Wind whipped dust along the street, forming diverse outfits and annoying those unlucky pedestrians who ventured out in the midday heat. Hot sand polished their skin like sandpaper, irritated their eyes to inflammation, and made breathing difficult. From the heat, people moved like sleepy flies, while flies crawled like drunken people, and amidst them walked Aman-Jalil, bewildered by heat, with a needle, matches, and his beloved rubber band… A swat struck a fly's wing, causing it to circle slowly in place. Aman-Jalil expertly caught it by one whole wing, impaled it on the needle, lit a match, and began slowly roasting it until it charred or the match burned his fingers. Then Aman-Jalil tossed the remaining match to the ground, flicked off the tiny ember from the needle's point, and started again. Endless auto-da-fé, always with enough material…
A few years ago, Aman-Jalil found Dilber sitting on the stairs, crying with an open book.
– "Did someone hit you?" asked Aman-Jalil, who himself was struck three or four times a day.
– "No, no one ever hits me!" sobbed Dilber.
– "Then why cry, dummy?" Aman-Jalil was disappointed.
– "I feel sorry for the little monkey," complained Dilber, pointing at the book.
Aman-Jalil took the open book and slowly read aloud how little Philip burned a monkey on a homemade bonfire in the palace. – "Royal pleasure," sighed Aman-Jalil to himself, and ever since, he experienced and satisfied it daily, burning flies…
Wazir stepped onto the veranda from his room, heading to the bathroom. In the hot midday sun, his consciousness nearly shut down, granting him a brief respite: the dusty, straight, sun-drenched road, the pole to which he was tied, and his young wife Anush, whose torn body Wazir carried through life like a heavy cross.
– "Boy, what grade are you in?" asked Wazir, as if seeing Aman-Jalil for the first time.
– "Sixth," Aman-Jalil replied dismissively, expecting another insult.
– "Want me to take you to a concert at the philharmonic? Have you ever been to a concert?"
– "Don't want to!"
– "You'll meet Mozart, Beethoven…"
– "Don't need your friends…"
From the kitchen, Aman-Jalil's grandmother shouted:
– "Stop bothering the boy again, shameless, I'll report you to the police for your Turkish tricks, wretched Sunni…"