t Look Back, Old Man! by Ilyas Efendiyev, Mahmud and Maryam by Elchin and other works are specific from this point of view.

The collapse of the soviet union at the end of the last century (1991) and the restoration of independence of Azerbaijan had influence also on development of literature. Removal of the traditional stereotypes and supplanting of the socialist realism as the unique development method ruling over the literary and aesthetic thought by multimethodicalness penetrated specific tints into the national literature. Achievement of independence by Azerbaijan provided a lot of innovations and varieties to the content, form, and artificial features of the literature. This specificity is expressed in relation to literary prose with particular evidence.

Some social—political and moral—ethical problems belonging to the Azerbaijani people are underlined in the literary prose samples created in the period of independence. Particularly in these years, the topic of Mountainous Garabagh conflict was widely expressed in literature. The literary works written on this topic were devoted to the tortures caused against the Azerbaijani people in their Motherland and their becoming refugees and IDPs as well as the tears and griefs caused by this tragedy.

It would be wrong to unconditionally deem all samples of the Azerbaijani prose created in the last years as high-performance literary works because some of these works are conditioned as the creative researches of the young generation newly appeared in literature on the background of their self-proving efforts. However, these researches’ becoming serious basement for the future literary successes causes no doubt.

Unfortunately, the Azerbaijani literature having ancient and rich traditions is not satisfactorily promoted in the world due to objective and subjective reasons. First of all, Russian soviet colonization existing over the head of Azerbaijan for a long time caused serious obstacles for promotion of the Azerbaijani literal samples to the world community. As promotion of literatures in those years was an integral part of the state policy, the executive mechanism of this issue was accompanied with serious deficiencies.

Existence of the literature exists in the period of market elements even in the period after the achievement of independence of Azerbaijan as well as the destruction of the traditional propagandizing mechanisms prevent from its promotion all over the world.

Let’s remind that the anthology of Azerbaijani prose was published last time in Moscow in 1977. Although half century passed since that time, presently that book is also used in various universities and turkological centers of the world as the principal source. Within this period, the Azerbaijani prose had renewed from the point of view of essence and quality, and many successes were gained. Particularly, the establishment of contact and integration with the world literature conditioned the renewal of prose from artificial point of view. Hereby, this book provided to the attention of worldwide readers and was created based upon natural importance, and has great interest from the point of view of expression of the renewal observed in literature.

This anthology provided to readers covers the samples of literary prose created in approximately a thirty-year period starting from the eightieth years of last century up to date. It includes the works by representatives of adult generation like Ismayil Shikhly, Aziza Jafarzade, Isa Muganna, Yusif Samadoglu, Alisa Nijat, Anar, Akram Aylisli, Movlud Suleymanli, and Agshin Babayev as well as the average and young ones like Saday Budagly, Rafıg Taghi, Fazil Guney, Orkhan Fikretoglu, Mubariz Jafarly, Elchin Huseynbeyli, Aslan Guliyev, Elabbas, Azad Garaderely, Eyvaz Zeynalov, Ilqar Fahmi and so forth.

It is noticeable that the history of the narrative genre in the Azerbaijani literature coincides with the history of the literary prose. As the writer’s skilfulness is obviously expressed in stories deemed as more flexible than other genres of prose, gradual increase of intensiveness of applying to this genre is natural.

The contemporary Azerbaijani literary prose is manifold first of all from the point of view of content. These works may be classified as literary samples written in documentary—publicistic, social—psychological, and satirical and detective style. Certainly, this classification is conditional and serves for clarification of the images regarding the general lines of the complete genre.

Approximately half-century period passed since the time of the last publication of the Azerbaijani prose anthology in English. Within this period, the Azerbaijani prose had significantly changed from the points of view of content, form, and literary and new features have been gained. Provision of all these qualitative changes to the world readers has important significance.

Certainly it would be wrong to contend that the anthology covers the creation of all representatives of the modern Azerbaijani prose. During the preparation of the literary prose samples, they tried to make them interesting for the world readers from the points of view of content, topic, idea, problem, form, and skillfulness. Besides, the creation of the enough famous representatives of the Azerbaijani prose is preferential.

We believe that the collection will attract the interest of the world readers and be duly valued by literary and aesthetic thought. We express our gratitude to respected readers expressing own opinions, conclusions, and proposals regarding the book.

