And he stumbled, feeling he had made a mistake. Kasim, the know-it-all, sitting in the front row, calmly finished for Aman-Jalil:
– "With a humped nose and a pig…"
The classroom buzzed. Suddenly, Aman-Jalil wished intensely that Kasym would turn into a fly for just a minute…
And Kasym did become a fly, but no matter how much Aman-Jalil swatted at him with the rubber band, it bounced off Kasym as if from Milanese armor. Aman-Jalil futilely chased after Kasym. When he grew tired of the pursuit, Kasym fluttered out the window, waving a goodbye with his tiny paw at Aman-Jalil… Once again, the class erupted in uproarious laughter at the failure…
The teacher restored order with a wave of his hand:
– I can confidently predict one thing for you: you will never be a poet; you have absolutely no feel for poetry… Remember when you once read: "…and her eyes clicked shut, and she snapped her fingers"…
– "My grandmother used to curse: 'You won't study, you'll either become a dervish or a poet, or some kind of bandit,'" Aman-Jalil thought. "They're all pursued, laughed at, mocked, even killed… If I ever need it, Kasym will write for me"…
Ahmed swung open the reception door wide. Seeing the deputy, Aman-Jalil straightened up in a "stand at attention" posture and "eyed the boss."
– Come in! – commanded Ahmed.
Aman-Jalil, marching as if on parade, entered the office and froze. Ahmed carefully closed the door behind him, looked satisfied at the stunned Aman-Jalil, and sat down at the desk.
The beauty and luxury of the office overwhelmed Aman-Jalil: black and red wood, handwoven carpets, Anatolian, walls adorned with paintings in gilded frames, gold and silver statuettes, ashtrays, inkwells… everything gleamed, sparkled… mesmerized.
– Come here!…
Aman-Jalil took two steps and froze again out of deference.
– You may sit down!…
Aman-Jalil timidly perched on the edge of the chair and glanced at Ahmed. Ahmed was barely visible behind the desk, but his bulging eyes inspired fear.
– Listen!…
– I am all ears, teacher!
– Who are you?…
– Your servant, teacher!…
– Are you already a member of our party?…
– Disciple!…
– Who recommended you, besides Ismail Pasha?
– My uncle, Gyaurov…
– Not our man… Do you know anything about him?… Something…
– You always know everything about relatives, or almost everything… What do you want to know?