Vagif Sultanly

ISMAYIL SHIKHLY

Golden Snake

That night he again crepitated as if he was drown, thrashed around in his bed, and felt that something cold twined around his ankle, then revolved and went up, turning into a bow. It walked on his back and chest, then twined around his body, pressed it, and fell onto his neck as a clew. Though he tried a lot, he couldn’t help escaping that cold cut off his breath; the thing pressed his neck twining. When he held his hand out, his wrist numbed. He then thrashed around, tossed in his bed, and suddenly opened his eyes with anxiety; he looked at the ceiling and out of the window. After the horror of the dream had left him, he realized that he was in his bedroom in his house. He touched his forehead; he was wet with sweat. His body was also wet with sweat. The blanket over him had pressed his chest having become a thunderstone. Having pressed the bottom, he switched the light on. He then pushed away the blanket and gazed on it. The coldness of the blanket hadn’t still left this soul that twined around his body. He thought that the snake was hidden under the bed having slipped from the bedding and that it would return as soon as the light is switched off. He put his slippers on and went out to the corridor above the window. Suddenly, he saw the nursery. A faint light fell in through the window. In the light, he saw that one of the boys was sleeping on his stomach. His feet not only didn’t go out of the blanket but also from the bed. But the other one had his knees twisted to his stomach, and was sleeping just the way he laid on his side since the evening. He stood and gazed at his children with an envy without ill will. He knew that if nobody woke them up, they would sleep until the afternoon like this. He went to his workroom and felt himself a little better. First, he opened the window. Though the light of the city was switched off, the weather was clear. The waves of the sea were sparkling. The beacon near Nargin was twinkling as usual. The trees along the shore were having their forty winks. Nothing broke the silence of the night except the murmur of the wheels of the cars speeding along the road . . .

He used to dream in his childhood—in the past. The dreams of those days were not like these days’. He would either fly from the endless ravine, hang over the water-keeping liquorice root, run after the deer on a horse, fly on the clouds on the claw of the eagle, or fall down on his head in a noise of fast running water. Perhaps that was a call of his great forefather that took him to the past—the period they lived in a cave. He didn’t know. He realized only one thing that these dreams were different. Ant took him not to further but very nearer times: yesterday and the day before yesterday in the dreams. He would return to the village from the city to visit his old father and mother for some days, but couldn’t come back. He saw that his father was exhausted; as he was small before, now he turned into a wreck becoming smaller—the light of his eyes became fainter, his clothes were worn out, and all his clothes were threadbare. Having leaned his elbows on a mutakka¹, he had to rest on the bed in a hot room to play with his grandchildren and bid his sister-in-law. His mother also became weaker. Though she tied a woolen shawl over her stomach up to the shoulder blade, she wanted hot; she couldn’t get rid of the cold she had in her chicken liver. They could live somehow in spring-summer, but they had difficulties in winter; even they didn’t have wood timely. It wasn’t hot as there was a stove in the house built of row brick. The house with ground floor was cold as its window had been covered with newspaper instead of glass. He saw all these. The core of his heart was throbbing, and his body was burning in the inside. He wanted to take them to the city with him and take care of them so that even in their old times they could eat their son’s bread. But he had nowhere to take them to. It had become hard to live in such times. He still was living in hotels and rental homes.

He wanted to go nowhere after he came from the army. He decided to stay in their village, work near his parents, and take care of them harvesting the garden. But his father didn’t agree: I have lived my life badly or well, and will end my life somehow, but don’t stay here—go and finish your school. I have compassion on you. You are the only son of mine—the apple of my eyes. And I know that if you continue your education, you will achieve success. Our time was different. We tried for the people, but didn’t think of our future. His mother enticed him away, and he thought that he would live in the city forever, build a house there, and take his father and mother with him. He didn’t think that the years would pass quickly and that his wish wouldn’t be fulfilled.

When his dreams made him go to the village, he looked at the ground walls, rotten curtains, and woods of the houses there and was afraid that one day either the ceiling would fall down, raw bricks would get washed away by torrential rain, the olds would stay under the house, or nobody would be aware of this incident. He was trembling with fear from those confused thoughts and was sorry that he came to the city leaving them alone at home. If you want to have your life better, you must walk with your feet naked. You forget that that’s how they suffered while bringing you up. They worked until exhaustion; they even gave you heat when there was no fire and the blankets were thin and very cold, gave you their own bite not eating them, and even now they are ready to sacrifice for you—they can hide you in their breast, cutting it when necessary . . .

After such dreams, several times he wanted to stay in the village leaving everything. He wanted to leave his scientific work and go for writing and to hold a position at school, to improve his father’s living condition working day and night, but the old (his parents) were not satisfied and sent him back. It was strange that he couldn’t calm down in the city. The dreams brought him to his bed. Even they called him to the village.

One day, he really came to the village. His mother’s illness had become complicated. He had a dream before buying a ticket for a train and leaving the city: she was patching up old clothes and was crying by herself. She was mourning. She used to do that after her brothers were lost in the army. She was either crying, looking at the photos, having opened the chest or whimpering bitterly having remembered something else. She used to love her brothers very much. Perhaps just those pains, longing for the brother made her sick, and she didn’t recover.

When he entered, he saw his mother on the bed. She was lying in the bed next to the window. It was gloomy. It was drizzling. Golden autumn leaves were crinkling. The tracks thought the yellow sward had gotten slippery. People going to their neighbors along the fences put their shoes off. Children would take veal toward the middle of the village. It seemed that their mother didn’t take care of them. She was gazing at the crow’s nest inside the bare branch of the plane tree with its fallen leaves. Even his father, who was throwing woods into the stove, said nothing. They didn’t want to interrupt the woman’s dreaming. Her lips shuddered, and the muscle of her jaw trembled. They couldn’t stop her crying; tears were running on her cheeks. Perhaps his mother felt it. She looked over having turned and wanted to rise up. She wanted to hug her son, who had become a little stranger. But she stopped. Having thought something, she put her arms; only God knew what she was thinking about. He saw a light in his mother’s sad eyes, and the color of her skin became reddish as if the woman came to life.

Honey! How well that you have remembered about us! I was looking for you with all my eyes for some days. I was afraid not to see you, to pass away without having my desire fulfilled.

Your disease is not so dangerous?—the man interrupted them.

That is so, but I don’t know. I have thousands of thoughts. It is a frail world.

The woman said nothing. She took her turbid eyes from her son and looked outside. She lied on her side. Perhaps she did not want her son to see her tears. She stared at the cowered crows on the bare branches through the window.

He slept near his mother that night, and didn’t let the fire to be put off. He covered the woman’s back with a blanket very often. Sometimes he checked the temperature of his mother by putting his hand on her forehead. She wasn’t bad, but breathed hardly. He looked at his father then. His father fell asleep, putting his head on the table.

Mother and son couldn’t sleep. They were waiting for each other, keeping their breathes. The boy wanted his mother to fall asleep, but his mother was worried. Sometimes he fell into a light slumber and saw that his mother was smoothing his ear. He said nothing; then his mother fell asleep having taken a deep breath. The weather was getting lighter. It was a gloomy, misty, and drizzly morning.

The next day, his mother recovered a little more. She even wanted to cook something for her son getting up. But they didn’t let her. Her son corrected the pillow for her and covered the blanket over her. The woman turned round and looked out of the window and at her son’s face. Her pale lips moved slowly.

I want an apple. If there were any, I would taste.

Her son dotted up immediately. When he wanted to go out of the door, his father said, Where are you going, my son?

I want to see if anyone has an apple.

My son, don’t worry. Nobody has an apple. His son looked at him with surprise. The man could understand the question in the boy’s eyes. My honey, we don’t have any harvests in our gardens anymore . . .

They kept silence. The boy went out, pulled up the collar of the waistcoat, and looked at the bare plane tree, crows croaking together near their nests perching on the branches. After being sure that he wasn’t followed by his father, he went to the back of the house and lit a cigarette. Very strange laws were settled there. Either they cut the excess lands after measuring the gardens or asked the people to keep cattle or imposed taxes on every fruit trees. He remembered about some gardens with so many fruit trees; in that it was impossible to see their other side from this one. One could enjoy the smell of the flowers of the fruit trees. The flowers of the branches bending over the fences were thrown about the road. With their bags in their hands, the children were going to school on the flowers thrown under their feet and under the branches that was like an umbrella over their head. The fruits of this village were very famous. The pear and the apple of these places were almost famous all over the country. But afterwards, fruit trees were cut with an ax because of the tax. But the others perished during the war.

He finished smoking, and looked at the branches of the unfruitful trees. He pulled up the collar of his waistcoat a little more, and not paying attention on the rustling of the wet autumn leaves, he walked toward the road and looked everywhere until the evening. He also went to the center of the village, looked for in the railway station, yet couldn’t find anything. At last, he came back home empty handed.

He set off for Baku in two days, having got permission to come back in fifteen days. It was written Not permitted on his application as he had to finish his lessons. He had no way out. He went to the market. He went around a lot, quarreled with the traders, and bought apples for his mother. He chose different apples for his mother in order to eat with great pleasure and to eat as much as she wanted. He wanted to take them by himself and give to his mother with his hands, but he had no way to send it except through the post. Having put the apples into the wooden box, they nailed it’s cover and having tied it up with a rip, he sent it.

One day, there was a knock on the door of the classroom where he was having a lesson. He was given a telegram. He was called to the village. He wanted to set off that night. But he didn’t have fare. There were five days for him to get salary. The next day, having borrowed money, he bought a ticket for the train. He didn’t sleep, and stood by the window that night. He was reproaching himself that he returned to the city in vain leaving his ill mother in the village.

It was drizzling. It rained on the yellowed grass, wormwood bush along the road. He walked to their house. When he saw a lick on the door, he realized that his mother wasn’t alive. It seemed that they buried his mother even before he came. One ought to know what conscience is. People of the village used to bury dead people immediately on the same day without waiting for anyone; quit score with something.

He went straight toward the cemetery down the village, not going home. He went on the newly stepped wormwood and saw the black grave that was far away and his father who was sitting next to it in the drizzling and foggy weather as if he was stupefied. He didn’t move even when his son approached and sat next to him. He was sitting staring at the grave with its land not being flattened.

Suddenly, he began to cry. The meekness and piteousness of his father hurt him, not his being an orphan. He cried putting his head on his father’s knees. He roared as in his childhood. He became calmer when he felt his father’s shaking hands on his hair.

He didn’t want to go back home. There was no sense that attracted him at home. If there wasn’t one who would trouble him, he would stay there and protect the grave. They sat until the night. Son and father both smoothed the grave and cleaned the round of it. It became horrible in the cemetery when one couldn’t see a jot. The boy wanted to take his father’s arm and remove him, but he didn’t move. He heard his trembling voice. I wonder. Is it right?

What?

That snake etas eyes of dead man. It’s said that when a dead person is buried, snake comes and eats his or her eyes.

The boy became horror-struck. His hair stood on end. There was such pain in his heart that it itched as though it was frozen. He couldn’t say a word because of his sadness.

His father raised leaning his elbows, turned around the grave, and looked around in the darkness. I’m waiting since morning and haven’t seen even a bird. I would have seen if it would have come.

His son moved him from the grave slowly. He was afraid that if they stood in that place a little more, his father could become mad. They went far away. The man stopped and looked at the dark cemetery. Go home, and I’ll come then. I cannot leave her alone. If snakes know that there is no one, they will come and see her eyes.

They slept in the same bed that night. He lied next to his father and heated him with his breath. So they waited until her death on seventh day. They laid a little and poor table with the help of their neighbors. Five to ten people gathered in their house. The village postman was seen with a wooden box under his bosom at that moment. He brought the apples. The apples he had sent for his mother were being brought then.

This time he didn’t go to Baku alone. He took his father with him. They lived together in the little flat he had rented. He took care of his father. He took him to the bathroom, put his clothes in order, went for walk in the evenings with his father, and tried to disport him. But he felt that he wasn’t satisfied; he was yearning in his heart—yearning of his wife, whom he loved more than fifty years; they had lived together. She had taken him under her protection in his bad days; he yearned for his country and his village. He was said that after his father retired, was on the pension he used to take children to school, sit in the room for children, play with children during the break, and come back with them in the evening. It seems only these made him live. He was beating like a bird in the city, looking out of the window, and was dreaming about mountains and lowlands when his son was at work.

They lived out the window somehow. When spring came, they began to be worried. The man stood his ground, saw me off, and let me go. He said, I’m missing here. Your room is rather narrow. Though he asked more, there was no result; he returned to the village with his cosine who had come to the city . . .

He received a telegram that day. A telegram with bad news. He set off in a hurry the same day. I couldn’t get my mother because she was in the distance. Now I want to bury my father with my hands—thinking he thought along the road. But it was late again. They had also buried his father before his arrival. He cried. He sat by the graves that were close to each other until the evening.

When he was in the army, he used to think, My heart would burst if my mother and father are buried without me. But now he couldn’t reach when his parents were buried and couldn’t be with them during their last days though it was only half a day away. This a child, and this is a family. They leave their native lands when they grow up and don’t want to return there.

He consoled himself until the evening: perhaps it’s good not to have seen them on the verge of death, in a shroud before dying. I’ll always remember them alive. Really he couldn’t imagine the death of his parents though he tried a lot. He remembered his father’s face as he looked at him when he set off for Baku. Then his thoughts took him far away. It seemed to him that his father was alive and that, taking his hand, he was going to the night course to teach. They used to take a lantern in their hands, both to lighten their way in the darkness and protect themselves when the dogs of the village pounced on them—they used to defend themselves with its light. Dogs are afraid of light for some reason. It’s also said about wolves that they cannot approach fire. His father would take him with himself; he was both his guardian and teacher. Having taken their hand, they used to be taught how to write letter and their names. His father was very happy when the women were reading a book by spelling out syllables. He also was like his father. Generally, there were three or four teachers in the village, who worked instead of one hundred people. They would teach in the daytime, have a course in the evenings, and prepare a theater, gathering the teachers of other villages at the weekend. He saw that his father was leading all these work, gave instructions to everyone, and taught them how and when to speak. Those were nice days. Pupils didn’t want to leave school, and they climbed the windows and doors to watch their teachers’ performances. Suddenly, it used to be rumored that there would be a theater that evening. There were no club those days. They used to show a performance in the stack yard. The boys used to take besom and the girls a mop and swept everywhere very clean. They made a curtain from a carpet and laid it on the floor. They made a mustache and beard from wool and goat hair and decorated themselves such that even their parents couldn’t recognize them. Before the performance, zourna players would play music as if the bride was seen off to the house of the bridegroom.

All the people of the village would come, and one couldn’t move as there were many girls and women. His father used to make him do these works. His father wrote poems in those days. He would write poems against Mollas and parents who made their daughters leaving school early time, and get marry them to their sons. Having gathered his friends, he climbed on the roof and sang those poems like a song. He didn’t know that they knew his father and said, Stop whelp’s talking. Otherwise, we’ll cut his head. Even one day the glass of the window was broken into pieces and they fired a rifle. When it became lighter, they saw that there were some holes in the window board. His mother embraced him hurry-scurry, kept a sharp eye on him, and didn’t let him leave home alone.

If his cousin hadn’t touched him, perhaps he would remember about more interesting days of his life. He looked at the weather; it was getting darker. He realized that it was time for them to go. He stood up. Then, having beaten out the dust off his clothes, he walked around the graves and suddenly remembered the corpse in the middle of the unapproachable cliff in Dilijan valley where the foot of someone never stepped. He saw it more than once. When he climbed the summer pasture in the mountains in Goycha region by wagons in his childhood, the old people would show that place with their fingers and say that a very famous man had died there. When he died, he made his will to bury him in the place where a snake couldn’t find and eat his eyes. His sons took him to the cliffs at the bank of Mountain River. First, they let the rope down and then buried their father. When they were returning, suddenly they turned back and saw that one snake approached the grave crawling through the rocks. They made a noise and shot the snake but it crawled toward the corps . . .

He did the collar of his waistcoat up and lit his cigarette. Having took the smoke, he stood for a while. He first sighed and then stepped thoughtfully. Hardly had he took five or six steps that he returned back. He was dazzled. His cousin understood what he wanted.

They went home. It was very ice-cold in the room. The walls of it had caved. The curtains and beams had been inflated. Though it was mild outside, the room was very cold as if all recollections, last tired days, joys, and sadness in that house had been frozen by breath as cold as ice. He realized that was his last coming. There was nobody who could call him there and nothing that made him come. They had gone away forever. The breath of his mother and the breathing sound of his father could be never heard and heat him . . .

He didn’t change his thought afterwards. But it wasn’t easy for him to leave his hometown. He knew that they didn’t have a house in the village. The farmyard had been overgrown with grass. But there were graves. And he used to come and visit his parents’ graves two times a year having saved his money and having a tombstone put. He had a tombstone put and had iron rails laid around it. The graves used to be poor and not decorated. They would put simple wood or stone on the graves with the name and surname of the deceased for its tracks not to be lost. Wormwood would grow and that wasn’t impossible to see anything but ancient red tombstones. Year by year, he realized that wherever he went, he had to visit his village once a year at least. Even he used to bring paint and a paintbrush when he came to the village. He didn’t let anybody to come closer; he cleaned the fodder grasses around the graves by himself, painted the stones with blue color, and tried whether the letters on the grave were seen clearly instead of being rubbed off. Afterward he became older. He was bustling about and had many things to take care of—the paths to the graves; even the graves themselves were overgrown with grass, the letters on the tombstones became colorless, the rails became rusty, and the tombstones listed. Only the tombstones didn’t list before the wind . . .

One day, he again had a dream about his old parents. He dreamed that he again came to the village but didn’t know what to do: whether to stay with them or to return to the city. He had such kinds of dreams very often. Every other day or other week, he used to return to the village in his dreams. Part of his heart was in the village and the other part in the city. He had one foot here and one foot with (near) his old parents. He was always morose in the daytime. Although he spoke, nobody knew about his sorrow; the members of his family understood that day by day he was growing thin, losing flesh like people whose body was making itself felt inside. His hair and beard had become gray. He felt the pain of his heart in his back. His pocket was full of medicine. The number of people equal to him was becoming diminished. They were being sent to glory. As it was said by Nazim Hikmat, leaf falling for generation was beginning.

He would go to the city cemetery from time to time. Even he could forget the path leading there. But these days he had to go there very often. They took their friends and relatives on their shoulders. Every time, when he went to the cemetery, he saw that they had left little space, and the graves were close to each other day by day. If such, there wouldn’t be any space left for other dead people, and they can also possibly move the cemetery. They would smooth the old one with vehicles and the whole thing would be wiped out. The people of the villages of Baku were right: they buried their dead man next to their relatives in the places where their ancestors had lived. In the houses of the dead men, he often heard this—It’s good in the village. I will make my will to be taken to the village, near my father and mother. He comprehended those words as well. He had made his final decision in his mind at last. And he wanted to go to the village as soon as the weather became warmer. He would find a worker and renew the graves to have a space next to his relatives’ graves for himself. He had even planned everything beforehand not to trouble his relatives. He came to the village for this purpose . . .

It was a warm spring. The trees had budded, and the branches had been glazed. The grasses had been grown. There were seen insects along the fences. He took his cousin and his children and walked to the cemetery below the village. He put the path of his house. The rooms made of roar brick had been pulled down. The farmyard had been overgrown with grass. Not letting the people beside him notice, he put a medicine under his tongue, and they passed their native land voiceless. The hill below the village had also become green. Little blue flowers had been thrown over the grasses. Big tombstones were seen from the distance. When he came here, he used to approach those red stones that had been shaved from granite such that over a meter of it was under the ground but about two meters on the ground. He would look at its patters—the calligraphy written skillfully and in Arabic alphabet. The writings were distinct. Although they had been overgrown, it was possible to read them. But he did regret about not knowing that alphabet. There hadn’t been left any educated man in the village; they had passed away long ago.

The cemetery had become larger and cleaner. New graves were made from marble, and there were the photos of the deceased on them. Around them rails had been built and trees had been planted. But there had been only two well-arranged graves there. One of them was the grave of his former schoolmate’s father and the other one his parents’.

They walked down the hill toward the old cemetery. The bottom of the dry grasses grown until the ankle had been shot. They had covered most of the graves. They approached parallel graves that had been lost among the grasses because of desolation. The writing on them had been blotted out. He could hardly read the names and surnames of his parents. They walked around the rail. They wanted to open the door of the rail to clean grass and to iron frame. The children tried a lot to open it but couldn’t screw up. Suddenly he saw something yellow that had been twisted among the grass along the grave. He looked at it very carefully and saw that it was a giant snake—a golden snake! They had just stepped on the grasses next to it and nearly treaded under their feet. They retraced their steps. The children even went away with fear. Having become calmer, they looked at that horrible snake from a distance. First, they couldn’t define if there were one or two snakes. It seemed that the snake had been just thawing. He seemed to be warmed by the sun having crawled hardly. If it was warmer, perhaps he had already eaten them.

First, there was pain in his body, then he broke into a cold sweat, then his knees turned to water. He had his knee all wrapped up and felt heaviness in his heart. He leaned against the tombstone next to him so as not to fall down. He was dazzled. But the snake twisted, being warmed by the sun and having lain along the grave quietly.

One of the children threw a stone at him. The snake moved and twisted very quietly and heavily. They wanted to kill him with a wood. As soon as the snake felt that, he untwisted and crawled toward the space between two graves; the stone he had been thrown on and the wood he had been beaten by didn’t keep him. The snake whirled and slipped down the grave through the hole between the stones. One of the boys wanted to catch the tail of the snake, half of which was under the grave. He didn’t let. Suddenly, he thought that perhaps that golden snake was a spirit of his father or mother. They say that after a person dies, his spirit appears in the form of an animal, and therefore, the Indians didn’t trouble animals. That was terrible, even very much. Why did he think so? Why in the form a snake? Why did they even meet him in the form of a snake? Could they take offence at him? Did they fall out with him because he had left them alone and gone to the city leaving his native land? But he had to be with them and take care of them until his last breath. Perhaps they had something to say to their son and would make their will for him. When his mother asked him to do something, she would say, Let me go on your shoulders. Then what happened when the corpse of your mother was taken? You would come to our grave before. But what happened then? And we knew that our son hadn’t forgotten about us. But then you disappeared. Why have you remembered us now? Are you looking for a place near us? Isn’t it late? Don’t come. We don’t advice. If you come, our spirit will shake up you becoming a golden snake and eat your eyes until people leave your grave.

Something fell into pieces inside him. He trembled and felt that he wouldn’t be able to return back and sleep next to his parents. Saying nothing of previous offence caused them to fall out with him and didn’t let them to warm by the sun. They made the golden snake trouble by throwing a stone on it. But the golden snake itself frightened him. He was frightened so much that he would hardly be able to return back. Hardly, very hardly!

The Traitor’s Bullet

To my friend Huseyn Arif

Niftali kokha², while changing his horse pasture, wanted to take the saddle of his horse and wash his back with the water of ditch but changed his mind. He saddled-bridled a horse as well as moved the leash nearer under side of the ditch. He knew the weather was hot, and the horse bathed in sweat, but he had no way out.

In former times, he used to tie his horse anywhere, used to change his pasture often, and did not let the horse to sweat. He used to take saddle for the horse to take a breath, to graze, to become agitated neighing, and to dip to the herd, pulling out the nail. Not being bored with gazing at shining skin, the quivering haunch, and the mane of the house soft like a lady’s fringe of the bay, Niftali often used to climb on the horse, having grasped hold of the mane in order to wash having rode to the Kur and to jump to the other side, laying on its mane. From time immemorial, neither he nor his horse had any fear. He was both young and . . . But now, especially after becoming a kokha, he lived with anxiety . . .

He walked up the hillock slowly. Stepping over the ditch, he stopped in the shadow of the tree and stared at grain fields extended for horizon. Breeze blew slowly, and wheatears and leaves of poplar trees rustled.

Ditch water flowing under the tree planted by some deceased person for good deed was babbling. Niftali kokha looked at the laid carpet, the small mattress, and mutakka. He always used to lie down here when he visited ploughers. And now, as usual, he wanted to go on the carpet and to recline on the mutakka. Although the weather was very hot, he wanted to lie down on the carpet taking off neither his boots nor his rifle. But he saw that it was impossible; he was wet with sweat. And who will he be afraid of? Karam was in the direction of Dilijan—he would not be here in such hot summer. If he were, it would not be a problem. He would never shoot at an unarmed person. He was only afraid of that boy. He walked about those thorns and shrubs after leaving the village . . .

Niftali kokha leaned his rifle against the tree, took off his boot, unbuttoned his shirt, laid down the carpet, and reclined on the mutakka. The sickles of scythe men having knotted ends of their handkerchiefs on their heads were jangling. This jangling was mixed with rustling of chaffs. The scythemen were in a hurry. They also wanted to finish their works, thresh their goods, and take them for their children. Niftali kokha also was in a hurry. People went out to the summer pastures long time ago. But he kept his nomad. To tell the truth, he